Friday, 23 May 2008

I promised bison, you get bison

Bison.



And why stop at bison? Allez, I can also offer you 'bartender' (loving this in an infant school).




I've spared you the grim, grey-faced wagon driver and the dissolute Indians slumped by the campfire off their heads on homebrew. We're just a few bleeding disfigured corpses away from a full 'Unforgiven' aren't we?

I am on duty tomorrow for this day of inappropriately themed festivities and ethnic stereotyping with my friend Dom, at the duck fishing stall. This is an unprecedented feat of friendship on her part, the duck fishing is a fecking bloodsport, hundreds of hyped up small children with hooks. And water. And the chance to win a keyring. So whilst I am still feeling great fear, I am also reassured to know she has got my back as we venture into enemy territory armed only with a money belt and a hip flask of neat gin.


Reasons Dom is the lady for the job:


- her great height

- her bright red hair and slightly fearsome expression

- her Belgian-ness, obv.

- her great generosity with her giant cache of potent prescription drugs. She is preparing us a pick n' mix selection for the afternoon, I imagine by about 4 we will be feeling no pain, and everyone will be winning. 20 centime yoyos all round!

- she says her current meds have made her short-sighted, spacy and irascible. I feel this can only work in our favour. We will be in perfect symbiosis since this is how I am all the time.

ça va déchirer grave, quoi . See you in the whorehouse.