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May 27

Outside bad. Sun scary.

I went outside.

It was scary and outdoors-like.

But it was also sort of fun.

There were pigeons!

After an impromptu invitation from an impromptu friend I was forced politely shoved into having a day out in Sheff…Sheff…Sheffield. I know, right – motherfucking rock and roll *epic guitar solo*

Panic kicked in, Fear started lapping at my feet, and Anxiety poked me in the eye with it’s apprehensive man meat. When Anxiety starts trying to skull fuck me, I usually back down in a matter of seconds – of course those few seconds are long enough to fool myself into thinking I’m agonising over the decision, but in reality I said no before Anxiety had even gotten it’s fly undone.

But this time I ummed and ahhed for a second to long and said yes…I don’t know why. Maybe Anxiety was having a flaccid day.

So I went.

Near people *vomits*

And it was ok.

Up at the crack of dawn (8am is fucking early, ok?!) meant I didn’t have to see many people…although the lack of fleshy meatbags should have been the first clue that ALL the things would be closed – bank holiday and all that jazz.

The world conspired against me – I couldn’t find my train pass, I didn’t have any cash out to by my ticket, I couldn’t find my shoes…yeah, I know! Not my fault in the slightest, this is the world trying to screw me over.

Luckily because I left the house so early Anxiety, Fear, and Panic were all still snoring in bed after a 5am gangbang about how shit I am and how horrible…moot point.

I was away! Out…*gip*…side.

And on a new mission, not the same old weekly mission I can handle because as comfortable as an old pair of shoes, or that condom you forgot to take off last night because you were so wasted sleepy.

After miles of walking and three…THREE trains, I arrived ready to walk around all the closed shops and open bars (I know, how unfortunate it worked out like that!). Me and my impromptu friend did a tour of the city, mostly because GPS is a lying sack of shit and EVERYWHERE we wanted to go was six minutes away until you actually started walking and it was suddenly sixty minutes and several dark alleys away. How the hell are alleys even dark in the middle of the day?

Oh, interesting side note my friend who lives in YORKSHIRE has never heard the word ‘ginnel’ before – the temptation to abandon her in the middle of the city was almost unbearable.

Thankfully Sheffield has a smidgen of culture…who knew? So it wasn’t a total bust that almost everything – including the epic book shop – was shut. There was even a kick ass museum, which we managed to arrive at a few minutes before it closed (bastard), but at least there was a pub right next to it…a fake museum pub (SON OF A WHORE!!)

I sucked all of the taps...just to be sure. They were all fake :(

I sucked all of the taps…just to be sure. They were all fake :(

We also made up learnt some interesting history about the city’s former inhabitants – mainly Gerald the Sheffield Pimp, who kept vultures but was a kind and fair employer (when he wasn’t beating his skanks or setting his vultures on cheap ass honkys). There are several tributes to Gerald littered around the fair city if you search hard enough.

Also there is beer in Sheffield.

And scary pubs that make Royston Vasey look like Butlins, but it’s ok because these scary pubs are so small you have to stand eyebrow to eyebrow with the man disgusted to see a ‘foreigner’ in his hovel – so you learn to drink up make friends quickly.

But all in all it was at least 17% better than getting bed sores on the sofa (sofa sores?), which is my usual method of attack for weekends (afternoons, evenings, nights, annual leave, etc), so I’m sort of glad I ventured to the great outdoors.

So...damn...purdy!

So…damn…purdy!

Also I climbed in a pipe and I look hooottt!!

As Gerald would say “Where’s my money, bitch?!”…I mean “Peace out, bitches!”

Weeeee!!

Weeeee!!

Gerald's Vultures - Moe, Larry, Curly, and Fucksticks.

Gerald’s Vultures – Moe, Larry, Curly, and Fucksticks.

6 comments

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  1. ode_to_originality

    You beter pay Gerald royalties for taking snapshots of his birds, or he’ll track you down and smother you to death with his purple velour cape. Then feed you to Fucksticks.

    1. Steven Chapman

      Gerald died a long time ago. I’ll let you know how when I fictionalise…I mean research it.

      1. ode_to_originality

        The Gerald is Dead. Long live the Gerald! Don’t you remember that ‘Gerald’ is the title of the Lord of Pimp hill. There has been an unbroken line of Geralds for centuries now, ruling over the hoes in their fiefdom.

  2. Helen Baggott

    What is that big thing you’re having a wee under?

    1. Steven Chapman

      That, my dear Helen and Liz, is the big bastard ‘Bessemer convertor’ outside Kelham Island Museum.

  3. Liz Brownlee

    Is that R2D2?

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