I’d say this will probably be it until Sunday, and even then it depends on the quality of my hangover. Which in turn depends on the quality of socialising at the Blogbash.
I got a call from Wrinkly Joe earlier today.
Howya Bock. I just wanted to wish you luck at that blog thing.
Oh, I said, touched. Thanks Wrinkly Joe. How are you?
I’m fuckin soaked, he replied. I was out in the rain and I got fuckin soaked. Drowned.
How’s that Joe?
Well, he said, the one problem with having a bald head is that all the rain runs down the back of your neck.
Oh! I ejaculated. That’s not something I’d think of. You know, having a full head of hair and all that, even if it is going quite grey these days due to worry.
Yeah, said Joe. Plus a lifetime of dissolute bad living, Latvian hookers and drink.
True, I said. Did you think of doing neck exercises?
Well, if you did it right, you could develop a severe case of Templemore Neck. Like the detectives have.
Oh, said Joe, I see where you’re going.
Yeah, I said. You could encourage a very big wrinkle at the back of your head, like the ones The Bull Hayes has, only bigger.
And, said Joe, the ones the plainclothes police have rolling over the top of their cheap tweed sports-jackets. I certainly could.
And then, I went on, when it got big enough, you could sort of pull it out over your collar when it rains. A big skin flap at the back of your head. For the rain.
Brilliant, said Joe. My head becomes my hat.
Exactly, I confirmed.
One thing, said Joe. What does this have to do with the Blogbash?
Nothing, I told him. I’m just practising talking bullshit for the post-awards piss-up. Which there had better be or there’s going to be trouble.