Foreboding

One thing was certain,

Cheam

I'm so glad I don't live in Cheam any more.

Winter Solstice

Missed it.

Drats.

Oeutres Turps Oueutres Meoures

In my day the folk singingy people used to stick to a reliable Cornish-Bristol sort of accent which anyone can do, so anyone can join in. And it's goodbye to arrrll you young ladies of Spairrn, for we're bound for the Rrrriooo Grrrrande. You know the sort of thing.

The stakes have been raised, now you have to offer a fruity and you'll-be-amused-by-its-pretentiousness Dublin and all the fun has gone out of it. I blame the Pogues. And the Chieftains. Too-ra-li-oo-ra-li-add-ity? A simple -addy will suffice, thank you.

Also the English have to be blamed for everything, including lack of sexual intercourse, persecution, the sending of criminals to Strine instead of hanging them &c &c (& as well deserved). I find this tiresome. O bogus Gael, the 'craic' you smoke from a pipe is brain-damaging enough.

Readers: Why the lack of posts? Have you died?

Self: No, I am in paid employment. 06:00 Awake! For Morning in the Bowl of Night!
21:00 Hooome to Hooove and bed. From Bexhill. M2F.
Weekends, coma and rooting out five clean shirts.
But - I am not ungrateful.

Readers: What has been th'biggest lifestoile change sints y'divoce? Two years ago.

Self: Then, I would spend my Saturday evenings silent upon a page in my Larousse Gastronomique.

Readers: Now?

Self: I have just fucked up opening a can of Prince's chopped pork and ham because the key went all wongly. Again.