[sharongooner]

If Manu lose today…. blimey, it will be there worst start like ever!

[sharongooner]

damn, I gotta straighten me hair.. out later!

[sharongooner]

Get Drunk

Always be drunk.
That’s it!
The great imperative!
In order not to feel
Time’s horrid fardel
bruise your shoulders,
grinding you into the earth,
Get drunk and stay that way.
On what?
On wine, poetry, virtue, whatever.
But get drunk.
And if you sometimes happen to wake up
on the porches of a palace,
in the green grass of a ditch,
in the dismal loneliness of your own room,
your drunkenness gone or disappearing,
ask the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock,
ask everything that flees,
everything that groans
or rolls
or sings,
everything that speaks,
ask what time it is;
and the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock
will answer you:
“Time to get drunk!
Don’t be martyred slaves of Time,
Get drunk!
Stay drunk!
On wine, virtue, poetry, whatever!”

-Charles Baudelaire

[sharongooner]

ok… final roll call people…

on stage in 10…

/turns on heal Oscar Wilde style….

[sharongooner]

Cricklewood… where Goodnight Sweetheart was based. Love that show.

sorry…. off track…

not very good for a director atall!

/goes back stage to shout at some minions…..

“get my coffee!!!!!!!!”

[sharongooner]

Im an open-minded sceptic… Id love to find proof.

Its not enough for me to have a “medium” tell me I have a lilac tree in the garden, and my grandad was a tall gentleman.
And yes I believe there are great mediums out there, but Derron Brown has shown how easy it is to fool people, without an inch of psychic ability!

[sharongooner]

@cherrybomb wrote:

@sharongooner wrote:

Im worried about little furry cat number two, top right.

The fact he is quite expressionless compared to his comrades is upsetting!

Perhaps he’s too cool to show his emotions. :? :lol: :lol:

he’s enjoying the ride man….

[sharongooner]

my my myyyyy delilah! i love her.

More expression though.

and….. action!

[sharongooner]

A Boozer’s Tale

I never drink beer on a Monday,
Cos Monday’s the day fer mi health
An’ the wife’s got me countin’ them units,
I’ve just got to take care o’ miself
So I merely have wine wi’ mi supper,
An’ just the one litre OK?
Then a rather large rum in mi coffee
An’ I calls that mi sensible day

I never drink wine on a Tuesday,
Cos Tuesday’s mi weightwatchin’ club
It’s the day when I eat nowt but cabbage,
The day I don’t go much fer grub
Now a diet demands plenty fluid,
Summat light an’ completely fat-free
So I’ve chosen that strong German lager
An’ I just have five pints wi’ mi tea

I never drink lager on Wednesday,
Cos Wednesday’s the day fer mi jog
It’s tracksuit an’ trainers at mid-day
Then I’m off up the road wi’ the dog
First stop’s at the Globe fer some Guinness,
Three swift ones’ll get me to grips
Then I carry on round to The Shepherds
Fer three more an’ a burger an’ chips
I make sure that I’m suitably rested,
Then I sprint back to our garden wall
In a time of under twelve minutes,
An’ it’s four ‘undred metres an’ all

I never drink Guinness on Thursday,
Cos Thursday’s mi day to relax
I likes to sit out in t’ back garden
In mi brown zip-up cardie an slacks
After lunch I might stroll by the river,
Breeze in at the Fisherman’s Drop
Where I lounge on the terrace all lordly,
Sippin’ shandy, but beawt any pop
Then cos I’ve been good through the day like,
She’ll allow me to waver a smidge
So mi evenin’s spent watchin’ the footy
Wi’ a few packs o’ Boddies from t’ fridge

I never drink Boddies on Friday,
Cos Friday’s mi night on the razz
An’ we meet in The Firkin at seven,
Owd Nodger an’ me an’ Fat Baz
Oh The Firkin’s a beer-drinker’s heaven,
Wi’ fifteen real ales from the jug
An’ we start wi’ the ones in the tap-room
An’ we works our way round to the snug
By midnight we’re all talkin’ gubbins
An’ we’re off fer a curry up town
But there’s summat not reyt about curry
Cos I never seem t’ keep the stuff down
We ‘ave a good laugh wi’ the waiters,
An’ Baz moons his bum fer a joke
Then I’m home fer a nightful o’ passion,
Cos I’m known as a passionate bloke

I never do much on a Sat’day,
Cos Sat’day’s mi time fer a think
Cos me an’ the wife are not speakin’ today,
I’m a drunken, fat pig an’ I stink
So I sit near the lavvie pretendin’
That really I’m feelin’ just great
But I’m goin’ right off that Indian food
If it leaves me in this bloody state
It’s later I make the decision,
On my forty-third trip to the bog
There’s only one thing cures an upset like this
An’ they call it the ‘air o’ the dog
I ring Nodge an’ Baz on mi mobile
An’ both of ’ems likewise in pain
So we’re back in The Firkin at quarter-past-six
An’ we do it all over again

I never say Firkin on Sunday,
Cos Sunday’s mi day to repent
I’m ashamed of all o’ that boozin’ I’ve done
An’ all o that money I’ve spent
I begs the wife fer forgiveness
An’ I promise I’ll alter mi ways
An’ she gives me a kiss an’ a cuddle,
Like she did in our newly-wed days
We watch Songs of Praise on the telly,
Then a nice pot o’ tea an’ some cakes
An’ I swear now I’ve climbed up the ladders,
I’ll never slide down any snakes
But it’s borin’ on telly on Sunday,
An’ I can’t say I’m ever impressed
So I ‘ave a walk out round the village
An’ stop off at the Collier’s Rest
Now the beer’s a bit crap in The Collier’s
So I leave an’ pop round to The Swan
Where I flatten a shed-load o’ Tetley’s
An’ I’m bloody well back to square one

So I never drink beer on a Monday,
Cos Monday’s the day fer mi health
An’ the wife’s got me countin’ them units
I’ve just got to take care o’ miself

Copyright; Steve Morris

[sharongooner]

Tenuous Connections

“Silly soul!”, she muses,

as once again, time clicks,
and ticks, and slips away,
ungracefully shuffling
her fleeting fate, removing
and dragging pieces
of her life into oblivion,
crackling her mind,
and ripping threads
from her heart,
knotting and snarling painfully
as cyber friends
drop from sight.
Understanding,
unwillingly,
the forces of dawns,
reality checks, and
flowers…wilting,
she feels..faded,
less than complete,
missing in non-action,
and melancholy-mooded,
sifting and shifting
through mind’s
memory doors, opening
laughter and tears,
screams of despair,
brooding madness echoing
into the night and
the colored dreams
of beautiful souls
shared lives, thankful, yet,
yearning for
the tenuous connection
of doors
who’s keys are…lost.

“Silly soul”, she weeps.

Erin Moen
11/1/02

[Author]

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