Last night the boy and I were awakened from a well-deserved slumber by none other than Busted.
They weren't getting in a bit of late night practice, oh no! The spiky haired littled darlings appeared to be doing a bit of clearing up. Clearing up that, by the sounds of things, consisted of hauling an elephant down the stairs, arguing with a tramp and rounding the whole lot off by having a Greek wedding style attitude to any dirty dishes that might be lying around - specifically when they got the stuff all the way down 6 flights of stairs and out into the street and celebrated by smashing crockery in the middle of the road. And then laughing loudly.
As I left my flat this morning, I was treated to a brand new experience. Had they left a note of apology and a nice bunch of flowers? No. They did leave us all with a really, really PECULIAR smell.
I just can't put my finger on it.
Jilly Goulden would have a bloody FIELD DAY.
There's definitely a hint of vomit. Also the suggestion of past-it camembert... Some heavy overtones of ripe sock, a tinge of rotten cabbage and most definitely the exciting aroma of running stark bollock naked through one of our fine city's municipal dumps.
They've also left a nice trail all the way down the stairs and out the door to the bins - you know when the contents of your bin bags go liquid? I think that's what it is. Either that or they owed Jabba The Hut some money and Mr Slug himself paid them a visit.
Little Bastards. I'm going to phone up Kim and Aggie for their latest challenge. *grumbles*
(Note: I'm so considerate of my forn readers that I have included links to the Pop Culture Icons mentioned in this post... I'm sure you'd have to live quite some way off not to have heard of Jabba The Hut, but my mum wouldn't know so I assume others like her might be reading)
Well... Not that many years ago I lived above a brothel in the Grey Toon in Scotland. Out of a confused mixture of irritation and amusement, I started to blog about it.
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