Salty Balloons, Paddling, Brock & The Hulk...

One week on from the UK Championships and the debacle of poo-sink and gay night, I have decided to make a concerted effort to increase the frequency of posts on here in a vain attempt to keep myself occupied. Having spent a large portion of the last 7 days hustling shoes and trying to track down a Fourstar Cardigan  I decided that the best thing to do would be to go paddling at Ashwell Springs, a very very cold, very shallow, yet still very cold spring. Now, I remember going to Ashwell Springs when I were a lad, and I swear that either I've either grown more sensitive in my advancing years or its got a shit load colder. I jumped in, stood just long enough to prove to a dopey little shithawk who was manlier (have that ratchild, bet you've not even seen a girl naked have you?) then jumped back out again before the shooting numbness of the shitting cold stretched any further up my shins... 

Unfortunately the little toerag got back in again so not to be outdone by someone without pubes, I followed suit and pretended it wasn't killing me. Thankfully he left to go and get his nappy changed or something like that and I commandeered my very own island. 

After a night of soft towels, hotwater bottles and internet explanations of the onset of Hypothermia, I woke up to find a missed call from The Hulk.  This in itself is odd as The Hulk only phones me after I have called him and the useless lummox usually waits about 24 hours to call back. The Hulk wanted to go for a skate (again, its not worth getting into how odd this is, its been about a year since I last skated with him) so collecting TBone, three blokes with a combined age of about 80, went to the Grange to tit about on kids toys... 

To our delight, the council must have been up there early to celebrate the imminent arrival of "The Random Goons (and me)" so decked the place out with balloons and although they didn't blow them up for us but its still the thought that counts... Thank You Letchworth...

A Celebratory Letchworth Balloon...

This is the Hulk: 

He is apparently called the Hulk after a security guard and jobsworth manager tried to throw him and Toby out of their carpark only to piss him off in the process and find themselves simultaneously pinned to the floor by their respective necks while the Hulk shouted "Calm Down" at them or something similar... In short, don't piss him off. 

Here he is, totally shredding the gnar and definitely definitely not posing a photo, we'll have none of that illegitimate bullshit on this blog thankyouverymuch...  

Tbone can be seen next to him, blown away by all the radical that the Hulk possesses and spurned on, did a Crooked grind off the end trying to avoid what we hope was only dog (and not human) poo that we covered up with a HulaHoops bag...

He then got all arty and Myspace and did a backtail just before I got a call from the copywrite people confirming that I do now own the rights to all "Longshot-Portrait-Moodysky-Skatephotos" 

We then went to the pub and walked past a man who let off the wettest sounding fart I have ever heard a human produce, only to wander off as if nothing had happened. Come to Letchworth, not only is it the worlds first Garden City and home to the first roundabout it also lays claim to flatulent Pensioners and is quite close to my house. What a place... 

Defying Toby's claims that I am the slowest Masticator in the World (steady) I also managed to eat a burger in a record 14 and a half minutes... Personal Best followers, personal best... 

After finishing my burger I went to my Mum & Dads house to check their post and burgle their freezer while they're on holiday only to find a dead rat outside. It reminded me of a dead pigeon I saw a little while ago so I thought I'd include them. 

If I find any more dead animals you can bet your arse that they'll be posted up here quick smart...

Next time: Kite flying (weather depending) and What Free Things Have I Managed To Hussle?

The Seaside and Garden Camping Round 2...

After the roaring success of adding culture to the mix a couple in earlier posts, and spurned on by the good old fashioned fun I had trying to fly a shitting kite the other day, I decided that what I, and indeed this already pretty powerful blog needed, was a good old British trip to the Seaside. With this in mind, the long suffering Mrs Dickfingers, who contrary to popular belief is real and has opted out of making her first blog appearance for professional reasons (she doesnt want to the school she works in to know her alterego-by-proxy is "Mrs Dickfingers") jumped in the car and drove the lovely Suffolk town of Aldeburgh. For those of you unfamiliar with the location of many of my childhood holidays, its a lovely little place on the East Coast of England, which has somehow managed to bypass the rest of the quaint ways of the region meaning that unlike Norfolk, there are more than 3 surnames and almost all of the kids there are born without gills.

In keeping with the Great British Traditions theme, we took a picnic and ate it in a Force 3 gale on the sea front because...er... thats why we drove all the way there... (Thats Mrs Dickfingers foot to one side, I doubt that will betray her identity)

We had everything a triumphant picnic needs: Bread, meat, crisps, cheese, a strong head wind and nothing even vaguely resembling cutlery. 

Here I am eating a cheese ham and pickle sandwich after spreading the pickle with the ham.

Revolutionary... 

After our delicious all in one meal, we decided that it wasn't enough to drive for 2 hours to turn around and go back home again, so partly due to my stubborn and stereotypical behaviour of an idiot near a large span of water, I rolled up my britches and waded up to the knees into the cold cold cold cold cold shitting cold North Sea and stood there for just enough time to prevent my toes dropping off. Then got back out again...

Then, hungry again, we went for fish and chips. By the sea. Which somehow, inexplicably made it taste ten times better.

Returning back to Dickfingers HQ, with very little time before our impending summer expedition, I miraculously persuaded my poor lovely missus, that we should have another night sleeping inches away from the ground in my Mum & Dad's garden. Descending with tents at a pace that could scare the shit out of every Daily Mail reader within a 5 mile radius, we (I) converted a small, pretty patch of grass behind a house into a sea of nylon, gas stoves and golf umbrellas...

We then cooked tea, got shitfaced, went to the pub and saw a band of men that sung Led Zepplin songs and all looked like plumbers, watched a guy in a wheelchair that looked like the Fonz rock out to Stairway to Heaven and then had a cup o tea in the morning rocking a pretty suspect headband...

Bring on Cornwall... 

Next time: What's Daisy sitting on? and Mad Mad Monk's Game of Skate...

Stinging...