Christmas 2005


Back in the county.

My visit to the Famiglia wasn’t too bad. We had a nice dusting of snow. Good to see two out of three of the members anyway. My Dad fucked over any Christmas spirit that existed by shouting at me for spilling three end-of-a-pencil wide spots of coffee on the living room carpet. I blotted and washed the drops immediately and no damage was done.

My Dad comes in the room, sees the water stains on the floor and lets rip. I explain that it’s water and that it’s sorted. He explains that I am careless, stupid and have ruined the carpet. The carpet dries completely stain-free.

He then tells *me* I have a Celtic streak running in me that means I fly off the handle. What a prick. Cue apologies from my Mum and a nice discussion about my Dad’s horrific temper. Mutinous. My Mum let slip that my Dad had to move jobs and the family due to his temper. Interesting.

Anyway, I enjoyed seeing my Mum and Bro, continually raiding the fridge and lounging zombie-style in front of Sky. I saw me some wrestling, shed some tears over the Eddie tribute on Raw (an inconsolable Benoit is tough to take) and was reminded just how damn fantastic H:LotS was.

salty goodness I took in the Christmas Special of Trailer Park Boys and laughed at too loud a volume for 2.30am. I received the cd I requested- New Orleans Funk: The Original Sound of Funk 1960-75 and it is as expected really rather good. Mama Roux by Dr. John is fabulous and I now have a hard copy of Here Come The Girls. Hoorah.

I received many lovely undies of varying types colours and constructions and I supplimented these with a pair of pretzel covered panties. They’re not particularly flattering but they’ve got pretzels on for fuckssake. Worth the price of admission alone…

… And while on that subject, I had an excellent text conversation with MW#2 about the intricacies of pins, pants flashing and the area of inner thigh above my stocking top. Delightful.

I spent an interesting five minutes or so (lets call it ten) imagining MW#2 dragging his tongue up over the nylons and across my skin and thinking about the smell of laundry-fresh pants and warmed nether regions. Come on, you know what I mean. Filth.

I found out i’ve lost five kg since the summer (I don’t know where it’s gone to) so could indeed be classed as waif-like in some warped land where having a liberal coating of fat is deemed wafer.

I used to be so into H:LotS. I read Homicide: A Year On The Killing Streets, bought The Subway and Anatomy of a Homicide vids and generally absorbed it as much as I possibly could. I tried watching some of The Wire which is written by the same individual, but watching one or two episodes is deeply unsatisfying in that I didn’t know any of the plot arcs, characters etc to understand what in the hell was going on.

H:LotS, Oz, The Cutting Edge, Vidz, The Strip, Prey and Vengeance Unlimited were my beloved films and series in my later teenage years, and I still have much love for them all. Okay, so the last three are of dubious quality, but they were so much fun.

Absolutely smokin’ SPF, freaky uber-restrained Adam Storke and Michael Madsen looking disturbingly good whilst being crazy (check what work he’s done that he classes as unwatchable).

What more could you ask for?

Homicide: Links on the Sites
Nothing To Do With Life

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