Dear Diary,
One cannot imagine. Aye. Stay On the Flex. What happened?! I shall enlighten thee. Aye...
After strolling down to the seaside scene of yesterdaze debauchery and drunkenness, I went not with my axe (either Dirty Gurty, nor Juicy Lucy, neither Sweaty Betty the Banjuitar with me - much to Jules' dismay, for he'd brought his blues harp) Anyway, what the Flex happened? Some bully boy bruiser from getting kicked about the school daze appeared before me. I greeted the fellow with a smile. He ignored me, and entered the bar, the very same one I had had success at playing just yesterday. So anyway, Jane was jealous of mine intellectual intercourse with Jules, who holds a Masters Degree in Law, and has a keen interest in archæology, we engaged in mass debate, much to my birds' dismay. Aye. I became very pissed, very quickly (in the Anglo-Saxon sense of the word; i.e. drunk) Alas, in between discussing the tenants and nuances of history, archæology, and anthrolopologies: we discussed music, one of the greater artforms, both giving praise, most worthily requited to the Master of Guitar - Professor Guy Bacon - whom we were in the presence of ... greatness.
Jules said he had a gig for me, in a nearby town, that a friend of his owned a pub, and that I would recieve two-hundred pounds for my trouble. I said that if it were a friend, that I would do it for less, a tonne. Alas, he inisisted on paying me two-tonne, I sayeth that it most certainly warranted other musicians be present at the spectacle. That Gulliver need be brought in, unto the fold, but why? Because Bluegrass, Old-Timey Flex hath seduced me with her phrenetic rhythms and intricate southern-fried chicken charms. Share the love: go fifty-fifty on the money, because I am a Comunitarist. Equality. Egality. Fraternity. Aye.
What happened next? Aforementioned red-haired bruiser dids't appear once more, with acidic tongue...
Bruiser: No guitar today?
Max: No, I was pissed yesterday.
Bruiser: They'll pay two-hundred quid here, but not down the road at [t'other pub].
Jules: Max offered to play for free! They wouldn't have it.
Max: Jules just offered me a gig for two-hundred quid.
Ha HA! 'ave that! Then some other weird geezer with teeth in a worse shape than mine (would that were possible) droned on and f- on about some aggressive B.S. or other, like a long-playing record, stuck, on the same negative Flex. We departed shortly after.
Again, much more hath happened, transpired, all too trivial or personal to mention thus, I leave you with this sage advice,
Stay On the Flex,
Maximus.
