Glasto

My housemate Jon's dad won 2 tickets to Glastonbury last week, and Jon has kindly offered me the spare ticket. But with Jon being Jon he has attached several conditions to this offer:

1. No more mentions of his love for cream eggs on the blog.
2. Removal of the artificial dating profile I created for him on Guardian Soulmates.
3. I must never refer to Glastonbury as 'Glastonbury', but only use the abbreviated form 'Glasto'.
4. I must prepare his favourite meal for him every weekday until the festival commences on the 25th of June. (His favourite meal is Young's fish supper, followed by a Cadbury's cream egg for pudding).
5. I must star as a highly strung, yet humorous drug addict in a play that he is writing about urban living. The play is called 'The sound of the street' (TBH it shits on any of Noel Clarke's output).
6. At the festival I must let him sit on my shoulders as he shouts 'Bonkers' for the duration of Dizzee Rascal's set.
7. Even if the weather isn't inclement, I must join him in getting caked head to toe in mud/human excrement in order to pose for a memorable photo. When I asked him where we would obtain the mud, he chuckled to himself and said "When there's a will, there's a way" and left the room.

I have agreed to all of these criteria.

Jon's birthday treat

I'm using the bank holiday as an excuse for the lack of action on the blog this week. I currently lack Internet access at home, as one of my flatmates has managed to break my laptop charger as a result of a emotionally charged 24 hour pornography binge (apparently he 'fell in love' with BellaDonna). Soon after my charger got bruck, my other housemate fucked off to Morocco so he could gad about in a Fez. He has deemed it appropriate to password-lock his laptop while he is out of the country. Such drastic actions were probably taken in order to prevent a repeat of the 'porn overload' incident that Jon perpetrated on my laptop.

While I did have Internet access at work yesterday, I was so tired I could barely stop myself from passing out at my desk, let alone muster the energy to provide any hilarious musings for the blog. I'm still feeling a bit rinsed so I have decided to keep the hilarity to a minimum in this post.

To tide you over, above is a picture of the motor we will be renting for Jon's birthday this weekend. I am sure you will agree that it will serve as quite the babe magnet. We emailed Cadburys to see if they wanted to assist us in implementing a boisterous publicity stunt that would complement the weekend's celebrations. Jon wanted to procure a sack of cream eggs and hollow out their creamy centre. In place of the sugar rich yolk, we would fill the eggs with contraceptive pills. The publicity stunt would consist of us driving through the streets of Deptford in our eggmobile, lobbing our estrogen laden treats at unsuspecting 'hot chicks' and/or destitute alcoholics. BANG! See you on page 3 of Monday's Metro.

Jäger Bombaclarts

Today, my housemate Jon has been complaining about some kind of Jägerbomb induced heart palpitations that he has recently been afflicted by. My man has always had a penchant for the German digestif, but in the last year or so things have gotten out of hand. A particularly unsavory incident occured at the Lewisham Fox and Firkin recently, when my good friend demanded that someone serve him a 'JägerJon'. Bemused staff eventually cobbled together the gruesome cocktail, in which the energy drink that would usually be employed in a Jägerbomb is replaced by milk. Watching Jon down this hideous concoction was one of the darkest points in our relationship to date. The picture above captures a scene that I have become very familiar with (Jon is the hatless character with blonde hair and a winning smile.)

Before you make the mistake that I did and cry 'Pussyclart!', try not to underestimate the power of this potent beverage. Jon is just one of many gullible punters who have crashed and burned after being beckoned on to the rocks by this sickly siren. For the next week I'm going to convert our flat into a makeshift rehab centre. Jon's two defining passions, Jägerbombs and Cadbury's cream eggs are off the menu, and in their place I will be introducing the Janice Battersby endorsed detox regime. You will be back to your high-kicking best in no time Jonny!

Below are just a few examples of the damage being done by the bastard brew that has been the bane of Jon's recent existence: