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True tales from Tennessee

My home state continually finds new ways to make me proud. But it’s not often I’m reading one heart-warming tale from the land of my birth when somebody emails me a link to another.

The first is a Memphis lady who disappeared from her hotel room, only to turn up under the box springs six weeks later. My, what a fragrant accomodation that must be, if nobody noticed for a month and a half. Via HotAir.

The second concerns a young Gallatin men who robbed a bank dressed as a leprechaun. The ending isn’t happy: he and his getaway driver were shot down a short time later. Two promising young Tennessee boys cut down in their prime. Via Uncle B.

Okay, remember y’all — Dead Pool tomorrow. Six sharp. At the moment, that’s six hours ahead of the right coast, nine hours ahead of the left coast. Be there, or no dick for you!

March 18, 2010 — 11:08 pm
Comments: 26

Happy St Paddy’s Day!

One of Uncle B’s London clients phoned this afternoon. He was going to be in Brighton this evening, could we meet him there to touch base? As it happens, it’s someone we’ve been meaning to go up to see for some time, so it had to be yes.

Thing is, there are many swift, direct routes to Brighton from London, including an excellent fast train service. So Londoners assume (as we once did) that it would be even easier to get to Brighton if you lived on the Southeast coast.

It’s not. It’s narrow, twisty backroads and lots of them.

And then we got lost in Brighton and couldn’t find parking (and when we did, it was nearly £10 for three hours). And then the Polish cab driver dropped us off in the wrong place and swore it was the right place.

To our surprise, there was not a meal on offer, so we were forced — forced — to burn through the snack table like buzz-saws, stuffing our faces with Pringles and Doritos and reduced-fat chive-flavored Philadelphia cream cheese. It was oddly homely.

And the way back was everything the way there had been, plus fog. I mean, a real Sherlock Holmes / Jack the Ripper, cotton-wool thing off the sea. We kept an eye out for the Phantom Hitch-hiker.

Anyhoo, it’s 12:30 and we’re just in. If I’m going to maintain the sacred tradition of getting puking drunk for St Paddy, I’d better hurry up.

There’s not an Irish bone in my body, but I believe in observing the sacraments.

— 12:33 am
Comments: 22