Sake! Ya wanna see the fucking bite marks around my neck, boi! Here was your humble author picking the lice binding agent out of his burger and gets his bonce near taken off because apparently all this is real.
Real?! Yeah I was just thinking that. I'm thinking as I make this shit up how real it all is. I am a Mantra-ray who buffets his way into photographs living on a lemon juice cloud of continuously tacking vintage bicycle holographs. Now that's real. So I get called in to face accusations of the Existence Perception Committee (in association with Gaeltacht Diet Coke, the only fizzy drink that converses in tongues both ancient and modern).
Well it's a cross border thing and so cross that I was dragged in barely conscious to face accusing from both sides of the religious divide. Oh joy!
Now your humble authoritarian has no political allegiance whatsoever due to his narcolepsy in the face of ANY and ALL political and patriotic ideas so I had to be strapped to an ECT table with the rubber chew toy in me mouth just so I could stand listening to these buggers.
The head honcho was sat on a tractor and spoke Irish in the Ulster dialect, which was nice. To cross the divide he was dressed in a British flag toga. Actually this was the fleg! That's where it had gone! The city council vote had also unexpectedly provided him with clothing. Now only 15 days a year he was naked.
"Senor Bisson...." He uttered in my recall of the Irish tongue which is very rusty.
"Tengo los mantiquila y you have been writing real stuff which is quare and confusing."
"Ya what? When?"
"All these here blogs I been reading I think they're real and yours is the biggest real shit going there. Like my cousin's blog about hiring cars for sexual contact."
Now this was news to me and no mistake. I mean I've just been throwing any old shit I can think off at the virtual wall of my blog and hope it sticks! I have a civilian existence where I don't make crap up but then I sit down put on my work troos and do made up novels and scripts and guitar and shit. Like this. I do write poetry in my civvies, that might be real. It could be, I gave it a poke to see if it moved me. It didn't but felt real enough.
Anyways, I had to nip this crap in the bud and get back to sleep.
"Right ok, this is real, you're right. Now have you heard of the dinosaur park set up by Richard Attenborough on them islands?"
He leapt about five feet off his Massy.
"Yep, that's real. And the school for wizards in a London train station that's totally real and in the news there's that wee girl who is taken to some place with a talking lion and scarecrow, fights off witches and sings the whole fucking way through it."
He was already running out the door.
"You're right, this is all real. We must save the world, ALL REAL I TELL YOU!"
Pfff. I got home after all that as the honcho went to save the world from the machinations of the Wizard of Oz and many other broadway musicals he thought were real.
He did tell me to stop talking about tits in my blog, which are real. So I'll just talk about boob jobs instead. Happy Herr Commissionaire?! Blimey!