About words, well, one word in particular.
Part II: BEER!
(in which many misconceptions from both sides of the pond will be utterly destroyed!): Continue reading
Part I: Getting the Filthy Fags Out the Way First
(in which is included a FREE inspiring message of encouragement to anyone trying to knock tobacco on the head)
Saucy Sally in the Tale of the Terrible Sense of Humour
There is a coffee maker
Just along the way
Simple and rustic
Open each and every day
A dark rich roast
Mixed with a whiff
Of fresh tobacco smoke Continue reading
Weston-super-Mare is located on the South West coast of England, twenty-two miles from Bristol. Once a glorious Victorian seaside resort, more recently host to Banksy’s Dismaland, it has unique ways and customs found nowhere else in the West Country region, regardless of how dark and deep into it one is willing to go.
Wot with being educated in sarf London, one left skool not well-endowed on the grammar front. Upon realisation of how the wrong 2 can leave a whole sentence in complete error—‘knackered’ as they say where I come from—I recoiled in utmost terror.
With great Gusto, I tried to get much better. Gusto—guess what—did really great, while I just mediocre. Correct me if wrong, I’ll be glad. But a two-way street it’s apparently not, as discovered to my bad.
Madge, me and the Brixton Academy; the latest entry in the Diary of a Mad Pest Controller.
As purromised last week. Yet somehow still hot of the purress.
This week two f**king poems about cats; next week one poem about Two Cats F**king.