As it's our second time in Blackpool in less than a fortnight, I thought I'd make it sound like a movie: Blackpool 2 - The Revenge was my first title idea but in all probability it's going to be a bloody wash out like the first one was so "revenge" wouldn't be a fitting title to the second of the movie franchise "BLACKPOOL" ... Or something.
The day started well enough, I had an awesome breakfast and was up early ready for the drive to Ian's for 11:00. As I was getting my shit together I noticed my unshaved gimp in the mirror, so I thought I'd have a "quick" shave.
Being as we were only out for tonight, coming back after the show and so I wasn't taking a wash bag, I didn't want to go an stage looking like one of the Anthill Mob. Being out of blades, I thought I'd have a quick trim with my dad's electric razor (you can guess where this is going can you?)
If I had gone to the shops, walking on my hands, stopping off to recite a passage of Kanyan rhyming slang (if there's such a thing) to some rather bemused school children along the way, to buy blades, I would have done it quicker than I had done with this crappy invention.
Is it just me or is the electric razor one of THE shittest inventions ever? Isn't an invention by it's very nature meant to be an improvement through technolocial advancement to an established exercise? Like the motor cycle; someone took the bicycle idea, added a motor, voilà! Improvement! The Car - a metal horse that doesn't shit/piss gallons where it likes and doesn't throw you from its back because it had a paddy. What's more with a car, it can take more than one person (In case I've not convinced you yet) Again, an improvement through technology. The electric razor - supposedly replacing the age old razor and foam method but costs more (if you decide to buy a decent one) takes A LOT longer and does a totally SHIT job overall. I swear it's like the blades themselves cherry pick which hairs are good enough to be selected for the extra special facial hair elitist club, leaving clumps of dejected, deflated and disappointed hairs behind to dwell on being "not of good enough stock" to be taken to the promised land. Like the Ginger, four-eyed fat kid at a Sunday kick about! Well I say to you hairs of the people, "Rise up! Rise up against your oppressors, take back your birthright! All hairs are all equal and all hairs of the state have the same rights to liberty, justice and prosperity!"
All this went through my head as I desperately tried to clean up a very patchy looking face with one eye on the clock. The more desperate I was getting, the more it seemed to be doing nothing in terms of cleaning up the patches of stubborn hairs all over my face.
So what I'm trying to say is I was late because I thought I'd have a quick shave with an electric razor, something that I have now established as a contradiction of terms.
I got going but then I hit traffic. I thought I could make it up along the A465. I was doing well but then I came up behind Reginal Fesslewick, you know the sort! 80 years old, glasses so strong you fear he could burn his face if the sun came out, nose up against the windsheild, president and founder of 30mph speed appreciation society, just as we hit single lanes. Only so because of the miles of cones. Yeah, Neath borough council figured would be a great idea to close 15 miles of lane for no apparent reason. All along the way not one workman, van or machine was seen doing any work whatsoever. Though I did pass a piss-stained tramp with a can of tennent super at the side of the carriageway, maybe it was for him?
Anyway, it was then I tried desperately to send Ian a text to explain I'd be late. Anyone with an iPhone or other touch screen phone will know that writing a text while driving is one of the hardest things to do; yeah I know very dangerous and illegal. I'm a sinner! Failing in that, I tried to call him, also illegal. But I didn't have my hands free so I put I on speaker phone as I dailed his number and placed the phone on my shoulder like Long John Silver's Parrot. It was as he answered I applied the breaks to slow at an approaching roundabout. The phone flew from my shoulder and slid under my pedals, that's when I lost all rationalle, smashing the steering wheel with both hands and screaming like Linda Blair, spewing green vomit and cursing bad enough to humble the most severe Turrette's suffer. "FUUUUAAARRGHCKING FUUUAAAARGHCK!!!!"
I screamed so loud, it hurt my throat. It's still sore now as I type.
I did then manage to send a text at a traffic lights, I suggested to meet him in Abergavenny. He agreed and then Clive sent a text explaining he'd too be late. The pressure suddenly fell from me somewhat and so I calmed myself down. Things seemed to move more smoothely after that.
Met up up, got in Clive's car and so we were off to The Ancient Metropolis known as Blackpool.
More later.
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