I’ve had severe problems (Spondylolisthesis) with my lower back since the age of twenty-four. Because of it being degenerative doctors dismissed there potentially being something wrong with the upper part too. After nine years a specialist in Bristol finally decided to get it x-rayed.
Neighbour knocked on front door earlier, thought I was M. Offer to go get M, but no, want message relayed. They aren’t social distancing from door, which I already have Continue reading
There’s something wrong with what we feed our cats. It isn’t secretly added or hidden from the ingredients. It’s right there on the label staring us in the face, but apparently we never see it.
Covid-19 will mark a momentous turning point in zombie films/TV and, for that matter, anything of a post-Apocalyptic nature. Continue reading
It’s said not all heroes wear capes; but what of non-daring-and-dashing cape wearing types: does anyone give a damn for our dilemma, the misery life is made thanks to comics, movies and TV? It’s a royal pain in the utility belt!
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.
As purromised last week. Yet somehow still hot of the purress.
This post two furking poems about cats; next post one poem about Two Cats F**king.
A sad, tragic, dismal culmination of events that saw defeat snatched from the jaws of victory; the gods of genius not so much unfavourable . . . more kept at bay by a needy beast desperately determined to fulfil its own agenda. Continue reading
Everything needed to know in under one-hundred and twenty-five words. Continue reading