It’s here! Many years late and all the more welcome for it, we now present The Official Book of London 2014, “#Chris30”. It is of course from the fateful time Kev and Ian came to see me in London for my birthday, and Kev wasn’t very well, but we still played dinosaur golf anyway.
It’s a rollercoaster of long-forgotten birthday emotion, featuring:
- The invention of Smidge Manly
- The David Craig Face Clock
- Book #selfies
- Tit tetris (titris)
- Chris’s chunky ass
- Sadsack’s sick sack
You can read it right now on the Books page or, if you don’t want to go via the Books page, you can read it by clicking exactly here.
18 comments on “Five”
A lot of this is completely incomprehensible and I wouldn’t want it any other way. Considering the amount of flack you received for your “flinging a pint” motion, Kev doesn’t really have a leg to stand on given how he says the word, “five”.
You’re all gangly mo-fos.
Since re-reading this book I remembered Kev’s unique fivery and have been trying it out again. I quite like it. It’s every bit as flamboyant and stylish as my pint flinging technique.
And to think that it was me who was all arms and hands the last time we met, yet I did not manage to come up with one of my own. What a shame.
Or if I did I can’t remember it.
“Words!” was the time before then.
Gangling arms, as pointed out by the both of you, was when we met in Garforth and you made us wait several hours until your sodding train turned up.
I think it is only right that I place here, on record, the agreement that Ian and I reached where I intend to fling five pints using my patented pint-flinging technique, and then recount the story of how many pints I flung using Kev’s five technique.
It’s guaranteed to be my personal highlight of 2020. Fo sho.
But not mine.
No, it will be a disaster for you. You’ll be covered in pints and will have wasted about fifteen quid on alcohol, or thrice as much if you’re anywhere near London.
Fifteen quid a pint is standard round these parts now. Luckily you can pick up fifteen quid from tramps because even they have no need for such small change.
Do your tramps ask for fifty pound notes? Keys to your spare cars? Tiny bags of jewels?
Is that how the Saint King™ got started? Was he a London tramp who went up north?
He certainly smelled like one.
Now now now, lads, we all remember the Saint King for who he was; a rich, rich member of society who wanted to help those less fortunate and strove to promote the sanctity of saints as a whole.
Are we talking about the same Saint King? The one I remember was a lying cheat who promised jewels to everyone and legged it when the time for dishing out jewels arrived.
I believe that you’re thinking of Pongus Gengus.
I believe that you’re wrong, and I want to know why you’re protecting the Saint King.
He’s gone now, there’s nothing to protect. Don’t speak ill of the dead, or wherever he is.