As the casting director of my life’s drama, this minute I am lying prostrate on my own couch. Sweethearts, loosen my corset, pass me some smelling salts, and a script.
In the wake of rich Nick pickings, and truly generous replies from the rest of you on my beef with censorship, my fields are now lying bracken. Maybe Captain Tom could get his Wuenschelrute out and find me a fecund source of oil. As an aside: That’s the trouble with script writing: One moment you dream of riding on a hand granade, the next, with a mind of its own, the dialogue becomes all slippery. Was it Eddie Fisher who let his hand hang out of a gondola only to find himself that which Venice’s waterways were full of?
I rarely visit my blog’s dashboard since I don’t need statistics to sustain my happyness. However, whilst contemplating how best to deal with mounting back blog, I idled over there and what do I find under today’s four Top Searches: “Men with heaving bollocks”. No bull. Am resolved that, from now on, I will venture over to dashboard at short intervals. It’ll stop me mid stream, if not mid scream.
Whilst my inner Drama Queen is trying to regain some sort of exposure to the natural world, I have gone all Bambi when he first meets Feline. Bashful. My tongue is tied. Why not write my acceptance speech, as to your ”praise” heaped on me, first? Rough draft.
Ignoring the trophe handed to me I shall thank my mother for not having aborted me. I will thank Phil and consorts for many things as yet to be detailed, and now Angola lusts after me. The Goth giving me a leg up. My reputation upheld, my wit shot to bits, caustic and all other acid supplies running low, my well in need of refilling, my status as head of mind nunnery in jeopardy.
In Magnus Magnussum’s spirit I have started, not that that”ll finish me. Where there is fire there will be ashes to rise out of.
Talking of which, and to give the star of this week’s show first billing, never trust a man who will not only drop commentators but litter. I am outraged. Pet hate, John Gray? Make that my Hound of Baskerville: http://nickhereandnow.blogspot.com/2012/01/dishonesty.html.
Nick, I ask you: You, the always upright citizen, dropping litter because there are NO recepticles about and you can’t be arsed to take your garbage back home? Let me ask you a question: Who, the fuck, do you think is going to clear up after you? And if you are going to tell me that that is what you pay council tax for I’ll never talk to you again. Come on. I dare you.