Pub Night....

I know, it's only a small pleasure but as I've said before an increasingly important one in the fight against stress and dull nights in front of the TV trying to work out who the fuck thought David Jason would make a convincing copper. I workded from home today, which means I got quite a bit if revising done, and I will do another hour in order to justify to my conscience that the visit to the pub is not my lower irrational self giving in to some genetic male hedonistic trait thereby affecting my degree of positive liberty.....oh my god it's creeping into my writing now. Mission tonight is to drink enough Guinness to quell any of this "Philosophyitis" showing in the pub. Unfortunately the truth is it usually just fuels the disease as we all slowly become Amateur Philosophers for the night with, covering the whole gamut of male conversation from Football to Sex to War to Sex to Sport to Sex to Politics to Sex ...can you see a pattern here?

Anyway the answer to the quix, for which I got a completely underwhelming response was...

Flowers on the Wall by The Slater Brothers and it featured in the film Pulp Fiction, at one of the best scenes where Bruce Willis (Butch the boxer) is driving back from his flat, having killed John Travolta playing the character Vincent Vega on the pan and having retrieved his fathers heirloom watch, presented to him by Christopher Walken, which his father had hidden from the Vietcong for 5 years by hiding it his arse, culiminating in Butch running over the gangster Marcellus Wallace (played by the fantastic Ving Rhames) who had paid Butch to throw the fight, and was crossing the road at a set of traffic lights having just been to a MacDonalds to get a takeaway breakfast and who had senthis henchman Vincent Vega to Butch's flat in order to find him and make him pay for the deceit. OK? Clear? Good.

Back to the reading...tonight I will be mostly reading about Faith, Destiny and Purpose before common sense prevails and I go and get pissed because it is big and it is fucking clever!

Later, mon amis, GrocerJacques-Jacques Livereau