Phil Glanville Dot Com

Suddenly like a bank of fog you’re on a pebble beach masturbating a great white whale fluke dog cock of smoke and the Bering Strait and it’s a sit down wedding reception but oh no Paris Hilton is there on the guest list and you’re seated at her table but she’s come in fancy dress as Jane Roe from Roe vs Wade, which sends entirely the wrong message.

And I’ve lost my place in the book I was reading.

coolness = 10( (number of X chromosomes * 2) - 3) ^ gothness

I am doing fuck all.

Hit refresh to see what I am doing now.

Here’s a thought that struck me the other day. What do the good citizens of Gotham City do on clear nights*? Does crime run rampant across town, or do the criminals take the night off, too?

* because they can’t beam the bat signal onto the clouds, can they?

Where haven’t I been, eh? EH?

New job, no girlfriend. That’s where I’ve been. It’s been an interesting couple of months.

I’m starting to get back on top of things, so expect some updates - maybe (gasp) even a return of the Hotel Bartone.

I know, I know. No Hotel Bartone Episode 7 and not a jot of anything else in a while.

Here’s the thing: I can’t be bothered. It’s that simple. I can’t be arsed, shagged, or indeed fagged to do anything.  It just really is quite that simple.

Breakfast at the Hotel Bartone

22 miles north west of Oxford on the A44, the Hotel Bartone. We awake to a new morning, a quick cocktail, and an apparently deserted hotel. The shenanigans of last night seem a distant memory as we tuck into a boozy breakfast - but naturally it won’t be that simple, or else there wouldn’t be a story to tell.

The Hotel Bartone - Episode 6 [18:28m]

I just went looking for free MP3s of “Land of Hope of Glory”, “Jerusalem” and “I Vow To Thee My Country” online, and the best I could come up with was an - admittedly reasonable - rendition of “Jerusalem” recorded by a girls’ school choir from America.

Where did England go? Admittedly I left, but that was because I couldn’t fucking stand living there any more.

And that’s why we didn’t win the World Cup.

Doctor Hugh

22 miles north west of Oxford on the A44, the Hotel Bartone. Having taken a sharp left into the realm of horror as a wild beast tore a bloody trail through the Hotel, we find ourselves in the small hours of the night on the fairway of the Hotel’s golf course staring at a victim of a possible vampire attack.

The Hotel Bartone - Episode 5 [16:40m]

Sometimes I sit on the sofa and pretend that there is a large and luxuriant potted fern in the corner of the living room.

There isn’t of course.  The only thing potted around here is the shrimp.

And mother’s head.