My afternoon has been rocked (mildly) by the news that the newest of The Sugababes (your OMO's girl group of choice) has been accused of assaulting a girl in a club. Amelle apparently spent the night in a cell following "an incident" involving an 18 year old girl. Possibly the girl happened to mention that the recent Girls Aloud vs Sugababes single was complete pony, even if it was for charity.
Well, we always thought it was Munter (sorry, Mutya) who was the stroppy one, and that The 'Babes were in danger of whimping out now that she'd left. Looks like the next Girls Aloud vs Sugababes collaboration will be in a ring with Cheryl Cole and Amelle Berrabah slapping 7 bells of crap out of each other. Can't wait...
Monday, April 30, 2007
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Fishy Smells All Round
As I'm sure you noticed, Dear Reader, it was the London Marathon on Sunday, and the runners come right past where The Boyf and I live without even bothering to ask us whether we mind. In the same way that you can lose interest in a hot guy the moment he seems interested, living on the marathon route means we've no interest in watching it. It's just too easy. Plus the marathon creates havoc with London's transport system. So we got up early on Sunday (after a Saturday night at home!) and headed down to Brighton to soak up the chilled atmosphere and stupidly hot weather we're having, and were joined by The Drag Queen, looking her usual glamorous self.
The Boyf knew how much I'd want to visit the SeaLife Centre so we dragged The DQ in to look at the fish and allow me the chance to display my mild autistic tendencies by naming each species and giving interesting facts about them without looking at the info' next to each tank. However it appeared that The DQ was causing some problems. Her glitter body-powder, brilliant green glitter-eyeshadow, huge red lips, and the crystal chandelier that had been put into service as her necklace were scaring certain of the fish, whilst others attempted to mate with her through the glass. When the octopus attempted to climb from it's tank we decided enough was enough and headed out and to the beach. The nudist beach, in fact...
There was no way we were going to go nude with The DQ around, but the nudist beach is populated by the gays, obviously, so The Boyf and I can get away with cuddling in public. I was just admiring a particularly large pair of balls belonging to a guy laying behind me, when I noticed a black guy walking along the beach towards us. He had long flowing dreadlocks, and even from a distance his tiny thong was obviously straining to contain something rather massive. I alerted The Boyf and The DQ and we all watched as he passed us and then laid his towel down about 20 feet away. We watched with baited breath as he bent over and pulled down his thong, and when he stood up there was a collective gasp from the amassed sunbathers. He was H-U-G-E. The DQ clutched her chandelier to her bosom, and I think I may have fainted for a moment. We looked around. Everyone was shifting uncomfortably on their towels, a feeling of mass-insecurity sweeping the beach. Most people decided that they ought to lay on their fronts for a while, or even put shorts on. I thanked my lucky stars I was already partially dressed. Mr King Dong did a little pirouette, just to make sure everyone had seen his third arm, and then laid down on his towel, on his back naturally, and slowly the whispers died down and the beach returned to normal.
We'd taken magazines with us to read on the beach, and true to form they said everything about us. I had "Evo", a car magazine, because it had a test of the new blah blah blah (you're not really interested anyway). The DQ had "Grazia", for this week's celeb gossip and hot fashions. And The Boyf had "The Pink Paper", because he's uncontrollably gay. Suddenly the stillness of the beach was interrupted (again) by The Boyf exclaiming "Oh look who it is in The Pink Paper!". On Page 1 was a photo of The Boyf, with a referral to Page 13. On Page 13 there were two photos of The Boyf, taken in a bar we'd been to a couple of week before. Apparently I'd been elbowed out of shot in both photos. Either that or I was off doing something more interesting in another part of the bar (like the toilets). The Boyf proceeded to go into his famous faux "Large Ego Mode", proclaiming that he couldn't go anywhere without being photographed, and that he was tired of his face staring back at him from the pages of magazines. "I'm on two separate pages of The Pink Paper", he exclaimed with a hand held palm-backwards on his forehead, "Oh, why can't they let me go out in peace!" in a voice loud enough to make sure all the gays on the beach knew how famous he was.
OMO (sniggering): "Oh look, they've quoted you too"
Above The Boyf's photo was a question, and below it his answer. The (rather bizarre) question was: "If you were a Care Bear what logo would you have on your chest?". The Boyf's answer: "A tadpole, as in sperm".
The Boyf: "I SO didn't say that! I've been mis-quoted! Everyone's gonna think I'm an airhead now!"
OMO: "Constant paparazzi interference and now you're being mis-quoted in the press. Ah, the price of celebrity"
The Boyf: "But... but... actually I may have said that. I was pretty drunk. Oh shit!"
The DQ and I shared a smirk and went back to our magazines, The Boyf's ego clearly already deflating nicely.
We finished the day off having a few drinks in a bar and then having a lovely meal in a little restaurant, finally catching the train home for some much-needed sleep.
The Boyf knew how much I'd want to visit the SeaLife Centre so we dragged The DQ in to look at the fish and allow me the chance to display my mild autistic tendencies by naming each species and giving interesting facts about them without looking at the info' next to each tank. However it appeared that The DQ was causing some problems. Her glitter body-powder, brilliant green glitter-eyeshadow, huge red lips, and the crystal chandelier that had been put into service as her necklace were scaring certain of the fish, whilst others attempted to mate with her through the glass. When the octopus attempted to climb from it's tank we decided enough was enough and headed out and to the beach. The nudist beach, in fact...
There was no way we were going to go nude with The DQ around, but the nudist beach is populated by the gays, obviously, so The Boyf and I can get away with cuddling in public. I was just admiring a particularly large pair of balls belonging to a guy laying behind me, when I noticed a black guy walking along the beach towards us. He had long flowing dreadlocks, and even from a distance his tiny thong was obviously straining to contain something rather massive. I alerted The Boyf and The DQ and we all watched as he passed us and then laid his towel down about 20 feet away. We watched with baited breath as he bent over and pulled down his thong, and when he stood up there was a collective gasp from the amassed sunbathers. He was H-U-G-E. The DQ clutched her chandelier to her bosom, and I think I may have fainted for a moment. We looked around. Everyone was shifting uncomfortably on their towels, a feeling of mass-insecurity sweeping the beach. Most people decided that they ought to lay on their fronts for a while, or even put shorts on. I thanked my lucky stars I was already partially dressed. Mr King Dong did a little pirouette, just to make sure everyone had seen his third arm, and then laid down on his towel, on his back naturally, and slowly the whispers died down and the beach returned to normal.
We'd taken magazines with us to read on the beach, and true to form they said everything about us. I had "Evo", a car magazine, because it had a test of the new blah blah blah (you're not really interested anyway). The DQ had "Grazia", for this week's celeb gossip and hot fashions. And The Boyf had "The Pink Paper", because he's uncontrollably gay. Suddenly the stillness of the beach was interrupted (again) by The Boyf exclaiming "Oh look who it is in The Pink Paper!". On Page 1 was a photo of The Boyf, with a referral to Page 13. On Page 13 there were two photos of The Boyf, taken in a bar we'd been to a couple of week before. Apparently I'd been elbowed out of shot in both photos. Either that or I was off doing something more interesting in another part of the bar (like the toilets). The Boyf proceeded to go into his famous faux "Large Ego Mode", proclaiming that he couldn't go anywhere without being photographed, and that he was tired of his face staring back at him from the pages of magazines. "I'm on two separate pages of The Pink Paper", he exclaimed with a hand held palm-backwards on his forehead, "Oh, why can't they let me go out in peace!" in a voice loud enough to make sure all the gays on the beach knew how famous he was.
OMO (sniggering): "Oh look, they've quoted you too"
Above The Boyf's photo was a question, and below it his answer. The (rather bizarre) question was: "If you were a Care Bear what logo would you have on your chest?". The Boyf's answer: "A tadpole, as in sperm".
The Boyf: "I SO didn't say that! I've been mis-quoted! Everyone's gonna think I'm an airhead now!"
OMO: "Constant paparazzi interference and now you're being mis-quoted in the press. Ah, the price of celebrity"
The Boyf: "But... but... actually I may have said that. I was pretty drunk. Oh shit!"
The DQ and I shared a smirk and went back to our magazines, The Boyf's ego clearly already deflating nicely.
We finished the day off having a few drinks in a bar and then having a lovely meal in a little restaurant, finally catching the train home for some much-needed sleep.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
I Know Something
Last night I finally found out who killed Laura Palmer.
Yes, it's only taken me 17 years since "Twin Peaks" first aired to get to the part where the murderer is revealed, although I had already worked it out from the evidence provided.
The Boyf and OBM#1 are H-U-G-E "Twin Peaks" fans. I seem to recall that when it was on TV I was out alot. It coincided with me discovering gay cruising areas, and there wasn't really any competition between watching TV or getting a bit of cock in those days. Nowadays it's probably the other way around. Ah, the joys of (nearly) middle-age. Anyway, what with Series 2 finally coming out on DVD The Boyf has made me sit down to watch it all. It's pretty good too. Much better than some of the cock I had whilst it was originally on tv. Oh well, you live and learn...
Yes, it's only taken me 17 years since "Twin Peaks" first aired to get to the part where the murderer is revealed, although I had already worked it out from the evidence provided.
The Boyf and OBM#1 are H-U-G-E "Twin Peaks" fans. I seem to recall that when it was on TV I was out alot. It coincided with me discovering gay cruising areas, and there wasn't really any competition between watching TV or getting a bit of cock in those days. Nowadays it's probably the other way around. Ah, the joys of (nearly) middle-age. Anyway, what with Series 2 finally coming out on DVD The Boyf has made me sit down to watch it all. It's pretty good too. Much better than some of the cock I had whilst it was originally on tv. Oh well, you live and learn...
Friday, April 20, 2007
Your Lazy OMO
Yeah, I know, I've been a lazy little OMO this week where my blog is concerned. Again. I'm having a "funny week", Dear Reader. Last Saturday was the first anniversary of my Dad passing away, and on this day last year was his funeral. So this week has been a little sombre for me. Not that you'd tell - I'm still trying to snog every man who doesn't run away fast enough. Unfortunately most of them do. Hey-ho!
I'd like to tell you more about my Dad sometime. A little anecdote here and there, although I could never begin to convey how brilliant he was. My words will simply fail me. But sometime I'll try.
In the meantime fear not, I shall endeavour to go out this weekend and celebrate being alive. Being vital. My Dad was so full of life that ironically I think that's what killed him. Every day for him was something to be savoured and enjoyed. There was always so much for him to do and never enough time, and finally it proved too much and he exhausted himself. So yes, I'll go out, and like every other day I'll look at the sky or the river or a tree or something and wonder at the beauty of it all, and I'll think about my Dad. And after that I'm gonna go out and get right royally fucked, just so I've got something to tell you about come Tuesday. Hey, it's the OMO way!
Have a wonderful weekend, Dear Reader.
I'd like to tell you more about my Dad sometime. A little anecdote here and there, although I could never begin to convey how brilliant he was. My words will simply fail me. But sometime I'll try.
In the meantime fear not, I shall endeavour to go out this weekend and celebrate being alive. Being vital. My Dad was so full of life that ironically I think that's what killed him. Every day for him was something to be savoured and enjoyed. There was always so much for him to do and never enough time, and finally it proved too much and he exhausted himself. So yes, I'll go out, and like every other day I'll look at the sky or the river or a tree or something and wonder at the beauty of it all, and I'll think about my Dad. And after that I'm gonna go out and get right royally fucked, just so I've got something to tell you about come Tuesday. Hey, it's the OMO way!
Have a wonderful weekend, Dear Reader.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Bringing You Up-To-Date
So, did you miss me?
You did notice I'd not written anything since before Easter?
Hmmm, thought as much.
Well, let me tell you what I've been up to. I'll try to keep this brief...
Easter
We had friends over from New York so did the whole club-thing.
Mugs Stolen By Americans From Cafe Nero on Saturday = 2 (although one broke on the way home)
Mugs Stolen By Americans From Cafe Nero on Sunday = 0 (because they wouldn't give us mugs as "someone keeps stealing them". Ooops!)
Bars/Clubs Visited = 7 (The King's Arms (3/10), Comptons (5/10), Chunks (6/10), Megawoof (5/10), "Resurrection" at Club Colosseum (7/10), RVT (8/10), "Bootylicious" at Area (4/10))
Guys Snogged = 0 (The shame!)
Whiney Americans In Bars = 7
Sexy Go-Go Dancer Who I Utterly Fell In Lust With, And Who Looked Very Interested In Me, Only For Him To Be Whisked Off At The Last Minute By My Mate Who I Now Hate* = 1
Last Week
We took a few days off work and visited The Boyf's family and friends in The Midlands.
Castles Visited = 1 (Warwick. Very beautiful but full of French tourists. I refrained from trying my version of their language on them)
Bars/Clubs Visited = 1 (The Fountain in Birmingham (5/10))
Saunas Visited = 1 (The Greenhouse in Darlaston (6/10))
Guys Blown In Sauna = 2
Saturday
The Boyf and I travelled from the Midlands down to Kent to visit my Mum for the afternoon, then back home to watch Dr Who and go out for a drink.
Bars/Clubs Visited = 2 (The Hoist (NSFW) - nothing going on and they were playing Abba again! (3/10), XXL - cause we didn't fancy going home early (6/10))
Americans Dragged Back To Ours For Sex = 1
Number of Times The American Said "Fuck yeah! You guys are HOT!" in a Southern drawl = Innumerable
Number of Hours Sleep = 2
Sunday
Took advantage of the incredible weather and dragged ourselves to Battersea Park for a picnic with OBM#1 and #2, who'd been up all night shagging.
Number Of Hours Spent Laying On Grass Staring At Each Other Barely Able To Speak= 6
Bottles Of Champagne Consumed = 1 (apparently I'm the only one who believes all picnics must include champers and strawberries)
Hot Men In Shorts = 2
Hot Men In Shorts Who We Wolf-Whistled = 2
Hot Men In Shorts Who Reacted To Whistles = 0. Dammit!
Bars/Clubs Visited = 1 (I have no idea what it was called. We popped in on the way home for a quiet drink (4/10))
Take-Aways Needed To Fill The Hole Left By The Picnic = 1 (Chinese)
And there you go, you're now completely up-to-date.
* Just to let you know that I don't really hate him, and in fact he's been dating the go-go dancer ever since and they're getting along very well, which I'm rather pleased about.
You did notice I'd not written anything since before Easter?
Hmmm, thought as much.
Well, let me tell you what I've been up to. I'll try to keep this brief...
Easter
We had friends over from New York so did the whole club-thing.
Mugs Stolen By Americans From Cafe Nero on Saturday = 2 (although one broke on the way home)
Mugs Stolen By Americans From Cafe Nero on Sunday = 0 (because they wouldn't give us mugs as "someone keeps stealing them". Ooops!)
Bars/Clubs Visited = 7 (The King's Arms (3/10), Comptons (5/10), Chunks (6/10), Megawoof (5/10), "Resurrection" at Club Colosseum (7/10), RVT (8/10), "Bootylicious" at Area (4/10))
Guys Snogged = 0 (The shame!)
Whiney Americans In Bars = 7
Sexy Go-Go Dancer Who I Utterly Fell In Lust With, And Who Looked Very Interested In Me, Only For Him To Be Whisked Off At The Last Minute By My Mate Who I Now Hate* = 1
Last Week
We took a few days off work and visited The Boyf's family and friends in The Midlands.
Castles Visited = 1 (Warwick. Very beautiful but full of French tourists. I refrained from trying my version of their language on them)
Bars/Clubs Visited = 1 (The Fountain in Birmingham (5/10))
Saunas Visited = 1 (The Greenhouse in Darlaston (6/10))
Guys Blown In Sauna = 2
Saturday
The Boyf and I travelled from the Midlands down to Kent to visit my Mum for the afternoon, then back home to watch Dr Who and go out for a drink.
Bars/Clubs Visited = 2 (The Hoist (NSFW) - nothing going on and they were playing Abba again! (3/10), XXL - cause we didn't fancy going home early (6/10))
Americans Dragged Back To Ours For Sex = 1
Number of Times The American Said "Fuck yeah! You guys are HOT!" in a Southern drawl = Innumerable
Number of Hours Sleep = 2
Sunday
Took advantage of the incredible weather and dragged ourselves to Battersea Park for a picnic with OBM#1 and #2, who'd been up all night shagging.
Number Of Hours Spent Laying On Grass Staring At Each Other Barely Able To Speak= 6
Bottles Of Champagne Consumed = 1 (apparently I'm the only one who believes all picnics must include champers and strawberries)
Hot Men In Shorts = 2
Hot Men In Shorts Who We Wolf-Whistled = 2
Hot Men In Shorts Who Reacted To Whistles = 0. Dammit!
Bars/Clubs Visited = 1 (I have no idea what it was called. We popped in on the way home for a quiet drink (4/10))
Take-Aways Needed To Fill The Hole Left By The Picnic = 1 (Chinese)
And there you go, you're now completely up-to-date.
* Just to let you know that I don't really hate him, and in fact he's been dating the go-go dancer ever since and they're getting along very well, which I'm rather pleased about.
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Arab or Zygon?
Coming home from work last night was slightly surreal.
It started off well. On boarding the tube at Whitechapel I spotted a rather splendid little fellow sitting further up the carriage. I'm very into short, dark haired guys right now and he certainly fitted the bill. Vaguely Arabian or Lebanese looking with a lovely dark beard. So I moved to sit opposite. I know, blatant aren't I? He smiled at me and then looked out the window, which I thought was odd as there's not much to see in a tunnel, until I realised he was appraising me via my reflection. I pretended to be too engrossed in my newspaper to notice, although the more observant passengers would have wondered why I was concentrating so much on this season's must-have handbags. Apparently oversized is in, just so you know.
We both disembarked at the same stop and I followed him up the escalator, his ass directly in front of my face, a fact not lost on him judging by the amount of times he clenched his buttocks.
At the ticket barrier he went through. I didn't. Fucking shitty fucking Oyster card wouldn't work. I tried a different gate. Still nothing. Meanwhile, the Arab looked back at me then walked out of the station. Dammit. I finally got through and sauntered out, turning towards home (the opposite direction to the Arab had taken), at which point my phone started to ring. The Boyf was at the other end and he was whispering.
The Boyf: "Where are you?"
OMO: "I'm just coming out the Tube. Why are you whispering?"
The Boyf: "You'll find out in a minute. Just come in normally but try to be quiet"
OMO: "What the...?"
(click)
I turned around to look in the direction the Arab had taken and was very surprised to find him standing 20 feet away, leaning on some railings and staring at me. I smiled, pointed at my phone and made a shrugging motion, then turned and headed in the direction of home. I looked back once, we smiled at each other then he turned and walked away.
On opening my front door I was confronted by The Boyf, holding his finger to his lips. He waved me to follow him into our spare room. I could hear talking in our main room. Our spare room was unusually tidy. The other thing of note was a man I'd never met before, drinking red wine. We were introduced, and it transpired that he is the editor of Dr Who Magazine. The Boyf was positively trembling with excitement.
OMO: "So, what's going on?"
The Boyf: "There's a film crew in our living room. Well, two men and a camera anyway. We've been filming a documentary about Dr Who. They've interviewed Clay and me and now some other guy's being filmed. How cool is that?"
OMO: "A film crew? Damn, I could have bought the Arab back from the station and made a whole different kind of film"
The Boyf: "What Arab?"
OMO: "Oh, never mind"
So there you go. The Boyf is now in a documentary, although apparently it could be a couple of years to get more funding and finish it off. Gives me plenty of time to decide on my red carpet outfit, and of course what I'll be wearing to the Oscars that year. I'm thinking of staying with the Dr Who theme and going as a Cyberman. Either that or this, by Jean Paul Gaultier. Same difference really. Oh, the decisions...
It started off well. On boarding the tube at Whitechapel I spotted a rather splendid little fellow sitting further up the carriage. I'm very into short, dark haired guys right now and he certainly fitted the bill. Vaguely Arabian or Lebanese looking with a lovely dark beard. So I moved to sit opposite. I know, blatant aren't I? He smiled at me and then looked out the window, which I thought was odd as there's not much to see in a tunnel, until I realised he was appraising me via my reflection. I pretended to be too engrossed in my newspaper to notice, although the more observant passengers would have wondered why I was concentrating so much on this season's must-have handbags. Apparently oversized is in, just so you know.
We both disembarked at the same stop and I followed him up the escalator, his ass directly in front of my face, a fact not lost on him judging by the amount of times he clenched his buttocks.
At the ticket barrier he went through. I didn't. Fucking shitty fucking Oyster card wouldn't work. I tried a different gate. Still nothing. Meanwhile, the Arab looked back at me then walked out of the station. Dammit. I finally got through and sauntered out, turning towards home (the opposite direction to the Arab had taken), at which point my phone started to ring. The Boyf was at the other end and he was whispering.
The Boyf: "Where are you?"
OMO: "I'm just coming out the Tube. Why are you whispering?"
The Boyf: "You'll find out in a minute. Just come in normally but try to be quiet"
OMO: "What the...?"
(click)
I turned around to look in the direction the Arab had taken and was very surprised to find him standing 20 feet away, leaning on some railings and staring at me. I smiled, pointed at my phone and made a shrugging motion, then turned and headed in the direction of home. I looked back once, we smiled at each other then he turned and walked away.
On opening my front door I was confronted by The Boyf, holding his finger to his lips. He waved me to follow him into our spare room. I could hear talking in our main room. Our spare room was unusually tidy. The other thing of note was a man I'd never met before, drinking red wine. We were introduced, and it transpired that he is the editor of Dr Who Magazine. The Boyf was positively trembling with excitement.
OMO: "So, what's going on?"
The Boyf: "There's a film crew in our living room. Well, two men and a camera anyway. We've been filming a documentary about Dr Who. They've interviewed Clay and me and now some other guy's being filmed. How cool is that?"
OMO: "A film crew? Damn, I could have bought the Arab back from the station and made a whole different kind of film"
The Boyf: "What Arab?"
OMO: "Oh, never mind"
So there you go. The Boyf is now in a documentary, although apparently it could be a couple of years to get more funding and finish it off. Gives me plenty of time to decide on my red carpet outfit, and of course what I'll be wearing to the Oscars that year. I'm thinking of staying with the Dr Who theme and going as a Cyberman. Either that or this, by Jean Paul Gaultier. Same difference really. Oh, the decisions...
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
OMO At The Movies: "300"
Your poor little OMO had to go to the cinema on his own on Friday night. The Boyf refuses to watch anything with gore, and even the hot humpies weren't luring him in to watch "300". So I took advantage of him going out for an end-of-term meal with his colleagues to slink off to the cinema. I took along all the necessary provisions that I thought I'd need; pecan ice-cream, popcorn, jumbo Pepsi Max, lube, Nexus prostate stimulator, poppers and a box of tissues. The foodstuffs came in useful. The rest of my wares, not so much.
Here are my thought processes throughout the film (note how monosyllabic I am when I think):
Ooooh, men.
Ooooh, muscles.
Ooooh, more men.
Ooooh, more muscles.
Hmmmmmmmm, Daxos. Yum
(Then there was some fighting, during which time I managed to throw pecan ice-cream down my shirt and trousers, so I missed much of the action whilst trying to ensure it hadn't left any marks, otherwise when the house lights came on it would have looked like I'd spunked everywhere)
Oh! Daxos gone. Others dead. Bugger.
The End.
Improvements to the film are simple, and two-fold. Chest hair and cum. Some acting might have been nice too, but then if I wanted such trivialities I'd have gone to see "Notes On A Scandal", and Dame Judi Dench doesn't look anywhere near as good with her chest out. One supposes.
The remainder of our weekend was spent painting a wall in our main room a deep dried-blood red. Officially it's called "Arabian Red" by 1892 (a paint company who specialises in authentic "period" colours i.e. Victorian). Apparently "Dried Blood" didn't look so good on the tin.
And that's about it really. No sex or dancing or getting trashed. Yikes, this middle-aged business is weird.
Here are my thought processes throughout the film (note how monosyllabic I am when I think):
Ooooh, men.
Ooooh, muscles.
Ooooh, more men.
Ooooh, more muscles.
Hmmmmmmmm, Daxos. Yum
(Then there was some fighting, during which time I managed to throw pecan ice-cream down my shirt and trousers, so I missed much of the action whilst trying to ensure it hadn't left any marks, otherwise when the house lights came on it would have looked like I'd spunked everywhere)
Oh! Daxos gone. Others dead. Bugger.
The End.
Improvements to the film are simple, and two-fold. Chest hair and cum. Some acting might have been nice too, but then if I wanted such trivialities I'd have gone to see "Notes On A Scandal", and Dame Judi Dench doesn't look anywhere near as good with her chest out. One supposes.
The remainder of our weekend was spent painting a wall in our main room a deep dried-blood red. Officially it's called "Arabian Red" by 1892 (a paint company who specialises in authentic "period" colours i.e. Victorian). Apparently "Dried Blood" didn't look so good on the tin.
And that's about it really. No sex or dancing or getting trashed. Yikes, this middle-aged business is weird.
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