I want salad but somehow I can't warm to it; it's just a bit curly and frayed about the edges, the sad cherry tomato exiled in a sea of wilted lollo rosso, the desultory splash of North Sea vinaigrette, the lonesome sweetcorn kernel suffering a serious bout of ennui.
Salad fails to excite me. What I want is roasted flesh served on a V12 bed of turbine smooth excellence. Maserati would do, with a dose of Sophia Loren draped across the cylinder head. Failing that a reasonably intact Hermann Goering era Merc or a full on Mussolini fuck off Alfa would suffice.
Perhaps I'll settle for this:
Cool as fuck and on the hunt for Benzes and BMW's the Bristol is a gentleman's conveyance of inestimable elegance with a massive Chrevolet V8 engine and crafted English cow scrotum.
I want one.
5 comments:
Aye.. and would last about 3 minutes parked outside any kebab house in Birky before it was tanned.
Stick with the wilted lollo rosso and a mondeo, they'll both still look and taste like shite, but you'll no lay awake of a night worrying about the neds.
As long as you continue to chauffeur me around town, I don't care what kind of car you're driving.
But you only bought a new(ish) car last year.
Was it a Daimler?
Stick with the salad and Kate Moss instead of Sophia.
Jimmy's right. If you dropped your kebab on the seats, you be most unchuffed with the dribbling juice on the cow danglies. And a haggis supper would stink the place out.
Better with a night bus.
Cover it with salad cream and you'll have the perfect pairing.
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