Hot pool, hot park, hot boke

Lookit the "new" blog, eh? It's even got art on it by Jay Howell. Maybe one day he'll draw me semi-nude on a couch. I dunno why, he seems to draw best when he's like that.

Anyway, the July Make Yourself Heard and the Alternative 4th of July event were both successes, although it was touching cloth for a bit due to the general public's insistence on turning up two hours late. The 4th of July one was especially dodgy, as there was an unrelated music event happening right after, so the longer people took to turn up, the less of a show they got. However, as usual, a big group just magically turns up at once, so it was all good. Thanks to all who came. Especially Lorcan McGrane who did a fantastic job filling in the headliner slot with a brand new powerpoint lecture basically at the last minute.

Since then, not much has been happening apart from last night. I met up with fellow poets Dale Mawhinney and Stephen Hollywood for a bit of smokin' hot pool. Then a litle bit later, fellow comic George "Magic George" Quinn arrived and all was well. Simon McCullagh also made an appearance but myself and George buggered off to watch Dale spin fire in Crescent Park with some very cheap wine. The event is fortnightly (so I'm guessing the next one is the 21st July) and starts roughly at about ten.

We got very sloshed, talked to a drunk 41-year-old ex-joyrider and then headed to the Empire where it gets a bit hazy and messy; George fell over with a pint in his hand, I spent time talking to someone French who barely understood me but I vaguely attempted to ride anyway, Simon dared me to down a pint of Guinness for £1 (which I did), then he coaxed me to boke straight afterwards in the bogs (which I didn't). For a bog in a bar, they're pretty fucking bad. They completely reek beyond acceptable standards of smelling like piss.

And that was about it. I vaguely feel like I want to lick the bowl right now, but I'll stave it off with some screaming at the walls instead.

Anyway, at the Alternative 4th of July, things got a bit slow, so I got up and tried to do the following routine (giving all credit, but people always think it's yours even if you explicitly fucking say it) from memory, as it's vaguely American related. I'm much better at reciting Moran's stuff when I'm drunk. He's quite obviously written it while pished, and so it flows better in the head of a drunk.