It's not all bum-jokes and swearing in the Goldie Lookin' Chain, y'know...
BLOG ENTRY BY: Eggsy - GLC* CREATED: 27/09/2005
Oh thank GOD! I've finally managed to find a quiet corner to sit and compose my thoughts for a minute. No-one is belching, no-one is leering out of the window at the ladies that walk past our tour bus, and, most glorious of all, no-one is scribbling down a new rap about something vile. It still beggars belief the way that the buffoons in this (cough) 'rap troupe' obsess about topics that most civilised folk would not dream of dwelling on, for even the briefest instant.
Now I know what you're thinking, it shouldn't be too much to ask, just to try and find an oasis of peace and calm after spending all of every day acting as part-care worker and part-babysitter for a minibus full of drooling lummoxes. But your ghast would be well and truly flabbered if you only knew quite how adept these simian fools are at shattering my concentration with their grotesque antics.
Take yesterday, for example. I was just about to settle down with my afternoon cup of Earl Grey when the one called Maggot (Maggot! honestly! His real name is Nigel! His mother told me he used to be in the Welsh synchronised swimming team) put his finger on my saucer, while announcing to the entire cretinous horde that he had just finished giving his scabrous rear-end the scratching of his life.
Well! Disgusted doesn't even begin to cover it. I threw down my macaroon, drew myself up to my full height (which, I admit, isn't always the most impressive sight in the world) and shot the gangling buffoon a most peevish stare indeed.
This, under normal circumstances, would have been just the thing to send any one of those slack-jawed yokels running for shelter under the filthy hovels that pass for beds at the back of this vehicular scum-wagon. But just as I was opening my mouth to administer a firm reprimand, Adam Hussein (don't get me started, his surname is Fortescue and his mother is the Duchess of Swansea) leapt upon one of the coach benches, thrust his buttocks toward my scowling face and proceeded to concoct and let forth what I can only describe as a foul cloud of personal body-gas. Right in my face!
Well, once I had finished coughing and spluttering, and trying to suppress a dry retch, the moment had truly passed for me to remonstrate with Mr Maggot, and Adam had disappeared under a giggling heap of grotty leisurewear. The rest of those IDIOTS then commenced running about, throwing food and shouting gutteral nonsenses at the top of their voices, like the neanderthals they truly are. It was just like the day they decided to reduce my full title from Professor Eggmond to the base (and un-fragrant) Eggsy. Honestly, sometimes I despair, I truly do.
But now, at last, all is calm. I have a book of poetry propped up on one knee, a small slice of battenburg perched on the other (on a napkin, naturally. I'm not a savage) and my trusty thermos of darjeeling by my side. So, if you will forgive me, now would seem a perfect time for withdrawal and contemplation.
Tally ho! (no, not THAT kind of ho...sigh.)
Eggsy (PhD)
_
*Thought Eggsy was a real egg-head? Pfft! Get real! Everyone knows the REAL GLC genius is Mystikal...
Oh thank GOD! I've finally managed to find a quiet corner to sit and compose my thoughts for a minute. No-one is belching, no-one is leering out of the window at the ladies that walk past our tour bus, and, most glorious of all, no-one is scribbling down a new rap about something vile. It still beggars belief the way that the buffoons in this (cough) 'rap troupe' obsess about topics that most civilised folk would not dream of dwelling on, for even the briefest instant. 
Take yesterday, for example. I was just about to settle down with my afternoon cup of Earl Grey when the one called Maggot (Maggot! honestly! His real name is Nigel! His mother told me he used to be in the Welsh synchronised swimming team) put his finger on my saucer, while announcing to the entire cretinous horde that he had just finished giving his scabrous rear-end the scratching of his life. 
Well, once I had finished coughing and spluttering, and trying to suppress a dry retch, the moment had truly passed for me to remonstrate with Mr Maggot, and Adam had disappeared under a giggling heap of grotty leisurewear. The rest of those IDIOTS then commenced running about, throwing food and shouting gutteral nonsenses at the top of their voices, like the neanderthals they truly are. It was just like the day they decided to reduce my full title from Professor Eggmond to the base (and un-fragrant) Eggsy. Honestly, sometimes I despair, I truly do. 
