Sunday night, my ladyfriend took me along to the Camden Calling show at The Cavendish Arms. She borrowed me camera and shot this video of Adrian Roye and The Exiles.
Showing posts with label the missus. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the missus. Show all posts
Tuesday, 13 January 2009
Sunday, 1 June 2008
On dating
Recently a friend suggested I try the Guardian's Soulmates webiste, I knocked back the idea outright. Its not for me.
And here's why.
I don't struggle at meeting new people. In the course of my extra-curricular activities, both online and in real life, I'm surrounded. Thousands of people check out my websites, hundreds of people read my posts on message boards, dozens of people go to the same gigs as me. At any point I can turn the girl next to me and say "Hey, how's it going, what did you think of that last one.".
I'll accept that starting off the conversation terrifies me, but after that, its plain sailing, I can be rounded and charming enough to carry it off.
So, what is the problem?
Even when out with friends, I sit at the side, or stand at the back keeping quiet, gazing into the distance, or into my pint, sometimes my mind travels in time. It takes a cattle prod to get me communicating.
I'm not sure how Soulmates will help there.
Since I discovered my cock some time in the mid-nineties, I've have about six relationships that lasted over four months, none more than seven. It worries me, there's something very wrong. I mention it to friends on MSN, my worries. And then every so often in response to me saying something outragous, the friends on MSN will say something like "I can see why it only lasts six months".
I find it patronising and condescending, and it makes me think they're fools. They know nothing of context. I take it too seriously.
Yesterday, I was at Dr Sketchy's, the burlesque life-drawing thing. Keeping quiet at the back with my post-it pad and biro, between drawing tasks, I scrawled a wee list of those lucky lucky 4-7 month relationships and how they ended. And drew a pie chart too. The reasons they ended are diverse, only two reasons non-unique. The most popular reason for splitting up, with 2.5 hits, is 'moved to London'. This shouldn't reoccur, I've implemented corrective action. The second non-unique reason, is my refusal to come back after being dumped and then begged back.
Me saying something outrageous, has never had any bearing on the end of a relationship.
Looking at the list, the other terrifying thing is what could be called the Good Luck Chuck factor. More than half the girlfriends got engaged shortly after we broke up. Never seen the film, but I understand to break the curse I have to hump Jessica Alba. Alas she never returns my calls.
What to do?
Fuck knows.
If I don't shut anything down, or close off any of my options, the possibilities for the future are limitless.
So carry on reviewing gigs, carry on going to geeky internet meetups, carry on drawing pictures, carry on as usual with brief psychotic episodes of frustration, jealousy and anger.
Then again, the friend was also signing up to Guardian's Soulmates herself, so it could have been a round about way of asking me out. But I very much doubt it.
And here's why.
I don't struggle at meeting new people. In the course of my extra-curricular activities, both online and in real life, I'm surrounded. Thousands of people check out my websites, hundreds of people read my posts on message boards, dozens of people go to the same gigs as me. At any point I can turn the girl next to me and say "Hey, how's it going, what did you think of that last one.".
I'll accept that starting off the conversation terrifies me, but after that, its plain sailing, I can be rounded and charming enough to carry it off.
So, what is the problem?
Even when out with friends, I sit at the side, or stand at the back keeping quiet, gazing into the distance, or into my pint, sometimes my mind travels in time. It takes a cattle prod to get me communicating.
I'm not sure how Soulmates will help there.
Since I discovered my cock some time in the mid-nineties, I've have about six relationships that lasted over four months, none more than seven. It worries me, there's something very wrong. I mention it to friends on MSN, my worries. And then every so often in response to me saying something outragous, the friends on MSN will say something like "I can see why it only lasts six months".
I find it patronising and condescending, and it makes me think they're fools. They know nothing of context. I take it too seriously.
Yesterday, I was at Dr Sketchy's, the burlesque life-drawing thing. Keeping quiet at the back with my post-it pad and biro, between drawing tasks, I scrawled a wee list of those lucky lucky 4-7 month relationships and how they ended. And drew a pie chart too. The reasons they ended are diverse, only two reasons non-unique. The most popular reason for splitting up, with 2.5 hits, is 'moved to London'. This shouldn't reoccur, I've implemented corrective action. The second non-unique reason, is my refusal to come back after being dumped and then begged back.
Me saying something outrageous, has never had any bearing on the end of a relationship.
Looking at the list, the other terrifying thing is what could be called the Good Luck Chuck factor. More than half the girlfriends got engaged shortly after we broke up. Never seen the film, but I understand to break the curse I have to hump Jessica Alba. Alas she never returns my calls.
What to do?
Fuck knows.
If I don't shut anything down, or close off any of my options, the possibilities for the future are limitless.
So carry on reviewing gigs, carry on going to geeky internet meetups, carry on drawing pictures, carry on as usual with brief psychotic episodes of frustration, jealousy and anger.
Then again, the friend was also signing up to Guardian's Soulmates herself, so it could have been a round about way of asking me out. But I very much doubt it.
Wednesday, 21 May 2008
Success and agony
eeep, With google adsense abandoning me when I was barely up to $60, they only pay out at $100 intervals, so I had to seek other sources of revenue. By selling ad space directly to the selling folk, I can make $1/week, or if I up my prices who knows. Got the first payment yesterday. Skipping round my room think who I could spend the naked chick millions on.
Injured cheek is getting annoying. Depending on which side I lie on when I'm in bed, woke up in howling agony several times. Face is now hideously disfigured and my speech has been affected, sounds like I'm trying to chaw a whole pack of gum when I talk.
Sleep also disrupted by early morning text messages, but hey ho, I guess it comes with the territory of being the sort of person folk call in times of need and loneliness.
Still craving company and afflicted by crippling loneliness. Possibly going on the London Eye this evening with Rowan Just Joan and boyf. Would prefer warm hug and someone to tell me that beans on toast ought not be the best meal of yer week.
Injured cheek is getting annoying. Depending on which side I lie on when I'm in bed, woke up in howling agony several times. Face is now hideously disfigured and my speech has been affected, sounds like I'm trying to chaw a whole pack of gum when I talk.
Sleep also disrupted by early morning text messages, but hey ho, I guess it comes with the territory of being the sort of person folk call in times of need and loneliness.
Still craving company and afflicted by crippling loneliness. Possibly going on the London Eye this evening with Rowan Just Joan and boyf. Would prefer warm hug and someone to tell me that beans on toast ought not be the best meal of yer week.
Monday, 10 December 2007
Happy Birthday (Judo not required)
Blog temporarily made private over the weekend cos Andy Hart found it offensive and was being a dick as always. I had not enough time and inclination to sort it. But now I have.
Photies from Glasgow
here
Report from the weekend in Glasgow below...
Friday - 19:23
I sit, at long last, on the plane,
my fate in the hands of a pilot. I am
helpless.
Not quite enough time in the airport to
buy snacks, too much queuing for security, foreign
folk needing to queue jump to avoid missing their
flight. At the check in desk, so paracitic
credit card chugger. I script in my head what
I'd say, I'd ask if he has a credit card,
one of those, and does he pay it in full
every month. Does the 16% APR look set
to be reduced in line with interest rates and isn't
10.5% profit a bit steep?
The bus dropped us off, leading to
a frantic dash to the check in desk, this
immaculately designed building raped with security
barriers, they look temporary, in that way
that things do after they've been in place for
fice years.
Was running late to get out of work,
firing of a final salvo to Anorak. Why
is it always antagonistic and confrontational
Is it me? No, cos even when I'm not
there Tasty fires salvos, even when I don't
mention stuff, Tasty brings things up.
Maybe he has never stopped loving me.
It ain't healthy, this running through
my head.
"It might help if you asked The
Plimptons to write some good songs" quoth he.
"If they did, would you listen?" Untyped.
The chap sat next to me is getting
frustrated. "Fuck" he says,. The plane isn't due
to leave for another five minutes.
The stewardess with the mic is amusing.
Two lost passengers, are we sure we're
not them? Are we sure we're going to
Glasgow?
Friday - 21:37
The venue isn't open yet, The Beat Club
375 Sauchiehall Street, so I head to ra
Noodle Bar for ma dinner.
Somewhere behind me and to the left a
chap from my first year at university is having
food with his friends.
Since I stepped off the airport bus,
Central Station stop, I've been filled with
glee, I'm home and dry. The streets warm and
embracing, familiar and safe.
This one time I ate in here before a
Belle & Seb gig at the ABC, there was a
crowd of ten or so of us, bickering over eating in
or take away.
Saturday - 00:47
The Beat Club is dark and neon lit when I wander
in, through the murk I see Paul Smith
of Pin Up, and thence emerges Martin Smith
and in the distance Adam, friends. I spot
five or six people, Plimps and entourage. On
stage are some noisy shoegaze Oasis kids. If
they weren't too young I'd figure they were taking
the piss.
Text message from Robbie, he's round the
corner at The State, and seconds later, I'm there
too. Finton Stack, and a chap called Anders, the
name's a little familiar, but I've never seen
him before in my life.
The chaps are there sampling beers
uninterested in joining me at the Plimptons gig
probably awaiting the new album rather than
internecine gigging.
We chat, time passes and I return to
Pin Up Nights.
It was years ago, 1999 when I
first met John D McGonagle, one of the
founders of the Pin Up Nights franchise, him and a chap
called Graham. We'd been competing against
each other in the elections to be student
president at Strathclyde.
I didn't see John D at the gig, thing
slowly fall apart I guess.
Excitement buids before the Plimps take
to the stage. I recognise folk in the
crowd, the smiley foreign lass from
Sounds of Sweden, Chris, Dave and
Katie from the Just Joans, ancient
scenesters from long ago.
The place explodes when the Plimps
take to the stage.
They have the new album in their
minds, still raw, not recorded. The
band all psyched, Rowan smiling eyes
asparkle, Martin overcome by crazed animal spirits,
Cal the youngester fitting in neatly to the six-piece,
Adam twitching by the mic, on home turf, Neil
back to the audience sorting out levels on his
bass, Paul - eyeliner.
Whilst there are still the regular old favourites in the
set, Could I Be Loved and John Major, they
take the opportunity of a full band to play the
more complicated stuff from their 2004 debut
album and earlier demos, The Plimptons Rap
even gets an airing.
Tracks from the third album include Lonely
Old Man, who's MySpace references could date quickly
and Virgin on the Ridiculous, which sounds
terrifyingly like Elvis Costello, Paul Kelly's influence
in the song writing.
Most terrifying of the evening are the
people dancing, looks of glee on the audience's
faces isn't enough, there are mobs of
complete strangers dancing in front of the
stage, folk coming up and shaking Adam's
hand after the show.
What have they
gained since I left?
Text message from the girl, she's just
finished work, Robbie, Finton, and Anders
are there so I head off.
---
The next day, the weather's shite
as we head off to the farmer's market in
Partick, on a quest for duck eggs and
homemade sorbet.
Some further acquaintance from uni is
running one of the stalls, selling porridge oats,
my eyes glaze over as I try to recall
how I know him, but the moment passes.
Robbie and Finto are there,
four of us head to a bearby Polish Deli
for pickles and kabanos. In Glasgow its
still a novelty instead of the norm.
The weather's still crap as we sit
in The Three Judges. I leave myself at
the combined mercy of the others' expert
knowledge of fine beers and ales.
The rain is torrential with blobs of
snows, the girl's feet soaked, when we
call round at my old flat to pick up
mail. A good carrier bag full for
me to wade through an hour later at
the Bon Accord as we're served a
succession of Bloody Mary derived drinks.
The one with floaty nits of horseradish
is unexpectedly
pleasant, but
would be a
task to persuade
others to sample.
An indian
takeaway, the
film Chopper
with Eric
Bana and NCiIS
on the TV.
Its dark and wet out when we
stagger into The Cellers. Used to be the
Brunswick Cellers back in my day, now its still
cold and gloomy but utterly without soul.
Flatmate Alan and his wife Claire are here
for my birthday. They haven't seen us since
the wedding, two months ago, they
bring gifts. I melt in a gooey mess of
happiness, leaving Natalie and Alan to
do the talking. The Wolfknuckles soldier on,
Iain Thornton is still around, no one's
seen Teamie in months, the old club nights
are achanging, naked woman on fliers.
Bis still playing gigs. Working over
Christmas. Teamie appears, the
descent of the Winchester, change, change,
change.
Drinks are drunk and baby its time to
move on.
The weather's still crap as me and
Natalie find The Flying Duck, the entrance
is hidden, but inside its homely. We
strangely see Bis's Sci-Fi Steve fluttering
down the corridors like the fifth Doctor,
before we pay in and retrouve Robbie and
Finto.
The latest version of that crowd is here,
faces missing, far away, unexpected face
now here, like Big Duncan and Wake The
President, last see in London just days
before.
Robbie dragging me to the dancefloor for the Rutles.
Nat dragging me to the dancefloor for some other dancing
Me dragging Robbie to the dancefloor via Gav for Hectors
Natalie taking photies of the boys, looking cool
Fear / jealousy of Natalie and Finto chatting and flicking through my camera, then remembering faith and the phrase 'true blue'
Flashes of years gone by, similar folk dancing similarly
Somethings change, but not everything
Text message from the ex-wife, she'd just finished work and wanted to know where we were, battery on my phone failed before I could reply.
For a few seconds I thought it could be awkward were she with us.
Robbie mentioning some sad news about an ex- in London. Feelings of helpnessness "But I should do something"
More booze, more dancing.
Trying to get Ally to play Pipettes.
Trying to get Ally to put on more bands at the Winchester
Replying to Colin's post on Anorak offline.
Switching on lamps and eating cashew nuts, pilferred from the night before.
Dancing to Stone Roses.
Smiling at Finto and Nat dancing to Pulp. Did I really drag him out to the Winchester?
Did I have fun, damned right, didn't
even have to apply Mental Judo.
Next morning we stagger to the
bus station. A man dies of a heart attack
in Waterstones. I step onto the Megabus
and vanish.
Photies from Glasgow
here
Report from the weekend in Glasgow below...
Friday - 19:23
I sit, at long last, on the plane,
my fate in the hands of a pilot. I am
helpless.
Not quite enough time in the airport to
buy snacks, too much queuing for security, foreign
folk needing to queue jump to avoid missing their
flight. At the check in desk, so paracitic
credit card chugger. I script in my head what
I'd say, I'd ask if he has a credit card,
one of those, and does he pay it in full
every month. Does the 16% APR look set
to be reduced in line with interest rates and isn't
10.5% profit a bit steep?
The bus dropped us off, leading to
a frantic dash to the check in desk, this
immaculately designed building raped with security
barriers, they look temporary, in that way
that things do after they've been in place for
fice years.
Was running late to get out of work,
firing of a final salvo to Anorak. Why
is it always antagonistic and confrontational
Is it me? No, cos even when I'm not
there Tasty fires salvos, even when I don't
mention stuff, Tasty brings things up.
Maybe he has never stopped loving me.
It ain't healthy, this running through
my head.
"It might help if you asked The
Plimptons to write some good songs" quoth he.
"If they did, would you listen?" Untyped.
The chap sat next to me is getting
frustrated. "Fuck" he says,. The plane isn't due
to leave for another five minutes.
The stewardess with the mic is amusing.
Two lost passengers, are we sure we're
not them? Are we sure we're going to
Glasgow?
Friday - 21:37
The venue isn't open yet, The Beat Club
375 Sauchiehall Street, so I head to ra
Noodle Bar for ma dinner.
Somewhere behind me and to the left a
chap from my first year at university is having
food with his friends.
Since I stepped off the airport bus,
Central Station stop, I've been filled with
glee, I'm home and dry. The streets warm and
embracing, familiar and safe.
This one time I ate in here before a
Belle & Seb gig at the ABC, there was a
crowd of ten or so of us, bickering over eating in
or take away.
Saturday - 00:47
The Beat Club is dark and neon lit when I wander
in, through the murk I see Paul Smith
of Pin Up, and thence emerges Martin Smith
and in the distance Adam, friends. I spot
five or six people, Plimps and entourage. On
stage are some noisy shoegaze Oasis kids. If
they weren't too young I'd figure they were taking
the piss.
Text message from Robbie, he's round the
corner at The State, and seconds later, I'm there
too. Finton Stack, and a chap called Anders, the
name's a little familiar, but I've never seen
him before in my life.
The chaps are there sampling beers
uninterested in joining me at the Plimptons gig
probably awaiting the new album rather than
internecine gigging.
We chat, time passes and I return to
Pin Up Nights.
It was years ago, 1999 when I
first met John D McGonagle, one of the
founders of the Pin Up Nights franchise, him and a chap
called Graham. We'd been competing against
each other in the elections to be student
president at Strathclyde.
I didn't see John D at the gig, thing
slowly fall apart I guess.
Excitement buids before the Plimps take
to the stage. I recognise folk in the
crowd, the smiley foreign lass from
Sounds of Sweden, Chris, Dave and
Katie from the Just Joans, ancient
scenesters from long ago.
The place explodes when the Plimps
take to the stage.
They have the new album in their
minds, still raw, not recorded. The
band all psyched, Rowan smiling eyes
asparkle, Martin overcome by crazed animal spirits,
Cal the youngester fitting in neatly to the six-piece,
Adam twitching by the mic, on home turf, Neil
back to the audience sorting out levels on his
bass, Paul - eyeliner.
Whilst there are still the regular old favourites in the
set, Could I Be Loved and John Major, they
take the opportunity of a full band to play the
more complicated stuff from their 2004 debut
album and earlier demos, The Plimptons Rap
even gets an airing.
Tracks from the third album include Lonely
Old Man, who's MySpace references could date quickly
and Virgin on the Ridiculous, which sounds
terrifyingly like Elvis Costello, Paul Kelly's influence
in the song writing.
Most terrifying of the evening are the
people dancing, looks of glee on the audience's
faces isn't enough, there are mobs of
complete strangers dancing in front of the
stage, folk coming up and shaking Adam's
hand after the show.
What have they
gained since I left?
Text message from the girl, she's just
finished work, Robbie, Finton, and Anders
are there so I head off.
---
The next day, the weather's shite
as we head off to the farmer's market in
Partick, on a quest for duck eggs and
homemade sorbet.
Some further acquaintance from uni is
running one of the stalls, selling porridge oats,
my eyes glaze over as I try to recall
how I know him, but the moment passes.
Robbie and Finto are there,
four of us head to a bearby Polish Deli
for pickles and kabanos. In Glasgow its
still a novelty instead of the norm.
The weather's still crap as we sit
in The Three Judges. I leave myself at
the combined mercy of the others' expert
knowledge of fine beers and ales.
The rain is torrential with blobs of
snows, the girl's feet soaked, when we
call round at my old flat to pick up
mail. A good carrier bag full for
me to wade through an hour later at
the Bon Accord as we're served a
succession of Bloody Mary derived drinks.
The one with floaty nits of horseradish
is unexpectedly
pleasant, but
would be a
task to persuade
others to sample.
An indian
takeaway, the
film Chopper
with Eric
Bana and NCiIS
on the TV.
Its dark and wet out when we
stagger into The Cellers. Used to be the
Brunswick Cellers back in my day, now its still
cold and gloomy but utterly without soul.
Flatmate Alan and his wife Claire are here
for my birthday. They haven't seen us since
the wedding, two months ago, they
bring gifts. I melt in a gooey mess of
happiness, leaving Natalie and Alan to
do the talking. The Wolfknuckles soldier on,
Iain Thornton is still around, no one's
seen Teamie in months, the old club nights
are achanging, naked woman on fliers.
Bis still playing gigs. Working over
Christmas. Teamie appears, the
descent of the Winchester, change, change,
change.
Drinks are drunk and baby its time to
move on.
The weather's still crap as me and
Natalie find The Flying Duck, the entrance
is hidden, but inside its homely. We
strangely see Bis's Sci-Fi Steve fluttering
down the corridors like the fifth Doctor,
before we pay in and retrouve Robbie and
Finto.
The latest version of that crowd is here,
faces missing, far away, unexpected face
now here, like Big Duncan and Wake The
President, last see in London just days
before.
Robbie dragging me to the dancefloor for the Rutles.
Nat dragging me to the dancefloor for some other dancing
Me dragging Robbie to the dancefloor via Gav for Hectors
Natalie taking photies of the boys, looking cool
Fear / jealousy of Natalie and Finto chatting and flicking through my camera, then remembering faith and the phrase 'true blue'
Flashes of years gone by, similar folk dancing similarly
Somethings change, but not everything
Text message from the ex-wife, she'd just finished work and wanted to know where we were, battery on my phone failed before I could reply.
For a few seconds I thought it could be awkward were she with us.
Robbie mentioning some sad news about an ex- in London. Feelings of helpnessness "But I should do something"
More booze, more dancing.
Trying to get Ally to play Pipettes.
Trying to get Ally to put on more bands at the Winchester
Replying to Colin's post on Anorak offline.
Switching on lamps and eating cashew nuts, pilferred from the night before.
Dancing to Stone Roses.
Smiling at Finto and Nat dancing to Pulp. Did I really drag him out to the Winchester?
Did I have fun, damned right, didn't
even have to apply Mental Judo.
Next morning we stagger to the
bus station. A man dies of a heart attack
in Waterstones. I step onto the Megabus
and vanish.
Sunday, 30 September 2007
Time shifting
Odd night last night I was going to go to the Darren Hayman gig in the Pleasure Unit, which would have been odd with both me and Nat memories of seeing Darren Hayman and cos its been a long time since I was at The Pleasure Unit, the AllDayer 2004.
But then Nat came round for a cup of tea, no mean feat considering she lives in Glasgow. Couldn't stay long cos she kinda had a bus to catch. This long-distance relationship thing is working out a lot better than the last one, god bless continuous improvement.
So I filled her hot water bottle and her thermos, and sent her on her way. She somehow didn't get her bus, so I got her a Megabus ticket for an hour or so later. Phonecalls and texts.
God bless the internet when it works.
But then Nat came round for a cup of tea, no mean feat considering she lives in Glasgow. Couldn't stay long cos she kinda had a bus to catch. This long-distance relationship thing is working out a lot better than the last one, god bless continuous improvement.
So I filled her hot water bottle and her thermos, and sent her on her way. She somehow didn't get her bus, so I got her a Megabus ticket for an hour or so later. Phonecalls and texts.
God bless the internet when it works.
Tuesday, 11 September 2007
Time
So the missus came through to visit for the weekend, it was late on Friday night and there was a party at my house as a flatmate was moving out. Even when we arrived round midnight it was pretty neat. All gangstered up, and eating nibbly food and the missus chatting with the flatmates and the dog and things and stuff.
Saturday saw us heading out to a Thai restaurant near Tottenham Court Road, Babasa, or something and meeting up with some of her friends, mostly other escapees from Glasgow. Time passed and we headed to a neat wee Spanish pub just off Oxford Street, and sat discovering the joys of AQA the question answering text message service. So Prince was going to play the after show party on Sunday night.
For the rest of the afternoon, we went to check out Their Hearts We Full Of Spring at The Windmill in Brixton, and then on to Natalie's friend Jenny's house to hangout. We all dozed off in front of the telly, some Stephen Fry Night on BBC3.
Sunday we trekked back to the house in Alperton, freshened up, then back out to the O2 Arena to cinema and the her to the Prince gig. Alas, the cinema times were crap.
Monday morning we parted tearfully and I headed into work exhausted.
Now I'm on the free version of Oracle, OracleXE, trying to teach myself SQL and just doing quick and dirty database things rather than planning it properly. I reckon I can fix anything that's wrong later, I just eed to get the basic framework down.
Robbie, in SQL how can I do a LOV which is just one list from another table?
Saturday saw us heading out to a Thai restaurant near Tottenham Court Road, Babasa, or something and meeting up with some of her friends, mostly other escapees from Glasgow. Time passed and we headed to a neat wee Spanish pub just off Oxford Street, and sat discovering the joys of AQA the question answering text message service. So Prince was going to play the after show party on Sunday night.
For the rest of the afternoon, we went to check out Their Hearts We Full Of Spring at The Windmill in Brixton, and then on to Natalie's friend Jenny's house to hangout. We all dozed off in front of the telly, some Stephen Fry Night on BBC3.
Sunday we trekked back to the house in Alperton, freshened up, then back out to the O2 Arena to cinema and the her to the Prince gig. Alas, the cinema times were crap.
Monday morning we parted tearfully and I headed into work exhausted.
Now I'm on the free version of Oracle, OracleXE, trying to teach myself SQL and just doing quick and dirty database things rather than planning it properly. I reckon I can fix anything that's wrong later, I just eed to get the basic framework down.
Robbie, in SQL how can I do a LOV which is just one list from another table?
Tuesday, 28 August 2007
Sneaky
Eeep, I'm at work, and have my laptop with me so I can do things during my break. I feel like some kind of techno-ninja. The weirdest thing yesterday, as I was driving down, nine hours, I was surfing the internet in my head, reading threads and facebook. Its not healthy, but its kind of cool.
Okay lunchtime photie fans, here's a photie of where Nat's cat, Beau, bit me on Sunday morning, huge jaw on that guy.
Okay lunchtime photie fans, here's a photie of where Nat's cat, Beau, bit me on Sunday morning, huge jaw on that guy.
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