Anne Boleyn, that is. She had twelve fingers, you know. Including thumbs. I went to the Sinister picnic. Some people there, they knew of the Boy G. They said "Hey, Greg" or "Mr Pallis!" or other such comments. Other people, however, gave blank looks of unknowingness. I have therefore resolved to post more. But it was good, oh yes. Better than Grandaddy even, although not quite as good as A1. I'd rank it level with Ladytron, myself. At the Odeon cinema, the meeting point, they were playing Death in Vegas over the tannoy. This was a good omen. The first alcohol was therefore consumed around 2.10, as the Pinefox led a small exploratory party up the hill. There was jesting about the death of Richard Ashcroft's career, which is always fun. It strikes me that "sinister" would be a good word to play in Scrabble. At the picnic, people talked. Peter Carter claimed to know three people who liked "Beyond the Sunrise". Erica confessed to owning a pair of trainers. Dafyd asserted Kit-Kat chunkies to be the kings of the chocolate world. I ate Haribo. Nice. The football was a triumph. The loathsome black-Tshirt army were annihilated 6-2, thanks to superb goalkeeping from Ken, a pitch-invading defender in a suit by name of Jeff, and Cazza's tactical genius. The Pinefox suggested I stole a hat-trick, but in fact my searing last-minute run was curtailed by a blatant tackle from behind in the six-yard box, so I had to stick with two. Less than Owen. More than Shearer. Stewart and Hayles prepare to rock the Premiership in '02 as Bristol Rovers, my Bristol Rovers, sink beneath the waves. Traitors. Then on to the Spread Eagle, where beer was drunk and a certain rowdy Spanish woman said raucous things about the size of Cliff from Gay Dad's knob. A vote was staged as to the fittest member of S Club 7, and won, inexplicably, by Hannah. Ken attempted to disprove all theories relating to Vodka dilution in one stroke of Red Bull genius, and almost made it, almost. He's a geezer, Ken is. Together, we've vowed nothing shall stop us moshing and headbanging come B&S London. Unless they play Family Tree. Then I, for one, will fall over and theratrically clutch my throat. A look at the half-eaten box of Celebrations revealed Sinisters, on the whole, prefer Maltesers to Bounties, did you know that? You do now. Finally, on to Tigermilking, where there were free Flying saucers. Yum. Blondie, Baxendale and Kenickie were played. And some B&S, also. Carter digged my R'n'B groovings to 'No Diggety', so he made me perform some sort of secret handshake with him. I suspect I may be his blood brother now, or something. After the event, he tried to get me to miss the last tube (caught with four minutes to spare) with talk of "getting some food", so maybe he'd sworn to be my Supervillain nemesis, instead. These things are useful to know. In conclusion, Descartes' family was from Cartes, and Dave Eggers is a poor man's David Foster Wallace. Then we had some tea. Greg. +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister@missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo@missprint.org. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "frighteningly named Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+