First ever Brighton CSR tonight.
CSRs have been going on for about seven years and they are Copy Shop Reunions, where Kate, Reuben and me get together for beers. The excuse is that we all worked in something we called the Copy Shop in IBM. For both Reuben and Kate it was their first writing jobs, and I hired them. Previously Reuben had worked with trucks and Kate (often barefoot) sold lucky lavender near Waterloo station. What they both seem to overlook -- and logic dictates this of course -- is that any subsequent success they have had in any field of endeavor is directly attributable to me, and is somehow my idea.
Kate and I met the Reubster in The Great Eastern, a pub inches away from the all you can eat Chinese restaurant where Kate and I had chop sticked steadily in preparation. Having given blood Kate applied herself to replacing it with Guinness.
As usual, generous amount of laughs to be had, and later as Kate had to head back to the smoke, we drifted up the road to the Camdenish noisy bar, which is a full of studenty types and white gentlemen with dreadlocks. After another beer I found myself able to tell the joke that Mike and I were crafting today:
MV1: I was walking along Oxford Street and you'll never guess who I bumped into?
MV2: No... Who?
MV1: Only Nighthawks by Edward Hopper.
MV2: Nighthawks... By Edward Hopper?
MV1: Yes. And you know what Nighthawks by Edward Hopper said to me?
MV2: What?
MV1: It said f*ck you Peter Kenny!
MV2: Curt. Very curt. Didn't you mind?
MV1: No I enjoy being challenged by art...
After First Matie returned to the smoke we were joined by three artistic outlaw acquaintances of Reuben's, who were connected with the OutsideIn show. This all interesting... Then up the hill to my twitten and later, after talking to the divine Tenerelli, I took gratefully and blamelessly to my bed.
CSRs have been going on for about seven years and they are Copy Shop Reunions, where Kate, Reuben and me get together for beers. The excuse is that we all worked in something we called the Copy Shop in IBM. For both Reuben and Kate it was their first writing jobs, and I hired them. Previously Reuben had worked with trucks and Kate (often barefoot) sold lucky lavender near Waterloo station. What they both seem to overlook -- and logic dictates this of course -- is that any subsequent success they have had in any field of endeavor is directly attributable to me, and is somehow my idea.
Kate and I met the Reubster in The Great Eastern, a pub inches away from the all you can eat Chinese restaurant where Kate and I had chop sticked steadily in preparation. Having given blood Kate applied herself to replacing it with Guinness.
As usual, generous amount of laughs to be had, and later as Kate had to head back to the smoke, we drifted up the road to the Camdenish noisy bar, which is a full of studenty types and white gentlemen with dreadlocks. After another beer I found myself able to tell the joke that Mike and I were crafting today:
MV1: I was walking along Oxford Street and you'll never guess who I bumped into?
MV2: No... Who?
MV1: Only Nighthawks by Edward Hopper.
MV2: Nighthawks... By Edward Hopper?
MV1: Yes. And you know what Nighthawks by Edward Hopper said to me?
MV2: What?
MV1: It said f*ck you Peter Kenny!
MV2: Curt. Very curt. Didn't you mind?
MV1: No I enjoy being challenged by art...
After First Matie returned to the smoke we were joined by three artistic outlaw acquaintances of Reuben's, who were connected with the OutsideIn show. This all interesting... Then up the hill to my twitten and later, after talking to the divine Tenerelli, I took gratefully and blamelessly to my bed.
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