Much like Russel Brand I have big hair and a big love for anything dickensian in nature. I am having a bit of a problem at the moment, constantly referring to Fagin and his troupe of thieving orphans when dealing with every day, run of the mill, boring as shit situations e.g.
My friend and I in sainsbury’s
Friend: These spuds look good
Me: That’s what Fagin might say, then the arful dodger, omg I love him, he’d stash ‘em in his pantaloons and jig his way out the door.
Why I gots a pain in me gulliver, sir!
And so on and so forth. Another thing I love about Dickens is that everyone is exactly what they say they are… on the tin. I know this sentence makes no sense but I am dumb, forgive me. What I mean is, Oliver’s surname is Twist suggesting he’s a slippery bugger, Billy Sykes – well that just sounds ‘ard as nails that does. You got Mr. Bumbles… speaks for itself. I know there is a word for this type of thing, onematopea? Hah, I know it is *not* that dyslexicky looking word, for sure.
Anywhoo, I sometimes thing the world t’would be a far grander place if we could all wear top hats and dress in coats and tails. I’d be a right shiesty character, what with a good part of me being drawn to the darkside. If I were a Dickens character, I would be someone with a cloak and dagger, for sure. Except I’m brown, so perhaps a slave 
.
I like to speak with grandiose purpose, it makes my friend, English Rose, laugh a lot. If it’s r aining, I look up and say “forsooth, the wetness on my palm, denotes ill foreboding”. Course, I dont do this all the time, otherwise it might be the reason why I am still single. I only do it with certain people, whom I am sure are sufficiently hoodwinked into thinking I am not a mentalist.
I forgot to ever mention the conclusion of house idol, the german won through. He is a strange fucker, but there you go and as the Irish would say, “what odds” (this means the same as a shrug or “what does it really matter?”). Ze german had diarrhea the other day, hah, I was watching tv and I could HEAR IT, ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Oh no, more poo in my blog. Must I ever be haunted by it’s evilness? MUST I?
Furthermore, after my 3am post about 3am boy (I have decided this will be his moniker), I emailed him and he emailed back. I skipped a heartbeat. We are sporadic in our contact, mainly 3am-ish. I just opened my box (not the best choice of words) and there is one from 3am boy. It’s lovely. I feel that both of us feel a bit lost, perhaps as if, we were islands which have not yet been chartered, you know put on a map so we can see our place in the world. So we don’t know where we are, but we know we exist. This is a turn up for the old saying “no man is an island”. Perhaps he is not an island, perhaps he is a rock… that I could lean on? I am an island though. I think my island is great! Naked hula every thursday!
