I had a lovely day today. A really great day. The sun was out in a shining, clear blue sky.
True, it is August and this is perhaps a little disturbing, but there is no reason for impending doom to impinge on a pleasant summer day in August in the southern hemisphere.
So, having nothing pressing today, I figured, hell, why not spend a lovely, pleasant day wandering through Newtown? Because I really felt like nothing more on this sunny blue-skied day than getting really fucking angry at all the wankers.
With the warm sun on my face, I stood admiring that park they have there. I forget its name, but it is opposite the Courthouse. That being how I navigate myself through the wide-world, by means of pub-landmarks.
I looked at the park, the green grass, the smattering of trees, so appealing in the sunshine. I thought to myself, how lovely would it be just to go and sit under one of those trees and while away the hours peacefully reading. What paradise!
Then I turned and looked at the Courthouse Hotel.
You can imagine what went through my mind. If you imagined it was “Jesus Christ, the pub’s open early”, you’d be right.
Of course, had you actually been there, which I happen to know for a fact you fucking weren’t, you may well have said: “What the fuck are you talking about Carlo? It is 10.45am! The fucking Courthouse has been open since 10!”
Well, obviously, I know that now. I subsequently made a point of checking its opening times. And if I had actually known this at 10am this morning, then my day would have been ever better.
So I made my way into the premises and ordered myself a schooner of God’s Own Urine (sold under the commercial label of VB).
Exactly what happened with the rest of the day I couldn’t tell you for sure. My memories are few indeed.
All I know is I woke up here, in front of this computer, and decided I had better tell you all straight away what a lovely day it is I have been having.
If you were in the vicinity of Newtown today, and I believe I was mostly frequenting King Street, and you happened to come across Carlo Sands, then I would like to offer a pre-emptive apology and a request as to whether you know the whereabouts of my pants.
I do have one recollection. I entered Gould’s Books for reasons unknown. While browsing innocently, I managed to knock over one of those random piles of books Bob Gould sees fit to leave lying around.
Stooping to repair the damage, I was asked by a man who I can only assume worked there: “Was there anything in particular you wanted?”
Well, yes, actually. I wanted not to have knocked over a large pile of fucking books. It is quite embarrassing and now I feel obliged to pick the fucking things up again. But its too fucking late to do anything about it now, isn’t it, you fucking strange Gould-slave person?
On my way out, I did try to steal Bob Gould’s pants. I remember I didn’t get very far, which, all things considered, is really for the best. Carlo Sands has very few standards, but even I draw the line at wearing Mr Gould’s trousers.