Hey! Remember me? It’s Miles. You know, the guy who use to write those awesome blogs you and your friends would read aloud and laugh together over. I’ve been busy as sin for the last two months so been pretty lazy with this. I just decided it was time to start on it again when I found a post I wrote a few weeks back but didn’t put online. This, for me, is a stroke of luck because I’m doing a forty-minute set at a festival in two weeks and really need to write it so now I can just put up the post I didn’t put up and get to writing my set and by “writing my set” I mean “looking at cats falling off high shelves”.
So, without further ado, I present to you a blog post I didn;t put up before, due to it’s mediocrity. Enjoy!
I would like to take this opportunity to thank the kind stranger who, in my hour of need yesterday, passed me toilet paper under the cubical wall. I had been sat there post-shit and toilet paper-less for almost two minutes before you came in and started plopping next to me. All I know about you is you’re soft voice is English and you had never been in that situation before. All you know about me is my sexy voice is Welsh. I think I might be the only Welsh person working there though, so you will find out my true identity far before I find yours, but this does not mean you will not be forever in my heart. If you ever get cancer I’d be the first to offer you a kidney. Now I have a question for thee; how do blind people know when to stop wiping their arse? I usually look at the paper after wiping to asses the situation. It’s something I’ve always wondered.
I’m suppose to be dancing naked on a stage in north Wales tonight in Arthur Smiths show, but I can’t get there. I had a lift sorted until late last night but my mate, who was said lift, has finished with his missus and has to move out sharpish. Selfish bastard. “But no worries,” I said to myself, “I’m only going north east for 81 miles. I can just get the train.”
But that’s where thing’s took an unusual turn…
I had a look at the train times and it turns out I can’t get a train up there. I can’t a train up to Machynlleth because in order to get a train from south west Wales to mid west Wales you have to go via fucking Shrewsbury and there’s only one chance to do it. And and that doesn’t even get you there until after the show’s finished. Yesterday, I had to read a magazine all about steam trains and 90% of it was all about the trains lines in Wales yet when it comes to catching a normal, everyday train to a mere 81 miles north-west you have to go so far fucking east you’re in a completely different fucking country. It’s the craziest thing.
So thanks, British Rail. Thanks for denying a room full of people the right to see my naked, curdling body.
Thanks a bunch.