Bill has only been in our midst for a few days, and already they’ve named a road after him:
Bill is staying with us over New Year. He arrived yesterday, bearing an excellent gift:
He swears blind he paid for it.
Rain and shouts for Devil Woman will most definitely be involved.
Postscript (25-Jun-2012): Contrary to all expectations: a) we did not get drenched; and b) Bruce played the 1978 introduction to Prove It All Night—something Bill has waited 34 years and around 50 Springsteen concerts to hear. He is a very happy bunny.
So, we knocked another one off.
2012. Might this be the year when I finally revert to pronouncing the year number in the pre-2000 way: twenty-twelve, rather than two-thousand-and-twelve? The time seems about right, but I’m not sure if I’ll be able to kick what is now a decade-old habit.
We saw the new year in at our place with Bill. Now that we have all of our music digitised, we were able to sit on our sofas, each with a remote control, queuing up a rather eclectic music mix which played on until the not-so-small hours. Alcohol was most definitely involved.
Bill arrived here on Friday evening, which meant I missed out on Jen‘s family’s annual Christmas bash. That’s one I owe him. We decided to watch a movie. “How about a Bourne film?” I suggested. But we ended up opting for The Godfather Part II instead.
The following morning, Bill told Jen that I had suggested we watch a porn film. So I guess I don’t owe him one after all.
Anyway, Happy New Year to one and all. I think it’s going to be a good one.
I must say, Cornwall likes to encourage healthy competition when it comes to pasty shops:
…OK, perhaps not all that healthy.
We’re off to Rick Stein’s Seafood Restaurant this evening. I’ll let you know if they do fish fingers.
Postscript [13-Oct-2010]: No, they don’t do fish fingers. Nor scampi in a basket. Call themselves a seafood restaurant! But they do do scallops followed by turbot in hollandaise sauce, which was something of a revelation. I even enjoyed the oyster Jen let me try. I have tried for years, hitherto unsuccessfully, to enjoy oysters.
My mate Bill, the notorious sausage artist, is a huge Bruce Springsteen fan. Springsteen supported Spinal Tap at Glastonbury yesterday, but Bill told me he had no intention of going, because standing around in a muddy field with a bunch of unwashed youths isn’t his idea of a good time.
Yeah right, Bill: not going to see the Boss at Glastonbury, huh? So who was it in the crowd last night waving a sodding huge flag saying “I ♥ SAUSAGE”?
Screen capture not clear enough, you reckon? Well, go and watch this video and fast-forward to 6 minutes and 9 seconds.
You’ve been well and truly sussed, Bill.
Honestly, you’ve known a chap for years, you think you know what he stands for, and then you find out something about him which calls into question your faith in humanity.
My mate Bill is a straight-up, regular bloke: he enjoys a beer, has an awesome music collection, and likes to watch sport. An all-round, down-to-earth chap.
Yesterday evening, however, at a barbecue in his garden, Bill revealed himself to be a closet sausage artist:
What else aren’t you telling us, Bill?