After silence, stutters.

Bank holiday Monday. Means more to some than others, but in any event it still feels like a holiday. I am spending its early part drinking tea and listening to False Priest while engaged in this much belated return to rambling into the blogosphere, and plan to spend its later part playing Premier Manager 2, having recovered the Amiga 600 from the attic.

Early 'nineties gaming and not-yet-released music. The way forward, or at least sideways. Tip of the cap to the Doktorb over there for providing the musics, and while I'm at it I suppose to dad for buying the 'puter the better part of eighteen years ago.

What has been going on this month? Some drinks have been drunk. Cricket has been at its best and worst. I became briefly resolved to see through a Pulgasari shadow puppet theatre production after it was suggested to me that Kim Jong-il may be haunted by the fact that he's just no Pol Pot and I began to wonder what might happen if he were. I also remember pondering and discussing the perpetual white-maleness and decreasing age of the Doctor, and while I don't have a problem that he always appears to be sort-of British, I had wondered whether he might manifest a British-Bengali, which I'd be okay with, or even a woman, which I don't think would sit so well, since he'd be all "They're boobs. I have boobs now. Boobs are cool." which would probably get old pretty fast. In short, then, very little has been happening over here.

So little, in fact, that I found myself re-reading archived rantings from a time when I could be bothered to 'blog' on a more frequent basis, and had more than one digit in my regular readership figures. I think that it has given me some insight into why we (well, I, at least) tend to forget dreams within minutes of waking, because -and I know, as I wrote at the time, that everyone loves to hear about other people's dreams- I committed one in particular to text, and, well... turns out, in this dream, I had found a small chimpanze, living in some public toilets with a dead swan, which was once its only friend and was now its only attire. While this Bjork-chimp may have had style it was, surprisingly given its cushy lifestyle, mentally disturbed, and prone to tantrums. The only way to calm it, and I'll be damned if I know how I was supposed to have figured this out, was to have it dance like a robot. Long story short, some years ago I had a dream about a chimp that danced the robot in a urinal while wearing the fetid remains of the swan it had loved. Your move, Salad Fingers.

Well, this has been completely worthwhile for both of us, I'm sure. I'd really rather be spending this, probably one of the year's last days of sunshine, in a beer garden, but without money for beer that's just shite, so Of Montreal and seeing if we can get Southport into the Premiership it is!