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Showing posts from April, 2005
As I meandered home through the grave yard, struggling to undo the knot I had left myself on my hockey shorts, so that I might express my fluid bloatedness, I stepped on a snail. Not full on although it was a crushing that would leave a survivor without his (actually I cannot be sure if it was of the male or female persuasion) home and probably doomed to be some keen bird’s early morning breakfast. As I urinated on a tree it occurred to me that the truly ‘undertrodden’ are not the plebiscites who can barely afford a can of Tennents Super Strength Lager because they are socially abused by the high and mighty, but the snails. I step on at least one a day. It is not really my/our fault as the little slimy bastards get everywhere. Just to round it up, as I put myself away and moved toward the wrought iron gate of the churchyard, I stepped on another. If it turns out that Buddhism is the one true and only valid belief system then I am in the shit. I will most likely come back as a snail onl
There is a time and a place for doing a back flip whilst holding a pint of cider. Yesterday, at about four in the afternoon, outside the Dog and Vomit on Mutley Plain was perhaps as good a time as any. I mean, perhaps it should be asked whether or not there is a good time or place to do such a manoeuvre, ever or anywhere, but quite possibly, outside the pub, basking in the sunshine, surrounded by a baying crowd of inebriated Sunday revellers and being watched by the city-wide CCTV system is as good as it gets. Patrick certainly thought it was. Patrick had been telling Joanne, Meg, Tilly and myself about how, in his younger days, he used to be a gymnast. I do not have a picture of Patrick to illustrate exactly how hard to believe this statement was. All I can say is that Patrick looks to have the sort of body that had started larger than most and then actively decided to take the title of being the most squat and large and barrel-like ever. I can reveal, although I probably shouldn’t,
Bruce, that’s me, otherwise known as the Professor of Lurve, formerly known as the Doctor of Lurve but that was before my PhD paper titled ‘Aspects of Lurve – a Luving Look at Languid Lurve Licks’ was so well received by the GMCL, the General Medical Council of Lurve, and I took a seat at their behest at St. Cupid’s, has a small problem. There’s this chick, right, and she is very, very, very lovely indeed. When I saw her face for the first time I almost dropped the condoms and when she turned and my eyes fell to her succulently pert backside I fumbled the lubricant. I picked it up and handed it to the bloke behind the till and he asked if I had a Boots loyalty card and I replied,” No, I’m afraid I don’t.” You see, she is an incredibly well dressed and kempt petite, dark haired, dark skinned sex bomb of a dispensing pharmacist behind the counter at my local Boots. She is frequently in my thoughts and we have spoken on two separate occasions. Unfortunately, these were both in Boots whe
So, goddamn it, I have had to move out of the beachside residence. Summer is coming which means the Emmetts are coming down to Kernow to populate our beaches and foul our waters with their putrid urban body-slime. They bring their swollen red bellies and obscure Northern accents and a dress sense that makes even me vomit and let’s face it, I don’t have a dress sense at all, and they rent our old bungalow for exorbitant sums and enjoy that loveliest of locations whilst the sun is beaming and the house is warm and not frigidly cold and I’ve moved into a flat in Plymouth which is alright and it’s free but I’m going to miss evening games of golf at Ivyleaf when the sun is drooping behind the Atlantic and we drink beer and smoke spliff and smack fuck out of our golf balls and enjoy the time. Goddamn it. I sneer in the general direction of all this that displeases me so this thundery afternoon. Look at me sneer. Is that not a sneer to be proud of? Eh?