I'm emailing farmers. For September. I speak Google. I will perform tasks and my reward will be slow Frenchification plus knowledge of self-sufficiency. These are the reasons I gave the agency when they asked why do you want to do this, why, come on, why, really. I missed out "not wanting to go back to a country now ruled by chubby blue scum", because it's partially my fault that that scum has risen (sorry), because I didn't immediately register a proxy when the polling card arrived, because I was busy doing fuck all, then when I was away and trying to phone-register they always had a problem with the computer, or it was the wrong hour or day, and now we've got five years.
Across the street is a carousel of withered white horses with no one on them, and that carousel tune [Who gets the royalties?] is playing. It really symbolises something. Besides the death of the things-spinning-round industry. What happens to carousel attendance during a recession? [It goes round and round?] (A lot of brackets are happening today, to stop the words blowing away in the wind)...(...if words could blow away in the wind, which ones would you find in the gutter?) [Well maybe there'd just be a jumble of letters becoming mush or being swept into piles and burned] (This is an old idea) [Is it though?] (Yes) [Yeah I agree] (It's probably in The Phantom Tollbooth anyway) [I could imagine so. That's a good book] (I agree) [Good] (Great) [Right] (Well then) [On with the story] (There isn't one) [Something about politics and carousels?] (It was waffle) [I'm sure I saw a thread and the start of an analogy] (Really?) [Well they were far away...it was hard to tell] (Pigeons are spitfires from the right distance and angle) [Bollocks] (You know what I mean) [Likewise] (Touché) [Is that French?] (Think so) [A new story then] (Alright. Last night I climbed up a rock and there was an amazing view and nobody died. The end) [That it?] (Yeah. What more do you want?) [Romance] (I licked the rock on the way up) [And mild peril] (My knee bled) [Moral dilemmas] (I had biscuits but didn't offer them round, knowing that there wouldn't be enough for everyone) [That's not a dilemma] (I try) [I can see] (The end) [Good] (Thanks for nothing) [Have you got any others?] (They're in bits) [What's the last line you wrote?] (I am peeved) [Nobody says that] (Well it amused me) [Well it's shit] (That's mean) [That's me]
A Cumec or Two
It's floody with a chance of sun. It's raining in your pants and the lightning gets behind your eyelids and the thunder punches your ballbag and some people's feet have rotted off, you can see them at the edges of puddles like white toads.
The sky needs putting back together. There's a tree at the bottom of the weir turning over and over and shards of it are being washed down brownstream. Lidl is out of socks and the carpenter is out of arks. The snakes are here too. It's Biblemania. I nearly unintentionally strimmed one. It went straight down into the earth and was never heard from again. It must've known about The Imminent Inspection. Champion strimmers have been flown in for a five day orgy of wet destruction. There must be no long grass or other hazard within fifty metres of any tent. The inspector will spend the day trudging the perimeter in flip-flops and if he so much as stubs his toe he'll bury the campsite and ban us all from France for life. It's tomorrow. Tenterhooks are being issued and as soon as we find out what they are we'll all be on them. But the internet's been washed away and the dictionary of idioms is up shit creek.
The sky needs putting back together. There's a tree at the bottom of the weir turning over and over and shards of it are being washed down brownstream. Lidl is out of socks and the carpenter is out of arks. The snakes are here too. It's Biblemania. I nearly unintentionally strimmed one. It went straight down into the earth and was never heard from again. It must've known about The Imminent Inspection. Champion strimmers have been flown in for a five day orgy of wet destruction. There must be no long grass or other hazard within fifty metres of any tent. The inspector will spend the day trudging the perimeter in flip-flops and if he so much as stubs his toe he'll bury the campsite and ban us all from France for life. It's tomorrow. Tenterhooks are being issued and as soon as we find out what they are we'll all be on them. But the internet's been washed away and the dictionary of idioms is up shit creek.
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