I was going to devote a post to The Attack of the 50ft Woman, but there's only so much you can say about 50 ft women. They're, well, rather tall and have breasts that could double as inter continental ballistic missiles.
Instead I have decided to devote a few words to slugs. I have a fiercely held (though empirically unproven) conviction that slugs appear through wormholes in the space/time continuum. They appear overnight from nowhere to deposit their slime on my hallway parquet flooring. Gratifyingly they dissolve when sprinkled with salt, but unfortunately this doesn't stop them emerging from the wormhole the next night.
There are few less pleasant experiences than a slug squelched underfoot. The resultant goo oozing between ones toes is a cross between snot and a lightly poached egg. Wiping the essence of slugness from between ones toes is not the perfect start to the day.
That is all I have to say about slugs at this time.
I've been inJeffrey Bernard mode again recently, reminiscing about the cuddly nature of the past when you could cadge a fag in a pub without some prig nosed arsehole pointing to the subtly displayed NO SMOKING MAXIMUM FINE £2 MILLION sign before digging into their cous cous.
I don't frequent the public house much these days, preferring to avoid the yachtsman hearties who frequent these parts and bugger on about topsails, reef knots, and inverted sphincters in loud braying voices. The locals wince into their drams and mutter about 'bastard English', but in truth they're just rephrasing the same conversations they've been having for the last twenty years and certainly aren't past masters in bar room banter.
Even worse, Bobby the reliably bald and consistently rude barman has popped his cloggs and the premises no longer echo to the sweet refrain of 'no, you can't have any food, we switched the fryers off half an hour ago'. The landlords daughter with her delightfully squint glass eye doesn't even visit any more, which just shows what a sorry pass the place has come to.
The pub should be a sanctum for the lame and halt where healthiness is frowned upon as a foul and wholly inexplicable perversion. The way things are going these days it's only a matter of time before it's compulsory step aerobics under the optics.
Whenever I listen to an an anaemic lentil eater extolling the virtues of the vegetarian diet I just think about sheep. How anybody can have any qualms about eating something so unbelievably stupid beats me. Where I live they amble along the sides of the public road, interrupting their gormless chomping only to wander into the path of oncoming traffic to deposit their sheepness on radiator grills.
They look thick at the best of times, and when freshly shorn are probably the ugliest creature on God's earth; all protruding bones and big lumpen head. Lambs aren't so bad looking I grant you, but given their plug ugly destiny it is only right and proper that they be dismembered and grilled.
Apparently the Welsh occasionally take a sheep as a sexual partner, which just goes to show what a staple diet of leeks does to you.
I think I'll go out tomorrow and hunt down some road kill. I'm due recompense from the wooly cretins for the number of my car bumpers they have left misshapen and covered in baa entrails.
Have a lamb chop, you know it's the right thing to do.
I don't normally take an instant dislike to people. Actually that's a lie, I frequently do and my wholly unjustified preconceptions are almost invariably justified.
What can one do when an Edinbugger drives up the hill in a Chyrsler (who I profoundly hope go bust and cease offending my eyeballs) monstrosity and announces that 'I don't suppose you've got round to HD TV up here yet have you'?
Then there's the fat lesbians who complain that they can feel the mattress springs, the boring adulterers who arrive 'incognito' in pick 'n' mix Germanmobiles, and the Americans who've just done Barcelona and are dropping in on their way to the auld country where their Great Great Uncle O'Paddywhacker built a shebeen and fathered five inbreeds.
The Continentals aren't so bad. I quite like the French because they're obviously scared, and I'm not too down on the Italians because they have decent dress sense, but I have to draw the line when in comes to being friendly to Spaniards. They tried to invade us, and sank. They should just get over it and make some paella with our whelks, the thieving daygos.
It's the tourist season and I'm feeling chipper. A bit of bitter hatred ingrained in my being will see me through the months ahead and prevent me from decapitating an ingrate.