Tag: Shopping
Tricateur’s AGM
A, dark, village hall, sparsely furnished with school chairs, gaudy seventies vintage, five in number, and a long, trestle table, clothed in beige linen, which is topped with a variety of clothing and samples. In the backroom, a kitchen and utility area, there is machine gun female chatter, the clinking of glasses, and the smell of fried onions.
Flo was only a half-hour late after rampant sex with PC Dock, an assignation that she could not get out of. God, was he a wild thing when he got going, Flo reflected detecting a slight limp, as she unstuck herself from her green, latex jock-strap. Transexuality was such a drag sometimes.
The door swang open. It was Bella, a busby sat jauntily on her beehive.
‘Been screwing the state again Flo?’ she cackled, spilling a slurp of Frascati on the echoey, parquet floor, ‘crahahahaharc’. Flo blushed and put down her binliner.
The right-hook propelled Bella backwards through the swing door. The Knitting party was begun.
Moredays
Seven
The man who ate too much made earthquakes and flooded the kettle: shit. Caught phishing from a shady little crook who chortled while the poor ate the door. Snidey-shadey little cookie bear. You are whatshisname …the dandy roger de covertly. Corsey goosy gander at the penal baritone croon in the gutter. He gotta ghetto message to who were what when the cuppa tea shadows light dims bins changed liners as shy nurse hides in the sluice room weeping drowned out loud slosh wash your step and no tread of tiptoes toga rot gut ache monthtime posture springing bile awhile away the time for more door con door. Thermidor viva la revoslooshun interloping heads you lose through it like butter razor daisy chain gang of knitterers and tumbrils made of four leaf clovers. Spread your winds and flyaway yesterday: beer grunge of yucky mucky Ducky Henderson, menacey Jamesons of Katie Elder’s Grouse. The vainglorious fourteenth of wrongdate started with a sip and hunger patience in tatters no tatties or owt else so it goes bloody nose, mucus splodge by pailstand, the excessiveness of dungeoness: god bless you mess with me take that fleshwound and posies of bruises daintily done. Shame on you amber nectarine sabbath morning tabatha slurp. Bootless Tomasz Toothless chokes on hasty unchomped lamb meat of god grimaces doorward bedward to aching allover morning lad morning. Jamjar of locusts quenched by adamsale aplenty and assassinate agony. Fizz light luncheon poached yellowfish & eggs: wonky angst and coolair waves good morning…
elevator
Night falls red
Night falls
Red
River night
Mist
Plop!
A Barbel coughs
Hooked on
Red
River night
Newshirt
A tiger has been killed by a woman: ‘This is all too common with tigers’ said an expert by-passer.
There is barely a chance of a cloudburst of toilet rolls in command economies.
Controversial preachers are bad for you and will carry a plain taupegovernment health warning.
Queen’s first horse was called ‘Peggy the Horse’.
An armless farmer in NE China, Fun Sushi, has built his own prosthetics from ploughshares and cheese graters close to hand.
Peggy the horse is dead. ‘The Queen is not dead’: Palace source.
Today
Zoomray alights on Stockholm as Sweden Burghers rise up wreckful with smashup attitude.
The whole world is a spreadsheet of posset and dross.
Valhalla orchestra plays misty for Major Sixty-Nine and his totter Abalone: human race factors at play again, and again, over time.
History stopped at 6.37 GMT.
Light crimson hand cream the emollient of choice for nutjobs, shares in cochineal soar like Anna Neagle.
Theft rash at Cannes: jewels to blame.
Ferrari elopes with Mercedes, Dante fitted up – same old dumbass yarn.
Eccles cake bomber found in microwave: ‘Little Imps!’ said a fishbowl spokeshave weeping in his absinthe, ‘Mine’s a sweeper.’ Incoholic dribble drabble if one asks.
Caustic soda fountains are good for you.
Indolent sex safer than casual sex: Comatose Times.
Red shank racket exposed in wetland areas after drone surveillance by Graf Zeppelin.
Turkish Delight found in Royal Jelly, workers out.
Queen Sulks Blue – savory meatball blows sun.
Cockroaches defy traps, thriving on sugary bait with anti-glucose gambit: ‘cunning little bastards!’ sez bug expert. Only solution no humans – take that you swine!
No pressure on the East Coast so chill. Filament of rain spreading from the light bulbs of Ghent, polders forewarned on modest drizzle. Not many dead yet.
Affray in Braintree; scruffy string implicated.
Guantanamo Bay traces found in Margarine: no comment from the Vatican.
Exposure to pornography causes masturbation say a bunch of wankers: curriculum changes in the pipeline: ‘Just pull the plug on it!’ demand Plumbers of Silesia.
Mad Dog Murdo eats a little often. Four people led away by elves.
‘Needless!’ say the Needful.
Anchovy cheesecake rage grabs Orange County, shagwrecks suspected.
The weather: general.
Sport: King Kong Wins Ping Pong in Yin Yang Cliffhanger.
‘No apparent reason the cause’ claims Universal Mind.
Snortology
Coated in a thin film of red goo, dressed up in my best & cleanest rags, awaiting transport to discuss matters of global significance with the international banking system, one’s mind turns to the necessity of eating hair and packing in the rhino sherbert.
Who has had it away with all the Conkers?
An almighty dump greets dawn at the Cut,
accompanied by a very careful and cautious bearer, who has nurtured it over
days, suffering all discomfort and self sacrifice: a Shite is Born! In repose,
drained and reflective, softly sad and relieved by its passing, the bearer
considers a yarn about the fat controllers epistles to Mountjoy Prison, where a
friend and neighbour awaits extradition, accused of drug running tons of
cannabis in the limbs and hydraulics of JCB’s. In the background the fate of
the badger is considered in the light of literature, online gaming, and cider
where it carries vital cultural significance. It is Saturday morning with all
its memories of early symptoms of my condition any moons ago: failed rushes to
the toilet, inability to get off the sofa to pee. Memories of the fall, the
collapse into Old Sparky; this and the rest are a living history, so is my
brother, Murdo Flower, who contacted me via his veteran pigeon, Quentin, to
inform me that, after a large ponder he has entered the National Village Idiot’s
competition (sponsored this year by Rockall Resident’s Collective). I dispatched
a good luck message on a left-handed Rizla, fed Quentin on dead toff pate, and
threw him out the window, before returning to the Smoking Room to find Flora in
hushed chat with a set of wheezy badgers. There is something afoot!
Preprandial Man
The sun has got a look-in, brief peeps to see the damage done by gray. Bacon and egg sandwich; bloggies (I forgot to mention the nappies at 9.15 as I was mid ablutions for an intensive period thereafter); balls were pinned & alpha falafels acquired; stretches were modest and seated; downloaded the blue book for downstairs porpoises; Wayne at war again; lunchtime is often an adventure on a Friday!
Happy Daze!
henry flower 