Wanna keep ya relationship vibrating? Then go on a date with the missus!  Oh yus!!!

So says the Norwegian Government.  And those sun-dodging, crazy fun-fuckers is deadly serious.

http://www.theguardian.com/world/2013/oct/29/norway-state-date-nights-marriage-lovers

OK, so some massive weight-lifting, big bunny steroid busting Nordo comes down me gym the other day. Crapping on how his government is promoting date nights for their married breth-men and breth-women to keep the country’s divorce rate down and cure flaggin’ marriages.

“It is important to find small pockets of time where parents can be lovers.” He says with a dead straight coupon.

“Right on, me huge brother-fucka.” I says under me breath…..

“The only thing flaggin’ here is that shrivelled testosterone-injected retard member in yer main trouser pocket.”

But then, thinking about it, I’ll give anything a go to secure me once a month hoppy-on / hoppy-off bedroom action bonanza with the Selina Bunny.

So I invites her down the pictures on a ‘Date’ night.

And she accepts.

I buys us tickets to the pictures down the West End. To something quite Nordic I thinks. A little bit ironic even.

Thor. The Dark World. 3D.

Great movie. I loves it a lot as you can see. She hates it a lot. As you can see.

And the evening certainly does not end in any hoppy-on / hoppy-off bedroom action bonanza!!!!

Ends up the day after with her going out on a ‘Dave’ night. With some faggot barman from Shoreditch. Called Dave.

Not happy. Will be repercussions.

When I was a kid, drawing on walls got you a thick ear and a bollocking from the Old Bill. Not any more apparently.Drawing on walls now gets you world-wide acclaim and some big fat pay cheques.

And you ain’t just an artist. You is a ‘street’ artist. An inner city fucking Picasso.

Even better, you don’t learn your trade at art skool with a load of middle classed Tarquins. You just nips down your local hardware store and buys a load of spray paint. No need to even sniff it.

So last night I decides to get me a piece of this action. While some geezer called Banksy is causing mayhem round New York, I had a few pints of Stella and got me some inspiration – yes I sniffed my ‘punk rock pink’ spray can. And took to the streets the Walthamstow.

The results, even though I says it meself, are blinding. Get yourselves on the Northbound Victoria line and check it out. Rod Rat is giving guided tours for a tenner each.

Me only problem now is how to transport the ‘art’ down to Sothebys to get it sold. Gonna need to knock down a few walls. Better have another sniff of the punk rock pink and nick meself a digger.

Aceeeeeed!!!

This is me right on one. Back in the day of the M25 Orbital madness.

You remember acid house? The whistles? The sirens? The glow sticks? Every fucker wanting to be your friend? All for the price of a refresher that cost you £25 in those days?

If you does remember it, then you wasn’t there.

Contrary to appearances, I fuckin’ hated Acid House. Too smiley. Too touchy. Too feely.  Run by farmers who thought being able to down a gallon of scrumpy in one made ‘em tasty. No, mate, it made you look like a talkin’ beetroot.

Then some proper boys realised the commercial potential. Run the events. Run the security. Run the refreshers! And best of all, they didn’t want to be trudging round muddy fields fighting the local plod and the local inbred haymakers. So they moved it indoors. Into clubs. Into London.

Our little firm did our bit. Rod Rat on the decks. Toot Toucan doing the flyers. Fast Gerald looking after the merchandise in his tardis tortoise shell. I rode shotgun.

And as the music became harder the nights became better. Progressive house they called it. But there was nothing progressive about it.

It was proper geezers in basements full of strobes and smoke. More powdered than pilled. Wearing real clobber. Brogue shoes, button down shirts and, oh yus, leather strides. Crouching down, arses out, struttin’ for all they was worth. On a good night, a couple of ‘em even shat themselves.

Those really was the days. Birds dancin’ in their bras. Superstar DJs revving up the BPMs. Comedowns that lasted a week !

God, I miss them. Let’s get ‘em back, people! Start a campaign. Sign a petition. Write to your local MP.

Bring Back Bangin’!!