Plastered.
Yes, Christ knows it ain't easy to be the Junior Minister for shite jokes. Here you may witness my donation arm's sticker, a practical gift from the National Blood Service which stopped me from getting all over other things. To a degree.
And then it struck me - this is the World Cup time, this is England United, this is differences aside and emotional openness for one night only. And then it strack me - wield the symbolistic opportunity. And then it streck me - ask Stephen to decorate your practical arm sticker with the Saint George Cross motif. And then it strick me - you are onto something here.
And that, my friend, is how I made my millions. But that's another story.
I liked having the thing on my arm, nobody really looked at it and I made a predictable joke about heroin addiction when quizzed about it, for as usual my forearms were bare, I am not the happiest person when it comes to having full sleeves. So I was wearing this plaster and it came back to me - practical/decorative - pleasing the logician and the beautician. I aim to please myselves, like any person aiming for a happiness with their life. And I looked at the newly redesigned blood stopper and I said to myself, silently, internally, you are enjoying this silly addition too much mate. Then I knew, as if it was carved into stone above grass above soil above a fully loaded coffin (and nobody carves something that isn't true - effort is only for profit and honesty eh?), I knew that I was deeply happy, surrounded by smiling people, frowning people, people people. In a pub. On a bus. Outside of a pub. Queueing for anything.
So to conclude, and I love pretending to be formal in a world of uneven rubbish and force conclusions (like storytellers have been doing forever), the most pompous of all people deeming themselves essential, powerful, great and flawless, trusting in any mental structure for controlling things, such important things, forgetting about the things that make them joyed, not my problem, not my concern, no point in judgement, no point but what you choose, I choose walking off with friends, but for how long eh readers?
My point got lost in the post. I was bitten by a radioactive idealism. See you in the better.
And then it struck me - this is the World Cup time, this is England United, this is differences aside and emotional openness for one night only. And then it strack me - wield the symbolistic opportunity. And then it streck me - ask Stephen to decorate your practical arm sticker with the Saint George Cross motif. And then it strick me - you are onto something here.
And that, my friend, is how I made my millions. But that's another story.
I liked having the thing on my arm, nobody really looked at it and I made a predictable joke about heroin addiction when quizzed about it, for as usual my forearms were bare, I am not the happiest person when it comes to having full sleeves. So I was wearing this plaster and it came back to me - practical/decorative - pleasing the logician and the beautician. I aim to please myselves, like any person aiming for a happiness with their life. And I looked at the newly redesigned blood stopper and I said to myself, silently, internally, you are enjoying this silly addition too much mate. Then I knew, as if it was carved into stone above grass above soil above a fully loaded coffin (and nobody carves something that isn't true - effort is only for profit and honesty eh?), I knew that I was deeply happy, surrounded by smiling people, frowning people, people people. In a pub. On a bus. Outside of a pub. Queueing for anything.
So to conclude, and I love pretending to be formal in a world of uneven rubbish and force conclusions (like storytellers have been doing forever), the most pompous of all people deeming themselves essential, powerful, great and flawless, trusting in any mental structure for controlling things, such important things, forgetting about the things that make them joyed, not my problem, not my concern, no point in judgement, no point but what you choose, I choose walking off with friends, but for how long eh readers?
My point got lost in the post. I was bitten by a radioactive idealism. See you in the better.
posted by Jaguar Hutch at 5:39 AM
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