haha thanks Simon. There's a low budget follow up you might like, where we discuss whether someone is a twat, or a cock or a cunt or something else altogether https://youtu.be/Br-xj2IRf2I
Such a coincidence that my son travelled to Stuttgart this week on his first "business trip" - I mean of course my real flesh-and-blood son, not you, you hallucinatory heffalump. It tickles me plenty to think that my two progeny, the real son-o-my-loins and the skraggy aspirant, could have rubbed shoulders in such an exotic locale. What larks, eh Pip?
So we've established that if you gob off the Eiffel Tower you'll hit someone who merits it, but what if you rub one out? Will your seed be also cast out to the deserving? Or will it fall on stony ground as with the seed of Onan?
haha that is a funny old thing. He always was your favourite, shed from your tepid loins with a silver spoon in his twee little bottom. While I was birthed, raised and shedded in darkness, like a quivering calf. Only hung up as a cold, hooked cow corspe during his Rocky IV phase, and put to use as a human pinata at his Quinceanera for his "Mexican" phase. I remember the time I felt the touch of your hand, as you slid that meathook into the scruff of my neck, and that was my closest approximation of love. If I brushed shoulders with them, he'd have bloody known it. I'm not the feeble garden gnome, he once positioned me as for that summer. I know how to wield a rod, and I'd have netted a good few of his pencil-pushing cohorts, had the moment struck.
haha I am yet to find a French pate worthy of my load, from even a modest height. Not to say its much to speak of, or wouldn't break up on contact with the smug French breeze. I would only be interested if I could guarantee the recipient wouldn't enjoy it. And how would I do that? With the life skills you left me, father - how would I do that, father?
Thanks pops! That torn picture of Morecome and Wise that fell out of your pocket, and you allowed me to keep, that Christmas served as inspiration. My personality actually split into bits in the dark. So I guess I have you to thank for too ey
All of this setup was only to create a Cain n' Abel drama for my own amusement and it looks like I'm on course for a fratricide to play out before the year is out. Which will be the hairy murderer and which the smooth-pated victim?
Haha I’m going to give that frat rat a clubbing the likes of which will rankle his wrinkly scalp into a mountain scape of knobbles the likes of which will never be summited by the legions of knits left without shelter by the rapid deforestation of their habitat. If he does survive, he’ll wake up with a Estonian accent and a penchant for lawn tennis
Portia, don't believe a fucking a thing that comes out of my biological father's mouth. He's a blaggard and a nonce, not necessarily in that order. Don't fall for his silver tongued vagueries. He's a bad egg of the pongiest descriptions - and I won't have him befoul my name, once his, in my own ruddy comment section
Steady on ole bean, you'll have the neighbours all scandalized with yer ruckus, yer huffin and puffin. It's for your own good I admonish you, as once I took a fatherly calloused palm to chastise your tender buttocks and you bawled your tiny eyes out. Mind you don't fall foul of my wrath once more, rapscallion.
I may be a puffin but I will not be excused of huffing - my brief forays into solvent “misuse” were modelled on your late night trips to the tool shed. Daddies working on his models again. “Out of glue, again, darling, this Howitzer is a right bastard”. You’re so strung out on PVA and misplaced glory I doubt you could find my considerable bottom!
True indeed that they called me Stringy Spud at school for all the traces of adhesive on my fingers, true indeed that my passion for modelling yielded naught but a shed full of empty glue tubes, but I came out of it in one piece to tell the tale. These days only a little late night paint thinner and a baggie of industrial solvent as a pick-me-up in the morn are my only indulgences.
The crackheads in Italy are beautiful, I mean physically aesthetically gorgeous. Your theory - which you have consistently espoused, is watertight. An Italian crackhead is an English soap star.
I love how you just go in hard on these places if they've somehow upset you in small ways. just proper two footed tackle hit jobs on entire countries.
Hahaha right. I once noticed a beautiful Italian woman looking my way. I matched her gaze, and she approached, asking for money. Only then did I realise she was a crackhead
Yeah I guess it is, isn't it. I had a flutter of doubt as I wrote that. English people go for an English then - but I don't think fish and chips is a thing anywhere else is it?
I was talking to someone who moved to the UK from New York the other day and she said that it’s the thing that everyone says they must have when they visit. But of course the problem with fish and chips is that it doesn’t work well for delivery. In any kind of water-tight container the whole thing quickly loses its charm. In any case, isn’t a hamburger actually a “German”? Or a hotdog? Anyway, I know I’m missing the point.
Fish and chips by the seaside, there's little better. but I think there's a lot of bad ones. I guess that's the same with most things. You are right, they can't be delivered. Just like a Mcdonalds. The chips get all soggy and flacid. They need to be eaten out of the paper. Germany may have invented the hamburger, but they haven't owned it. They gave up claim to it long ago. I had a decent hotdog there, but a hotdog's a hotdog as far I can tell. I prefer a sausage of higher esteem
I used to enjoy Herman ze German back in the day. In their Villiers Street branch they had a machine for turning a wurst into chunks that would make any man’s blood run cold.
Ze vurst of ze vurst! Is blood run cold a positive thing? If it is, I’ve been misreading it all these years. I’m in switzeelrland this weekend so I’ll conduct a wiener report
Thank you Portia! I'm glad you liked that bit and it is fucking awesome to hear you enjoy the travel stuff so much, I'm going to look up this Bruce Chatwin fella, and really explore the extent of this compliment! I can see he is a deceased writer. To think my writing is appreciated alongside a actually dead actual writer is more than I could hope for.
Slippery slope and match of the day. Enjoyed that
haha thanks Simon. There's a low budget follow up you might like, where we discuss whether someone is a twat, or a cock or a cunt or something else altogether https://youtu.be/Br-xj2IRf2I
Could be all three but I will take a look
actually I did beg for milk at a festival last year
I would beg to differ - and I beg in no other circumstances
Such a coincidence that my son travelled to Stuttgart this week on his first "business trip" - I mean of course my real flesh-and-blood son, not you, you hallucinatory heffalump. It tickles me plenty to think that my two progeny, the real son-o-my-loins and the skraggy aspirant, could have rubbed shoulders in such an exotic locale. What larks, eh Pip?
So we've established that if you gob off the Eiffel Tower you'll hit someone who merits it, but what if you rub one out? Will your seed be also cast out to the deserving? Or will it fall on stony ground as with the seed of Onan?
Great little sketches, Sam.
haha that is a funny old thing. He always was your favourite, shed from your tepid loins with a silver spoon in his twee little bottom. While I was birthed, raised and shedded in darkness, like a quivering calf. Only hung up as a cold, hooked cow corspe during his Rocky IV phase, and put to use as a human pinata at his Quinceanera for his "Mexican" phase. I remember the time I felt the touch of your hand, as you slid that meathook into the scruff of my neck, and that was my closest approximation of love. If I brushed shoulders with them, he'd have bloody known it. I'm not the feeble garden gnome, he once positioned me as for that summer. I know how to wield a rod, and I'd have netted a good few of his pencil-pushing cohorts, had the moment struck.
haha I am yet to find a French pate worthy of my load, from even a modest height. Not to say its much to speak of, or wouldn't break up on contact with the smug French breeze. I would only be interested if I could guarantee the recipient wouldn't enjoy it. And how would I do that? With the life skills you left me, father - how would I do that, father?
Thanks pops! That torn picture of Morecome and Wise that fell out of your pocket, and you allowed me to keep, that Christmas served as inspiration. My personality actually split into bits in the dark. So I guess I have you to thank for too ey
All of this setup was only to create a Cain n' Abel drama for my own amusement and it looks like I'm on course for a fratricide to play out before the year is out. Which will be the hairy murderer and which the smooth-pated victim?
Haha I’m going to give that frat rat a clubbing the likes of which will rankle his wrinkly scalp into a mountain scape of knobbles the likes of which will never be summited by the legions of knits left without shelter by the rapid deforestation of their habitat. If he does survive, he’ll wake up with a Estonian accent and a penchant for lawn tennis
This comment is even crazier than Sam's post, and that's saying something.
Portia, don't believe a fucking a thing that comes out of my biological father's mouth. He's a blaggard and a nonce, not necessarily in that order. Don't fall for his silver tongued vagueries. He's a bad egg of the pongiest descriptions - and I won't have him befoul my name, once his, in my own ruddy comment section
Steady on ole bean, you'll have the neighbours all scandalized with yer ruckus, yer huffin and puffin. It's for your own good I admonish you, as once I took a fatherly calloused palm to chastise your tender buttocks and you bawled your tiny eyes out. Mind you don't fall foul of my wrath once more, rapscallion.
I may be a puffin but I will not be excused of huffing - my brief forays into solvent “misuse” were modelled on your late night trips to the tool shed. Daddies working on his models again. “Out of glue, again, darling, this Howitzer is a right bastard”. You’re so strung out on PVA and misplaced glory I doubt you could find my considerable bottom!
True indeed that they called me Stringy Spud at school for all the traces of adhesive on my fingers, true indeed that my passion for modelling yielded naught but a shed full of empty glue tubes, but I came out of it in one piece to tell the tale. These days only a little late night paint thinner and a baggie of industrial solvent as a pick-me-up in the morn are my only indulgences.
Thanks Portia, it's me and Sam's little pastime, to bang out mad bantz in father/son personas
and yes I am referring to the incident in the fish farm, you gill-stuffing algae-nonce
You keep Portia's name out of your coy fucking mouth, father.
The crackheads in Italy are beautiful, I mean physically aesthetically gorgeous. Your theory - which you have consistently espoused, is watertight. An Italian crackhead is an English soap star.
I love how you just go in hard on these places if they've somehow upset you in small ways. just proper two footed tackle hit jobs on entire countries.
Hahaha right. I once noticed a beautiful Italian woman looking my way. I matched her gaze, and she approached, asking for money. Only then did I realise she was a crackhead
Isn’t fish & chips on a Friday “an English”? That’s how I think of it.
(Cue somebody with the tedious explanation of how it is in fact a Turkish meal brought to the UK by migrants from Palestine and not English at all.)
Yeah I guess it is, isn't it. I had a flutter of doubt as I wrote that. English people go for an English then - but I don't think fish and chips is a thing anywhere else is it?
I was talking to someone who moved to the UK from New York the other day and she said that it’s the thing that everyone says they must have when they visit. But of course the problem with fish and chips is that it doesn’t work well for delivery. In any kind of water-tight container the whole thing quickly loses its charm. In any case, isn’t a hamburger actually a “German”? Or a hotdog? Anyway, I know I’m missing the point.
Fish and chips by the seaside, there's little better. but I think there's a lot of bad ones. I guess that's the same with most things. You are right, they can't be delivered. Just like a Mcdonalds. The chips get all soggy and flacid. They need to be eaten out of the paper. Germany may have invented the hamburger, but they haven't owned it. They gave up claim to it long ago. I had a decent hotdog there, but a hotdog's a hotdog as far I can tell. I prefer a sausage of higher esteem
I used to enjoy Herman ze German back in the day. In their Villiers Street branch they had a machine for turning a wurst into chunks that would make any man’s blood run cold.
Ze vurst of ze vurst! Is blood run cold a positive thing? If it is, I’ve been misreading it all these years. I’m in switzeelrland this weekend so I’ll conduct a wiener report
I have one more for Stuttgart
The Unseasoned Spaetzle of Western Europe
Honestly, I've never been there. Just joining you on the dunk. Fun read!
haha that’s a zinger! well zung. I believe in the industry that’s called an alley oop, but I’m not the baller I never was
"Pedicidal witch's cottage", and loads of other gems. You're my favourite travel writer together with Bruce Chatwin, Sam, well done!
Thank you Portia! I'm glad you liked that bit and it is fucking awesome to hear you enjoy the travel stuff so much, I'm going to look up this Bruce Chatwin fella, and really explore the extent of this compliment! I can see he is a deceased writer. To think my writing is appreciated alongside a actually dead actual writer is more than I could hope for.