IT'S THE BOLLOX
yo! fack me i'm out! ain't wrote a col in ages. bin away long holiday on isla white. get me meaning?
gr8 to be out but don't wanna talk bout that til i get me 'ead sorted round all this parole stuff.
since me last column, which some twat from up norf sez 'ad reached rock bottom (see u later mate) i decided ter dig and cop us an exclusive of sorts.
me posse will follow me anywhere, some say only out of morbid curiosity, right, but their me mates. we all went dahn ter some studios not far from us house. stuck me ear near ter a crack in da door and surprise surprise cilla 'ere, i got a quick blast of nature boy off the massive crew from bristol.
boom shakka! nice vibe it's rocking. it's the bollox! musta missed that 'un.
sum geezer wiv a big 'at on comes out an' y'know the type with a room temperature iq, like 2, and it takes 3 to grunt. he barks "oi fack off outta 'ere. its private property."
as i stud nxt ter him i swear i could 'ear the ocean. he'd def fell outta the stupid tree an' hit every branch on the way down.
"calm dahn no probs. i'm looking for me bruvver".
"woss 'is name?"
"wait 'ere i'll go an' see."
what seems like 'ours...' later, me posse is just me on me sweeney, they'd all pissed off ter the rub-a-dub for a bevvy. it starts pissing down with rain and i ain't got no auntie ella so i'm dripping.
the geezer reappears and sez "john's on 'is dinner break. you can come in and wait if you like."
bangin' result! i get in the studios and the geezer even passes us a peter powell. ad a gr8 time with the crew.
i've just booked me 'olidays. belgium. don't ask weren't me idea. cheap fags. i'm outta 'ere.
21 july 03.
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