Recently I've noticed a common theme emerging from the blogs of friends and acquaintances: that of gin. This delightful drink, in most of the entries, is treated with an air of reverence; a reverence not often bestowed on its close friends, beer and wine.
According to the entries, gin is what we drink when we are delightfully curled up on our porch couch, swapping witticisms. Similarly, it seems that it is gin which makes any launch go from a church hall filled with geeky twenty-somethings, into a gallery frequented by people that previously featured on Kate Moss's party list. Gin, my friends, is what makes a duck turn into a swan.
And of course, ever the Social Sciences graduate, I felt the need to quantify this dependency. So voila- do what you will with the following statistics:
Pusia: 1 (certainly NOT representative of my Gin-swigging)
Mary K: 10 (technically I don't know Mary K, but she really does she love gin)
Dave: 0
Eli: 0
Jono: 0
Daniel: 0
And remarkably:
Jess: 17/over a 100
Gelatinous Hands: 20/43
Is there any point mentioning that the only people indulging in this subject are women? Let's let the wisdom of the delightfully Irish Dylan Moran decide:
"The most dangerous drink is gin- you have to be really, really careful with that. And you also have to be 45, female and sitting on the stairs."
So yeah..stairs.....and statistics......and gin.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Regress
I never thought Father Time to be synonymous with irony; but not so long ago the lord reared his head in such a spectacular fashion, that one could only call it ironic.
He came, when I was prepared to give everything of away; sold, in the hope that I would feature in some folkloreish story of love, honour and all things that transcend time and space. And because Father Time is synonymous with irony, he took everything away, with neither an apology or an IOU. At the time, I believed it to be a swift, brief (albeit, acute) attempt made on my life, from which I could move from with excuses of rationale, and more narcissitically, matyrdom.
But no. Because tonight Father Time gently nudged me again; a reminder that he'd neither forgotten or relented from his quest to make me fall to my knees.
And now, walking down Krakowskie Przedmiescie, with katabatic winds rushing past me, I can hear three soleful bell tolls ringing through the dead of the night. And I'm really shit scared that Father Time may be descending on me once more, his bedraggled greying beard trailing through history.
But what worries me most is not this man himself. What worries me is that I resent him and his sinister flare for circumstance, when he could in fact be my one deliverance from evil.
He came, when I was prepared to give everything of away; sold, in the hope that I would feature in some folkloreish story of love, honour and all things that transcend time and space. And because Father Time is synonymous with irony, he took everything away, with neither an apology or an IOU. At the time, I believed it to be a swift, brief (albeit, acute) attempt made on my life, from which I could move from with excuses of rationale, and more narcissitically, matyrdom.
But no. Because tonight Father Time gently nudged me again; a reminder that he'd neither forgotten or relented from his quest to make me fall to my knees.
And now, walking down Krakowskie Przedmiescie, with katabatic winds rushing past me, I can hear three soleful bell tolls ringing through the dead of the night. And I'm really shit scared that Father Time may be descending on me once more, his bedraggled greying beard trailing through history.
But what worries me most is not this man himself. What worries me is that I resent him and his sinister flare for circumstance, when he could in fact be my one deliverance from evil.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)