Feedback Friday :: Change

It’s been a funny old week. While the rest of the world’s been getting high on hope, I’ve been getting increasingly depressed on trains and tubes, and increasingly sick of spending my days in a small room with a man with a gastric problem. I also found out this week that the government job I was hoping for has been put back again. I should still get it, but not for another week or two.

God, I’m bored.

Also, it looks like Keith is leaving London. I’m not sure he’s making the right decision personally, but of course, it’s his decision to make. Not mine. Now, don’t tell anyone, but he plans on doing a rent-runner at the end of the month. This is because he hasn’t yet paid this month’s rent yet and landlord Dudley – because he’s rich as Croesus and has more properties than I have teeth - hasn’t even noticed. So Keith’s skipping town, leaving behind – as well as one month’s unpaid rent – one broken bed and one horribly, suspiciously stained and torn living room carpet. He’ll lose his deposit of course, but Dudley will still come out on top, so Keith figures it’s fair. I figure he’s probably right. Ish. This means I have until the end of the month – or until Dudley notices that the rent hasn’t been paid – to find somewhere new to live. Or of course I could take over this place, but frankly, this place, and Peckham as a whole, has rather lost its charm.

So. Back to Gumtree I go. Or I suppose I could start doing the rounds of agents. I do so despise them however. I’ve never met an agent who wasn’t either unscrupulous and self-centred to the point of pure evil, or, if not evil, severely mentally retarded. It's not uncommon of course, to meet a rancid melange of the two.

Still, needs must.

So. Keith may well be Burnley-bound as soon as the end of this coming week. So this weekend, we're going to buy some drugs.

In other news, I had this dream that I was sitting around with Stephen Fry and Simon Amstell and we were trying to think up cat-related Beatles song puns. I have no idea why, but it was possibly a new round on Never Mind the Buzzcocks.

‘Let It Beep,’ offered Stephen.

Simon and I looked at one another. Simon was wearing that expression he wears when he’s about to say something terrible and mean, but he didn’t want to say anything terrible and mean to Stephen Fry. Rather, he wanted to have snuggle up with him on a large bed.

‘Cats, Stephen,’ I said. ‘Cats don’t beep.’

‘Oh,’ said Stephen. ‘No, that’s right. Sorry.’

‘That’s OK,’ I said. ‘Try and think of another one.’

‘I’ve Got A Feline,’ said Simon.

‘Moggie Mae,’ I added.

‘Maxwell’s Silver Hamster,’ said Stephen.

‘Please,’ I said. ‘Stephen. You're ruining this for the rest of us.’

'Sorry,' said Stephen, ashamed.

‘Please Please Miaow,’ said Simon.

‘I Want To Hold Your Paw,’ I added, pleased with myself.

‘Sergeant Puppy’s Lonely Hearts Club Band,’ said Stephen.

Which was when it occurred to me that Stephen was merely toying with us. Of course he could think of cat puns. He was Stephen Fry. He could think of cat puns until the cow puns came home.

Which was when Simon Amstell turned to me and said, ‘Remind me. Why are you here?’

‘Oh, don’t be mean,’ said Stephen, but he was tittering like he didn’t mean it, like he was enjoying the meanness.

Which was when I noticed that Morag was sitting on Stephen Fry’s lap with her blouse unbuttoned and her bra pulled down to her navel. Stephen Fry seemed to be weighing her breasts in each of his hands. ‘So what’s the point of these exactly?’ he said.

And then, as Morag began to suckle Stephen Fry, I awoke, strangely depressed, and horribly aroused.

I wonder what it can mean.

So, this weekend, as well as attempting to procure some send-off narcotics, I’m going to start packing my life into boxes again.

Oy.

And you? What have you got planned?