Ah, that’s better!

Just got home after a wonderful evening out with the delightful T. We went to The King and I Thai restaurant in town before going to the cinema to see Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.
The food was rather fabbo, I had Coconut Prawn Soup and Chilli Chicken, T had Vegeterrorist Spring rolls and Sweet n Sour Prawns. Guess who’ll have a ceiling-bound duvet in the morning? I’ll probably have a sore arsehole too as the chicken had little red chillis all over it which, of course, I yummed up with great gusto. Still, what’s a little flatulence between best friends, eh?

The fillum? You want to hear about the fillum? Well, I’ll tell you: it’s bloody brilliant! Followed the book extremely closely, apart from a bit at the end which confused me a bit but made sense nonetheless. The only detraction from this most enjoyable cinematic experience was a Russian couple sat right behind us. He was translating the whole fillum to his dear-heart** . A discreet coughing fit didn’t work, not did a direct turn-round-and-go-’Shhh!’. I was hoping for a third time lucky with ‘Oh for fuck’s sake!’ but as it turned out, glaring daggers at the pair of them ensured peace. Well, he spoke quietly after that which was fine by me; at least I could hear the fillum over his voice from then on. I would have recommended the Harbour Lights to them but a) I didn’t know about it until T mentioned it on the way home and b) they scarpered as soon as the credits rolled. I however, insist on sitting all the way through fillum credits just in case there’s a little extra tagged on at the end. T and her bladder are not as patient as I and mine, but there was nothing tagged on the end so I sat there in an empty cinema for no reason whatsoever whilst thinking of good reasons for being there just in case some spotty popcorn-collector decided to challenge my presence. The reasons I thought of were:

1. Ah, well I’m just reading the credits ‘cos my mate worked on this fillum and I’m waiting for his name to pop up.

2. Piss off.

3. I paid to see this fillum and I’m going to damn-well get my moneys-worth.

4. *Bleurgh* Sorry, I must have dozed off. I’ll be going now, thankyou.

Why would I find it so difficult to simply say ‘I’m a manic fillum-fan and I *always* wait through the credits in mostly vain hope of bonus footage’?

Still, with a great Roald Dahl story to work with, a director of such calibre as Tim Burton can’t really go wrong. T liked it ‘cos it had Johnny Depp in it*, so that makes 4 thumbs well and truly up.

Talking of thumbs up, I’d better go put the bog-roll in the fridge.

Night all! Sweet dreams!

‹Ponders the point of paying extra for ‘Superior Seats’ when they’re no damn bigger or better than any other seat in the cinema›

*Alright, ladies, you can stop drooling: he’s got a big overbite and a bob haircut in this fillum, you won’t like it. Oh,and he wears dodgy purple rubber gloves, too.
**Silly chap: he could have just taken her to see it in Russian at the Harbour Lights cinema just down the road.

It’s not often that my little corner of the universe gets invaded. Y’see, the rodent population chez Omally has tonight increased by 1 (one) Hampster, singular, animal-lover, for the uses of.* T has been missing her likkle Toffee since spending all her time here instead of at her folk’s place, so it was only fair to move him in. His cage takes pride of place on the table next to the telly. I even introduced him to Lou, Scabbers, Scrumpy and Jack whilst T cleaned Toffee’s cage out: I think they’ll get along fine.
T says it’s unfair that she lives in a flat dominated by a ratio of six males to one female. My notifying of the fact that 83.33 % of said males are merely rodents simply elicited the response ‘well, at least Toffee is a real man’, to which I simply had no answer. I know my place.

Talking of invasion, T and I had a whizzo time at Donington! Yes, it rained a fair bit on Race Day, but, well, meh: we’re English (alright dear, OK, you’re Irish by descent) and therefore used to a drop o’ the wet stuff. This brought out the genius in me. Chummington Dave made an uber-poncho out of a large plastic sheet (two of your finest squids from B&Q) which had enough holes in it for our collective heads, so I had to go one better: dashing back to my car in search of materials I found, amongst the board games I keep in the boot, none other than that splendid party game Twister. It took but a moment to cut a head-sized hole in the plastic mat and drape same across my noble shoulders. I hied me back to our spot at the circuit, much to the amusement of the security chappies on the gate. It’s not often you get to overhear such phrases as:
‘There you go, that’s what makes standing about in the pissing rain worthwhile: letting in twats like him!’.
I felt honoured to have brought joy to such a pair of damp flourescent-clad personages, I really did.

So, Donington: fabbo weekend! Huge campsite; regularly cleaned portaloos with funky little disinfectant dispensers; a huge fairground with mahoosively scary rides; lots of alcomahol; Valentino Rossi toying idly with his competitors before trouncing them utterly in the last 5 laps of the British Moto GP and seeing The Doctor do it live; sharing a tent with T; good times with top chummingons; getting the car out of the campsite WAY before last years abysmal 11 p.m.; coming home to realise the M and N keys on my keyboard have been swapped round by the splendidest of all Rat-Sitters, not noticing for hours and thus realising I CAN touch-type after all; Not thinking about w**k/jelly for the entire weekend; sharing something I really enjoy with my best friend.

You’ll be pleased to know I only took a ew piccies over the weekend, mainly due to excessivly damp conditions combined with a strong desire to keep my camera working for as long as possible, so here is a small selection of Galleria to bore you with:

Disaster stuck as a Spitfire display went out of control. Well, no, it didn’t really. That plane is on a plinth, true fcat.

Brummmmmmmmmmmmmmm-eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-Vrrrrrrrummmmmmmmmm!!

Tootly-Wootly-Woot-Doof-Doof-Doof-Doof-Doof-Step-Right-Up-Get-choor-tickets-ere-guys’n'gals

A Gentleman’s tin of cheap beer is never safe in this day and age.

Zombie poplulation out of control. As one eye-witness said before heading for the hills: ‘My God! They’re watching television! The horror! The carnage! The sitting ’round not doing much at all!

And finally, the piece de resistance:

It is common practice among certain chummingtons to attach common clothes-pegs to unsuspecting, nay, inncoent people. This peg travelled all the way from Donington to Southampton without falling off of the exhaust of the Omallymobile. Well done, Peg, and thankyou, Dave!

‹Best of British to Dave who is Horspital having his Appendix seen to whilst surrounded by buxom nursies. Lucky Bastard.›

*Not in that way, you dirty buggers. That’s gerbils (unfiltered).

It appears I’m really more rubbish with my personal fiscal policy than I first suspected: Yesterday, on the way home from w**k, T and I stopped off at the local shops (for local people, natch) for to obtain certain household items (dirty buggers: it was just milk, pasta and swig!). Having no spondulix about the Royal Personage, I decided to visit The Lucky Fruit Machine. Upon inserting my Plastic Gamblers Token and pressing a few buttons in the correct sequence I won twenty quid! Hoorah! So I opened my wallet to give the moths a bit of air before stashing my winnings and do you know what? You do, don’t you? C’mon, let’s all say it together:
Yes, there was already a very crisp twenty pound note in there!

Now, I’m certain I’d not any cash on me for about a week, as it’s the latter part of the month and we’re off galivanting* this weekend so the best way to save my remaining quids is usually to not spend it. I do this by not withdrawing any and making my own sarnies for w**k instead of buying the over-inflated prices of the Sarnie-Wagon that visits us at 11 o’clock sharp every day.
So where did this bonus bish-bosh come from? I have my suspicions, and I’ll be exacting my revenge very soon. Let’s see who sniggers loudest in the comments…

‹Considers the possibility of having a Magic Wallet and how often that trick will work before the velcro wears out›

*T and I are off to Donnington with Splendid Chummington Dave this weekend! Hoorah! Lot’s of lovely mo’bikes going zoom-zoom-zoom-zoom-zoom ’round the track, hopefully with some fabbo kodak-moments to boot!