This is the last of my Trinity News articles. Possibly also my favourite. I hope you’ve enjoyed them anyway.
The Facebook page reached 150 fans today. Not far off world domination now.
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This Charmless Man
I woke up on Wednesday of last week feeling immediately stressed. It was one of those days where there’s so much to do that no matter what time you wake up, it’s already too late and you’re not going to get everything done.
However, it was slightly sunny. Slightly. Every so often the sun would break through the clouds and just for a few minutes at a time, it was a bit bright and a bit warm. And that’s all we ask for really. A little bit of sunshine. I don’t want loads of constant burning sunshine. I burn like a bastard. But a little bit of sun and I’m happy enough. Naturally I don’t change the clothes I wear to suit the good weather, because it’ll only start raining as soon as I leave the house.
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Should have put this up here ages ago. Forgot. Soz.
I noticed that if you take the ‘C’ off ‘Charmless’, you have ‘harmless’. If you then take off the ‘h’, you have ‘armless’. Learn something new every day lads. Enjoy.
This Charmless Man
It feels like a very long time since I’ve written one of these things. I’d nearly forgotten about this column. I’ve been living my life the way I want to live it – without doing stuff. My reading week involved very little reading. It did however, involve an absolute shitload of sitting, so I’m pleased enough with that. Have a nice sit down, maybe think about something, then eat some food so you don’t die. Lovely.
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I’ve noticed the growing popularity of Fashion blogs lately. All of a sudden, instead of “oh I ate beans on toast today lol” type of blog posts, I’m seeing loads of “oh I wore X today, along with Y, because of Z”
Even last year, I was nominated for a Smedia award, along with two fashion blogs – Ali and Ana. Both lovely girls, as it goes. If you’re into fashion, both of those are well worth a look.
So I thought to myself, how can I keep up with this growing trend of fashion blogs?
Well, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.
So here it is.
WALSHO FASHION
What do I wear?
What do my clothes say about me?
Where do I shop?
What’s my favourite sexual position?
I’m sure you’ve all wondered these things about Walsho before.
Well now you can find out.
I’ve gone and taken photos of some of my clothes, and I’m going to stick them up here and talk about them like I am a fashion person.
I’ve decided to start from the bottom up.
To kick things off, my shoes. These are the shoes I was wearing up until last week:
They are called plimsoles. I like them because they’re very light, and slip on easily. I also like that they are called plimsoles. I like to imagine that if they were people they’d say “Plim-Plim!” all the time. You may have noticed that they are very dirty. They weren’t like this when I first bought them. They got dirtier over time as I wore them, as I must have walked in dirt sometime or something.
Also, there were holes and cracks in the soles, which allowed rain and other moisture access to my feet. I considered this the footwear equivalent to a Flinstone’s car.
Then I decided to get a new pair of shoes, because I don’t think it’s very fashionable to wear things that are filthy and frankly no longer fit for their purpose.
So, after a long and arduous browsing and selection process, I made the decision and bought these shoes in the end:
The new shoes are just like my old shoes, except they are newer and thus, cleaner.
How much?
That’s how fucking much.
I’m currently thinking of buying a pair of shoes that cost fifty euro. I really like them, but I’m put off buying them when I know that for the same price I could buy twelve pairs of plimsoles. And have two euro left over to buy sweets. Twelve pairs. I’d be plim’ing all the way to the bank.
Moving on:
These are my socks.
I wear them to keep my feet warm and to avoid uncomfortable abrasion between the flesh of my foot and the inner material of my shoes. They’re very effective. Often in cold weather I’ll double up on socks. Two pairs of socks makes me feel invincible.
I have some socks that are colourful, so they stand out a bit when worn with regular clothes, so I don’t like wearing them out of the house. I’ll wear these on the days that I don’t think I’ll be leaving the house. These blue ones, for example:
Some days you just know you’re not going to be leaving the house, so why use a good pair of socks on that day? Use up the shit ones. Save the good ones for the days when other people might see them and say “Hey, nice socks, man!”
I’ve said before that when I have children I’ll be buying them loads of pairs of black socks, and no other kind. This way we’ll never have any sock-matching issues. If only my parents had thought of this when I was growing up, so much hassle would have been avoided. I sort of resent sock-making companies now for doing so many different kinds of socks, and creating these matching issues. I wish someone had a sock monopoly and only one type of sock was ever produced, and everyone’s lives would be that little bit easier.
Now, onto the good stuff.
Women, prepare yourself, because you’re about to get some hot stuff right about now. Funk soul brother.
Check it out now:
Above is two pairs of my boxer shorts. I wear them underneath my trousers, hence them often being called “underwear”.
They’re Playboy boxers.
My mother bought me them.
My own mother bought me Playboy boxers one Christmas.
Needless to say, bitches love them.
Some other underwear I own:
These boxers say “Hot Undies” on the waistline, and have a picture of a Skull on them. I don’t know what that’s all about, but they fit my package nicely.
Also:
I have never worn these. I never will. Firstly because they are too big. Secondly because they are briefs, and I’m strictly a boxers man. Thirdly, look at them.
I got those for free from Paddy Power before. It’s impossible to resist free stuff.
So I guess it remains to be seen just how lucky they are.
Making the correct choice of boxer shorts is very important.
It’s something that doesn’t quite get the attention it deserves, I feel.
Boxer shorts are all about the looseness-tightness scale. Finding the right balance on this scale is the key to finding the right pair of boxer shorts.
When I’m playing football, I make sure to choose a loose pair, so I’m not restricted when making last-ditch lunges or goal-line blocks.
However, a more important decision needs to be made when you’re going out at night, in the hope of ending the night in the company of a lovely lady (or lad, whatever you’re into).
You see, you want everything to look just right when your jeans are torn off you. You need your boxers to be sufficiently loose to allow your erection to truly flex itself and show the lucky lady what it’s made of.
However, you also want your boxers to be tight enough that they actually highlight your erection and say “Hey, look at me, I’m an erect penis, go on the lads!”
So be careful, gents. Find the right balance on the looseness-tightness scale, and you’ll reap the rewards.
You won’t see Gok Wan, or, I dunno, some other fashion guy, giving advice as useful as that.
Now, what do I wear outside of this underwear?
Obviously, jeans. No other option for a regular lad like myself.
None of your skinny shite either please.
A nice pair of jeans with plenty of air circulating in them to ensure maximum scrotal freshness.
I have a few pairs of jeans, but I only really wear these ones.
I’ve owned them for about six months.
During this time, I estimate they’ve been washed twice.
And I also estimate that that’s two times too many.
Jeans are the best thing in the world.
You can even dry your hands on them.
Public toilets should just start hanging a pair of jeans from the ceiling for people to dry their hands on. Fuck the hand-driers and shitty paper towels. Jeans. Problem solved. Thank me later, world.
Sometimes around the house I’ll wear tracksuit bottoms.
Complete with little hole in the knee. From when I got shot.
And by “shot” I of course mean “fouled during five-a-side football on astro turf and fell on my knee and made that little hole”.
The stretchy waistline is brilliant because it enables access to cupping myself in one swift movement. Cupping oneself is a vital part of lounging around the house.
Above my waist is my torso.
On my torso I usually wear shirts of some kind. Polo, Tee, – the whole shebang.
It would be fair to describe the above shirt as blue and with a collar. Women have said it brings out my eyes. My eyes are also blue, so I guess that story makes sense.
Over this t-shirt, I would usually wear something like this:
That’s my black zip-up thing.
I call it this because it is black and has a zip which I sometimes put up.
You’ll notice it has long sleeves, so is significantly warmer than the blue t-shirt, and so I wear it more often when the weather is colder. I can also remove it quite easily if I’m feeling too warm, which is beneficial.
Morrissey would tell you he wears black on the outside because it’s how he feels on the inside.
I wear black on the outside because it’s usually grand to wear with other stuff.
And that’s all I want.
Everything to be grand.
How’s everything?
-Grand, thanks.
That’s good.
And everyone lived happily ever after.
And finally, here’s my favourite hat:
One Halloween I dressed up as Pete Doherty, mainly so I could get to wear a trilby hat. I loved wearing it, but I’d look like a knob wearing it normally.
But still, I’ll always have that Halloween.
Right so.
That’s that.
Bye.
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You know the score now – I do a column for Trinity News that I post up here after.
Enjoy.
This Charmless Man
I will begin this week’s column by complaining about The University Times. During RAG week, there was a charity football match between this fine newspaper, and our bitter rivals, UT. We won the match 3-2. I scored a goal. An alright goal it was, too. In the University Times’ match report, they credited my goal to someone else. This upset me. See, I don’t get enough moments of glory in my life. This was supposed to be one of them. I was supposed to read that match report and see my name and bring it home and show my Ma. But no. My only other achievement since I’ve started college was being part of a Marketing project group that got the highest result in the whole class. We got 90%. I got texts from the other lads in the group informing me. Just to feel smug, I checked the results online and saw that everyone in my group had indeed gotten 90%. Except me. I got 20%. It was all sorted in the end, and there’d just been a simple mix-up, but it just proved to me that things will never go completely right for me.
So thanks a lot University Times. I told people that I scored that goal, I even said it on Twitter, and now it’s being reported differently in your paper – making me look like, and excuse my language, a complete dorkus malorkus. I request that this be remedied immediately with a front page story about my goal, for which the headline can read “Mark Walsh scores goal, looks handsome, is great”. Thanks.
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The simplest of tasks cause me too much trouble sometimes.
Almost every time I walk down a street – any fucking street – something happens that pisses me off or worries me slightly. I might get beeped at unnecessarily by a car. I might get bumped into and then for some reason I, the victim, apologise. That’s something I always do. It’s like getting burgled and apologising to the robbers for not having enough expensive goods.
This reminds me of a time I was on holiday in Portugal with my family, years ago. My Dad and I were in a queue in a supermarket, both of us with shopping baskets in our hands. We were standing perfectly still, chatting, waiting patiently.
This old Portugese woman walks towards us, and hits her leg into my basket. She then started shouting at me, in Portugese. She shouted at a little ten year old, pale, Irish boy, because he was standing still and she walked into him.
But I digress.
The other day I was walking down Dawson Street, towards Trinity College. It’s a busy enough street. I’m walking fairly fast, and have my earphones in. About twenty yards away from me I see a middle-aged man trip up a little.
A tiny little trip.
The little trip became a stumble.
This stumble became a fall.
The fall became a man on all fours on the ground, and somehow struggling to get back up.
I’d say in total, the fall took about five seconds. Five whole seconds. It was one of the slowest, most hilarious falls I’ve ever seen in my life. I love a good fall.
It was like Paolo Di Canio pushing the referee over, except this time the faller was going forwards.
He got up anyway. Dusted down his suit and looked very angry. I’m now about to walk past him. So I take out an earphone and ask him if he’s alright.
He glanced fleetingly in my direction. Then he didn’t say a fucking word.
Didn’t say a fucking word. The turd.
Not even a grunt. The cunt.
He looked at me angrily, and kept walking.
I was outraged. I took out an earphone for you, you crusty-cocked old cunt.
As I continued down the street I felt justified at giggling at the fall I’d just witnessed.
Later that day I’m finished college and I’m walking towards my bus stop.
Then I see the Concernies are out.
The fucking Concernies.
Concern, the charity, send people out onto the street to harass people to set up direct debit donations. Although it’s a good cause, it really bothers me that I can’t walk anywhere anymore without being harassed. If it’s not Concern it’s someone else.
But I feel sorry for the people doing this, because after all, they’re just trying to do a job and make some money. So I usually try to say something to them as I pass, just so I’m not ignoring them. It can’t be nice getting ignored so much. I also think I have the face of a sucker because they ALWAYS single me out.
As usual, I can see the Concerny looking at me as I approach. She waves.
Ah shite.
I take out an earphone and say “Sorry, I’m in a bit of a rush to get home”
She says “I’m sure you are sir, but just tell me, do you know what we do?”
“Yes I do”
I’ve been roped in. I’ve been engaged. She’s snagged me, the fucking polite bitch with her smiley face and relentless friendliness.
“And have you ever thought about donating?”
“Yes, but I don’t like the idea of filling in the forms right here, on the spot, in the street”
“Really? Why don’t you like – wait a minute – how old are you?”
“Eh, I’m twenty.”
“TWENTY?! You look about twelve!”
“Okay”
“Anyway, you’ve seen the ads and you know what Concern do?”
“I have to go now”
What.
The.
Fuck.
I stop and listen to this silly bitch with her stupid fucking Concern bullshit, stopping me from getting home in peace after a long day, during which I’ve had to talk to people I actually do know, who don’t want me to fill out my bank info on the fucking street, which gets tiresome enough after a while, so nevermind stopping for a fucking stranger, and she goes and tells me I look twelve?
WHY DON’T YOU FUCK OFF AND GET A REAL JOB YOU STUPID WHORE.
DO YOUR EXAMS.
TYPE UP A CV.
GO TO THE INTERVIEW.
AND GET A JOB WHERE YOUR ‘OFFICE’ WON’T BE LITTERED WITH HOMELESS PEOPLE WHO PROBABLY DESERVE OUR CHARITY MORE THAN THE PEOPLE YOU’RE WORKING FOR.
I don’t think I look young. I’ve never been told this before. I’ve had people guess my age above what I actually am. I’m pretty tall too.
What an idiot woman though. Jesus Christ. I’d say people who stop and listen to her drivel are like gold dust. You’d be lucky to get one percent of people stopping for her.
So later that evening, my body responded to this gibe, by proving its age, as I pulled a muscle in my back.
How did I manage to do this?
Playing sport?
Working out or something?
Masturbating even?
Nope.
I was shaving. I was looking in the mirror and shaving my face, and I suddenly pulled a fucking muscle in my back.
Firstly the man with vertigo rejects my concern.
Then that silly bint tells me I look twelve.
Then my own back stabs me in… the back.
Fuck off, world.
I’m sick of your bullshit.
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7 February 2011 ‧ For The Lolz, Life etc., Ranting ‧ No Comments
The latest of my Trinity News column.
Enjoy.
This Charmless Man
Here we are. Back to college after Christmas. The January slump. The “How was your Christmas?” conversations followed up by “Do anything exciting for New Year’s?”
Everyone answers that their Christmas was quiet, and that New Year’s Eve was nothing special, but it was alright. I really think I’d prefer to stay in on NYE. Going out never fails to disappoint. What’s so wrong with staying in and watching Jools Holland’s Hootenanny? It’s called a Hootenanny for christ’s sake. It must be good. “What were you doing last night?” “Oh, I was at a hootenanny” “Wow, that sounds fun!”
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My mother. My beloved Mother. I’ve mentioned her many times on here, and always said that I’d have to do a post specifically about her someday, and this is it.
I better do a little disclaimer first. She’d kill me if she ever found out about this post.
My mother has raised me very well. I grew up in a very happy household, and my mother is an intelligent, hard-working and loving woman, and I couldn’t ask for a better womb to have lounged around in for nine months.
However, she has her funny, not-so-intelligent moments. Everyone does. But there’s something about my Mam’s ones that just crack me up like nothing else.
1) Take Me Out
The family (parents, myself and sister) were sat in on a Saturday evening, eating a takeaway, and watching television.
We were watching Take Me Out. This is a show where about 30 women are standing around in front of a man who has to choose which one he wants to take out on a date. The women each have a sort of podium in front of them, which is lit up. If they don’t like the man before them, they can turn off the light in their podium. The odd time, all the women turn off their lights and the lad has nobody to take out on a date. It’s shit, but hilarious and irresistibly watchable.
It’s presented by Paddy McGuinness, the cheeky chappy with the strong Lancashire accent.
He has lots of phrases throughout the show, such as “If you’re not turned on, turn off!” and “No likey, no lighty!”
We’d been watching the show for a couple of weeks.
This particular night Paddy did his “And remember girls, no likey, no lighty!”
My mother made a frustrated noise and said “I never know what he’s saying there. Is it ‘No likey, no latte’?”
There was a brief shocked silence before we all laughed and told her what he was actually saying. She had no answer for why she thought he might be talking about a latte.
2) X-Factor
We were all watching X-Factor. Me and my family always watch this together.
The latest series allowed each judge to bring back one of their previously rejected contestants as a “Wildcard”.
One of the wildcards was performing, in the third week of the competition.
My mother turned to me and asked “He was one of the wildcats, wasn’t he?”
3) Christmas number one
We were sitting having Sunday dinner. Somehow the topic of Christmas Number 1′s comes up.
My mother says “What about that band who got it last year (2009 at the time) because of that internet thing? What were they called – Race Against The Moon, was it?”
Rage Against The Machine, Mam.
“Oh yeah.”
4) Black Eyed Peas
Again, we’re watching X Factor.
The guy from Black Eyed Peas is performing with Cher Lloyd.
Mam proudly declares to us that this man usually sings with The Wide-Eyed Peas.
5) Johnny Logan
My Dad received three tickets to The Late Late Show.
So my parents and my aunt went. Dressed up nicely and hoped for some free stuff to be given out to the audience.
There was some drinks reception before the show started. So the three of them are standing around drinking champagne or wine or something, and my mother spots Johnny Logan getting himself a drink.
Mam casually says to him “Howaya Johnny?”
He looks over at her and my aunt and says “Howaya girls?”
They giggled and their night was made.
6) Moz
I’m a big fan of The Smiths. The singer in The Smiths is Morrissey.
One day I’m playing The Smiths and my Mam walks in and goes “Is that The Morrisseys?”
Such a small error, but it just cracked me up.
7) Expletive
Once she was in a bad mood, to say the least, and there was no talking to her. One of those days.
She was cleaning the house frantically, because I’d just told her someone was coming over.
WHAT?
SOMEONE’S COMING OVER VERY BRIEFLY YOU SAY?
WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME THIS LAST WEEK? THE HOUSE IS LIKE A BOMB HIT IT.
IT’S A FUCKING PIG STY.
GET RID OF THE CLOTHES-HORSE.
HOW COULD YOU BRING A FRIEND OVER WHEN THE PLACE IS LOOKING LIKE THIS?
YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELF.
YOU’RE A SCUMBAG.
HERE, GET RID OF YOUR SHOES. THEY SHOULD HAVE GONE IN THE BIN A LONG TIME AGO.
So me and my Dad tried to calm her down and reassure her that this manic cleaning was unnecessary and also quite frightening. When she does this, she tends to put things in silly places, and we can never find them again.
So we try to calm her down.
And this point she turned to us and said one of the greatest lines in parenting history.
“Shut the fuck up, you pair of fucking wankbags.”
I had never heard the term “wankbag” before, but it’s a good ‘un.
8 ) Super Mario
My parents said they were going for a walk. I asked if they’d be going through the village. They said they would, so I gave my Mam my bank card and pin code and asked if she’d get a mini bank statement from the ATM for me. No problem.
My Dad told me the rest of this story.
So my parents get to the ATM and my mother takes out a mini-statement for me. This shows your current balance and some of your most recent withdrawals and deposits.
She looks at the statement and gasps.
At this point I feel obliged to tell you that my parents know that I like to gamble a bit. Mainly just a few quid on football etc.
On the statement she sees a load of withdrawals, with “MARIO” next to them.
“WHO’S THIS MARIO FELLA? IT MUST BE GAMBLING. LOOK AT THIS, LOOK AT HOW MUCH HE’S GAMBLED WITH THIS MARIO FELLA. LOOK!”
My Dad takes the statement and sees, with his logical eyes, that it actually says “MAR 10″, and correctly deduced that because it was the month of March in the year 2010, the statement was not describing a load of gambling with a mafia boss called Mario, but merely a few withdrawals made during the month.
She has never lived this one down. Whenever we bring it up she turns to my Dad and says “You just couldn’t keep it to yourself could you?”
9) I scream for ice-cream
My sister had her boyfriend over for dinner once.
My mother cooked a lovely dinner and a nice evening was had by all.
After dinner she decides to impress and offer us dessert.
“Do you want some ice-cream? I’ve got a tub of Tom and Jerry’s in the freezer”
I much prefer Tom and Jerry to Ben and Jerry’s.
10) Phone difficulties
She once rang up Vodafone and berated the guy on the phone because she had tried topping up her phone credit, but it wasn’t working, and she “doesn’t have time for this messing around”.
After calming her down, the guy asks for her phone number. She gave it, and was soon politely informed that she wasn’t actually a Vodafone customer, but an O2 one.
Another phone-related one: When I was in primary school, I had a folder that I kept my sheets etc in. There was a sticker on the folder where you were to write your name and phone number on it. So I wrote these on. I’d written my house phone number, as we were too young to have mobile phones.
One female classmate sees the phone number and writes it down and threatens to ring me later.
I get frightened.
A phone call took place later on that day, as follows:
The phone rings. My mother answers.
“Hello?”
“Is Mark there?”
The girl was very young and her pronunciation left a lot to be desired.
My mother responded that “There’s no Mack here” and hung up the phone.
Didn’t even consider the possibility that she could have misheard the caller who was asking for me.
Thanks Mam.
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You know every time I post these articles up here, I have to go look at the previous one to see how I format the title. What was I thinking with the roman numerals? What a wanker I am. I’ll be writing poetry in Starbucks next.
Anyway, this is my last Trinity News article of the calendar year. I think this is my favourite one so far. Does that have to do with the fact that I didn’t attend any events so I got to just do a blog-type of thing? Who knows?
All I know is that I rhymed “bumping and grinding” with “mumping and whining” when talking about having the mumps. Need I say more? Hope you enjoy.
This Charmless Man
My life as a Trinity News social diarist has been pretty good. I’ve been living the high-life. Movie premieres, VIP lounges, and wild cocktail parties. Getting in with all the celebs. ‘What’s next?’ I wondered. What could possibly be in store for me – the little social butterfly, fluttering around, flirting and mingling everywhere I go – this week? Good question, that.
I didn’t attend any social events for this issue because I was sat at home with the mumps. Really, I got the mumps. The fucking mumps. Who gets the mumps these days? Well, me, obviously. So instead of being out getting my drink on, and my smoke on, and going home with something to poke on, I was in bed getting my mump on. Instead of going out to clubs and bumping and grinding, I was at home mumping and whining.
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Nothing makes me feel more out of touch with the world than when I listen to rap music.
I used to like rap music actually.
Now I’d probably only listen to Jay-Z. Obviously I sometimes listen to shite like Vanilla Ice for lolz too.
The other day I put on some Kanye West.
I shimmied up to my record player, using my zimmerframe.
Oh yes, that Kanye fellow, perhaps I’ll listen to him to pass the time. That ‘Diamonds’ song. Yes, that’ll be nice. Featuring Shirley Bassey. Oh boy, I sure would love to take her out to a talkie and a glass of ale.
I thought I knew the opening line, so I, for reasons I’ll never know, chose to sing along to myself.
Kanye says “Throw your diamonds in the sky if you feel the vibe”
I said “Put your diamonds in the sky if you feel the vibe”
It’s only one word I got wrong, but it’s a huge difference really, isn’t it?
The difference between forcefully throwing your diamonds into the sky, and gently placing them up on a shelf or something, before going to bed at half nine in the evening.
I’ll never be a rapper, I’ll tell you that right now.
So, I conducted an experiment.
I decided to listen to a popular rap song and see how well I could decipher the lyrics.
What’s the hippest, most radical, groovy rap song that’s dominating the charts lately?
I have no idea, so I just chose “In Da Club” by 50 Cent.
So I went into iTunes and did a search for 50 Cent. Naturally I initially made a mistake and searched for “50 cet” which didn’t yield results. But then I found it. I actually have the album, so I’m deciphering the lyrics of the album version of the song, which is slightly different than the ‘cleaner’ single that was released.
Now, this will only work if you listen to the song and simultaneously read through my version of the lyrics.
I’ve embedded the video below, but just in case that doesn’t work, here is the link.
Some words I simply had to sound out as best I could.
So listen and read.
And hopefully enjoy.
In Da Club – 50 Cent (Walsho version)
Go, go, go, go, go, go, go shorty, it’s your birthday.
We gon’ party like it’s your birthday
We gon’ sip bacardi like it’s your birthday
Andyouknowwedon’tgiveafuck cos that’s your birthday!
You’ll find me in da club, radafuldabup with money, I got X if you’re into takin’ drugs, I’m into havin’ sex, I ain’t into makin’ love, so come on give me a hug if you’re into gettin’ grugged.
You’ll find me in da club, radafuldabupz with money, I got X if you’re into takin’ drugs, I’m into havin’ sex, I ain’t into makin’ love, so come on give me a hug if you’re into gettin’ grugged.
When I pull up out front, see the Benz don’t do it.
When I roll twenty jeep it’s twenty knots in da club.
Niggaz heard I fuck with Dre now they wanna show me love.
When you salek Eminem in the hoes, they wanna fuck.
Homie ain’t nothin’ change, hoe-down, jeez-up, it’s the exhibit in da cuttin’ nigga roll that weed up.
If you’ve got time, move, you mistake me for a playa-pimp.
Been hit with a few shells now I walk with a limp (I’m aaaight).
In da hood and that lady sayin’ “Fifty you hot!”.
They like me, I want ‘em to love me like they love Pop.
But holla in New York niggaz will tell you I’m loco and the plan is to put the rap game in a chokehold.
Forn, fuck this man, mah money on mah mind, got a meal on a deal and I’m still in the grind.
And shorty’s, feeling mah stash and feeling mah ‘flow, and girl fruwitidadie and then ready to go. (ookay!)
You’ll find me in da club, radafuldabup with money, I got X if you’re into takin’ drugs, I’m into havin’ sex, I ain’t into makin’ love, so come on give me a hug if you’re into gettin’ grugged.
You’ll find me in da club, radafuldabupz with money, I got X if you’re into takin’ drugs, I’m into havin’ sex, I ain’t into makin’ love, so come on give me a hug if you’re into gettin’ grugged.
Mah flow, mah show, brought me to go, that bought be all mah fancy things – mah crib, mah cars, mah cools, mah jewels, look nigga I don’ cane more but I ain’t changed.
And you should love it, way more than you hate it, nigga you mad? I thought that you’d be happy I made it.
I’m that cat by the bar toastin’ to the gooood life. You that faggot-ass nigga tryna hold me back, riiight?
Umadonk, indaponpin in da club indasondin with mah eyes and the bitch if she smash igown.
If the roof on fire, let the motherfucker burn, get to talkin’ ’bout money, homie, I ain’t concerned.
I’ma tell you a base to me, cos gon’ heads twist da style up.
Niggaz hate to let ‘em ate, then watch da money pile up.
And we can go upside they head with a bottle of bull.
They know where we fuckin’ be.
You’ll find me in da club, radafuldabup with money, I got X if you’re into takin’ drugs, I’m into havin’ sex, I ain’t into makin’ love, so come on give me a hug if you’re into gettin’ grugged.
You’ll find me in da club, radafuldabupz with money, I got X if you’re into takin’ drugs, I’m into havin’ sex, I ain’t into makin’ love, so come on give me a hug if you’re into gettin’ grugged.
Ha, ha, ha.
Don’t try to act like you don’t know where we be, neither, nigga.
We in da club all the time nigga so prob and pop off, nigga.
G-Unit.
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I’m very slow at posting these. This was published a couple of weeks ago.
Anyway, enjoy.
This Charmless Man
When I’m choosing stuff to go to for this column, I usually pick out something that I think will be “good”. This is actually quite a flawed plan, as I found out this week.
I first attended a JazzSoc showcase at Sweeney’s on Dame Lane. It was a nice little place that I hadn’t been to before. The gig itself was, well, very good. My only complaint is that in typically cool, jazz style, it starts, and thus finishes, pretty late. The more experienced acts go on towards the end, so by the time the ‘best’ act came on, I had to go and get my bus. It’s all well and good being very talented at jazz and generally being cool and wearing cool clothes like a cool person with cool friends, but once it gets to half eleven on a Tuesday night, there’s only one place I’m going to be, and it’s not at a Jazz gig surrounded by people wearing blazers. I’ll be on my bus home, content and with no regrets, sitting at the front at the top deck, because that’s the best place to sit if you want to avoid seeing people and having an awkward bus chat. That’s actually a great tip by the way. Bus chats are rubbish, so sit at the front upstairs from now on and you won’t be spotted. Yep, I’m a social diarist giving tips on how to be utterly anti-social. What a world.
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