So, apparently having a dog in public is basically equal to walking down the street with the dog and a sign that says “please give me advice on how to look after my dog”. I have, therefore, devised a simple way for strangers to remember whether or not I give a fuck about what they have to say:

If you have a receipt for the lead that is connecting my hand to my dog, I care about your opinion. If he’s pleased to see you every time he can see you, and stresses out every time you’re even slightly out of his line of vision, let’s talk. If you’re some nosey fucking douche who disapproves of me using the only method (of about 5 or 6) that has actually worked to get him to walk sensibly on his lead, that he doesn’t seem to mind at all (and oddly actually seems to appreciate the direction), then mind your own fucking business, or prepare for me to rant at you quite a bit.

Thanks.

It’s only Adam Fucking Wintle. Never heard of him? Me either.

I both love and hate this. It’s a great way to get closure after an event, the outcome of which has already gone or is beyond your control. Being the incredibly witty fellow I am, I often miss out on l’espirit d’escalier, but if you’re the sort of person who gets abuse shouted at you from cars, I imagine it’s quite a frequent occurrence!

Returning from a jaunt, a delightful chap in a Chrysler Voyager wound his window down, especially to shout “pull your trousers up, you scruff” at me as he drove past (he didn’t do it as I walked past whilst his car was stationary, by the way. I’m pretty dangerous-looking).

It wasn’t until I was nearly home, having replayed the moment a thousand times already, each with me emerging the intellectual victor (and one time, doing a huge jump onto the roof of his car, punching through, pulling him out and throwing him under a bus. I should write a screenplay), it occurred to me: this contextually appropriate, piquant comeback, better than a million flip-kicks; “wouldn’t that make it harder for you to kiss my ass?!”.

When I tell people about this, you and I will know the true sequence of events, but everyone else will think I’m a quick-witted genius.

There’s a highly stylish installation in Leamington called “The Spring”. Pretentious, conceptual piece with chairs dotted around so you can appreciate it from different angles, no doubt. Inspiring stuff. So, like the mature adults that we are, climbing abound and thoroughly invalidating any artistic validity this thing has. Job well done, we felt.

(scary)

(ridiculously photogenic!)

(effortlessly cool)

(taking it seriously)

(I own a camera so that my photo doesn’t get taken! Not sure how this happened)

Good to see my Leamington buddies again. Shame Ash and James couldn’t make it—they all had wonderful excuses.

I nearly walked past this. Everyone was walking at the perfect speed here, and the tall shadows cast made this for me.

Every now and again, we get a visit from Mirko. He’s always good for slating rubbish metal bands and making me wish I was in Finland for the saunas or Italy for the driving.

I never go to parties, therefore parties are exciting. Especially when they involve video games and alcohol. That’s my kind of party.