Wednesday, January 01, 2003

Tomorrow the sky will fall on our heads, but tomorrow never comes

So says the great Gaulish chieftain leader Vitalstatistix. Time is a social construct that provides us with a framework around which we can lead our lives without having to resort to total anarchy or self-subsistence, so lets remind ourselves that celebrating New Year, is an excuse to party but and no more.

Penny’s hair party went royally ‘off’. I was quite proud of the capacious afro purloined for me by Simon but was royally usurped by two even more substantive ‘fros which enjoyed clear height of about 4 feet. In addition to the ‘fro-o-rama was Simon’s Charles the first cum 1970’s NY pimp chic, Mike’s demonic David Seaman, complete with ‘tache and Andrew’s blonde ‘Scott from Neighbours’ mullet, this was the most terrifying of all because if you’d never met him before you’d have gone away thinking ‘bad haircut’ rather than ‘bad wig’.

My desire to go ‘fro was inspired by George Berry, a Wolverhampton Wanderers left back during the 70’s. His ‘fro was immense, you suspect that during training they’d practice free-kick and corner routines by gently flicking the ball into his hair and letting him trot off unabated into the goal, as defender pleaded ‘Hairball!’ to the referee. George’s ‘fro was so large that it was said many people, when they met him for the first time were shocked to find that his ‘fro was immaculately spherical and not, as they had imagined, cubed. The reason for the confusion? His ‘fro was so big that precious few pictures of him managed to get the whole hair do into the frame.

A rare good New Year, except for a hangover so bad it caused a paradigm shift in drinking aftermath history and of course, it means work tomorrow, boo.


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