Well thanks Bagpuss.
So yeh, hi people. As the point of our blog has now been explained (I used that italic as emphasis, not to suggest that it was written by Bagpuss), I won't bother.
This afternoon I staggered slowly to an interview, legs motivated in the absence of working muscles almost entirely by the song Karmacoma (a Massive Attack song from my coloc and my notoriously low-volumed playlist at a soirée artistique at the Pompidou centre). I was late, but only because I couldn't find the door. Do I really want to have a job organising taxis for 60% American tourists? My bank does, and I answer to him exclusively at the moment.
Then I get home, hack up some old bread and smear it with sun dried tomatoes, and wait for Bagpuss to come round so we can collaborate on our first blogpost. I don't even get as far as logging in: one look and I found my trivial old references to the actual bagpuss had been removed, and that interview where Thom Yorke says he likes actual bagpuss too. In its place is the post you've all undoubtedly read by now. As I made this blog, formatted it and even got that picture of Bagpuss and his reflection in a deep puddle and made it the header, I think it's a bit unfair of him to hack into my gmail account and write our first blogpost all on his own.
Undoubtedly you agree with me (you, Bagpuss, obviously you don't). What's more, I'm still waiting for him to come round with cans of Guinness to drink before we go to some houseparty or other.
So, let me tell you a few things about Bagpuss Nailor. He's probably on the metro right now so he can't log in and change it. That was another rule of this blog... No Editing Each Other's Blog, but you... he... hasn't respected the only other agreement we had so far. Whatever, he'll probably get a good portion of revenge when he writes about me.
Anyway, I met Bagpuss Nailor in Paris when I arrived. He was sat there in the café opposite the hostel I lived in for what felt like months before I found my flat, head buried in some Kerouac or other. Indeed, he probably thinks he is Kerouac (one day in his flat I found some home made beat poetry hidden under the wardrobe). Well then we got talking, probably about how I read On The Road over one night in Italy, wearing my old and now defunct black-n-white striped scarf. Then we got drunk on Guinness, and spent the next three days migrating between the hostel and his flat. Like me, he is still largely unemployed. Which is why we've decided to write this blog.
So that's that. Patrick "Bagpuss" Nailor, do your worst.
Have a fun evening, everyone. I'm going to a Science Po party.
Richard Hadden
So yeh, hi people. As the point of our blog has now been explained (I used that italic as emphasis, not to suggest that it was written by Bagpuss), I won't bother.
This afternoon I staggered slowly to an interview, legs motivated in the absence of working muscles almost entirely by the song Karmacoma (a Massive Attack song from my coloc and my notoriously low-volumed playlist at a soirée artistique at the Pompidou centre). I was late, but only because I couldn't find the door. Do I really want to have a job organising taxis for 60% American tourists? My bank does, and I answer to him exclusively at the moment.
Then I get home, hack up some old bread and smear it with sun dried tomatoes, and wait for Bagpuss to come round so we can collaborate on our first blogpost. I don't even get as far as logging in: one look and I found my trivial old references to the actual bagpuss had been removed, and that interview where Thom Yorke says he likes actual bagpuss too. In its place is the post you've all undoubtedly read by now. As I made this blog, formatted it and even got that picture of Bagpuss and his reflection in a deep puddle and made it the header, I think it's a bit unfair of him to hack into my gmail account and write our first blogpost all on his own.
Undoubtedly you agree with me (you, Bagpuss, obviously you don't). What's more, I'm still waiting for him to come round with cans of Guinness to drink before we go to some houseparty or other.
So, let me tell you a few things about Bagpuss Nailor. He's probably on the metro right now so he can't log in and change it. That was another rule of this blog... No Editing Each Other's Blog, but you... he... hasn't respected the only other agreement we had so far. Whatever, he'll probably get a good portion of revenge when he writes about me.
Anyway, I met Bagpuss Nailor in Paris when I arrived. He was sat there in the café opposite the hostel I lived in for what felt like months before I found my flat, head buried in some Kerouac or other. Indeed, he probably thinks he is Kerouac (one day in his flat I found some home made beat poetry hidden under the wardrobe). Well then we got talking, probably about how I read On The Road over one night in Italy, wearing my old and now defunct black-n-white striped scarf. Then we got drunk on Guinness, and spent the next three days migrating between the hostel and his flat. Like me, he is still largely unemployed. Which is why we've decided to write this blog.
So that's that. Patrick "Bagpuss" Nailor, do your worst.
Have a fun evening, everyone. I'm going to a Science Po party.
Richard Hadden
1 comment:
Yes Richard I'm now here in your flat and you're in the kitchen putting your Guinness in the fridge.
I'll write some good revenge tomorrow, trust me.
Post a Comment