Picking a fight with the wrong wall.

The ‘right wall’ was one I knew in Australia, a long time ago.

It would have been perfect to lose a fight against, with spikes along the top and obnoxious graffiti of classics such as “fuck” and “fuck off”.


If I were to fight a man, a real human with real knuckles, and he had “fuck” and “fuck off” scrawled on his forehead and eyelids, I’d happily lose a fight to that guy.

However, a wall that says such things, in luminous red, whilst wearing spikes atop it and the kind of rough, granite-like texture which (again similar to the human version) suggests: “don’t lick me. I said DON’T lick me.”

Best of all though, it was wobbly.

It was like someone built a few feet of wall, as a sample for an exhibition; a piece of wall to hand out to curious passers by.

And it had been left, leaning up against another wall for structural, and perhaps emotional, support.

I could have given that big bad Disney-villain of a wall a good smack in wherever its ‘chops’ might be considered to be in the moment, and then, clutching the remnants of my fist, looked up as it wobbled a little more but far more unendearingly, towards me, and finally upon me.

Obviously, I was (and generally am) in no mood to win, as losing is far more romantic, especially if it kills you.

But rather than seizing the moment, and I instead ripped my hand open putting it through a drywall several years later, because of some silly business with which I shan’t bore you (but if you’re really interested in being bored – it was something to do with mathematics).

It didn’t even tell me to “fuck off”, let alone “fuck”. It was pallid-looking, wholly passive, forgettable and yet I wish I really could forget it as I regret the exchange entirely.

It was just the most easily-accessible, convenient wall within striking distance.

Ho hum, never mind. I’ve a lovely little scar on my knuckle now, which really impresses people when they take very, very close examination of that particular knuckle, usually at my insistent invitation.

And I don’t have hugely high standards, as though I’d settle for nothing less that that beast they have only in bits now across Berlin, or that mean old King Kong of a wall in Jerusalem, but it’s good to feel good about the walls you pick a fight with.

Still, I’ll never forget that true blue beauty of solitary architecture, staring at me from across the street in Bondi, winking at me (not really – that’s a lie) and saying sweet somethings of “fuck” and “fuck off”, a classy mess of spikes casually laid on top with an ‘I just woke up like this’ attitude.

One can get by doing very little, so long as the ‘very little’ is done, or attempted, with attitude.

Exhibit A, see above.


When Life Hands You Lemons; Do Whatever the Hell You Want


Nice one.


If you insist…

I, however, will be knocking the sour bejeezus out of those lemons and over my garden wall because; thanks for the lemons but I’m going to have to destroy them now.

Thanks though.

I’ll knock those lemons into the river.

Sour-up some fish.

Put it on a T-Shirt and promote the hell out of it.

“Go Sour Fish!”

Why not put it on a T-shirt?

There are people who criticize things on T-shirts:

“Oh really? Is that cute little T-shirt supposed to sum you up?”

Yes – motherfucker. Why else do you think I’m permitting it to lay upon my canvas?

Sure my torso’s a canvas. It’s the only real billboard I have and I’m going to have to use it to sum myself the fuck up owing largely to the fact I’ve nothing to utter but: “Aarrgghh!”

https://samsywoodsy.com/2013/11/06/how-many-as-is-appropriate/ shall tell you more; though my spelling has altered somewhat.

Of course I see the chest as a flag.

Let it remain brightly.

So, offered lemons; perhaps you could make lemonade.

I, however, designed a really rather nifty T-shirt and flag.

I think it’ll suit the masses marvellously.

And they really deserve a break.

You need not make just a T-shirt and flag.

One could demonstrate the outer limits of human imagination and ingenuity and go about staunchly and unapologetically creating lemonade.

I’m not ashamed of making lemonade; it’s just that I’m more of a T-shirt and flag kind of guy.

That’s what my friends say about me.

Flags are our history and T-shirts are our expression of extremely personal nationhood.

No man is an island (including the Isle of Man), unless he T-shirt lets you know otherwise.

Should his T-shirt state: “I’m Up and Dressed! What The F**k More Do You Want?!” then fuck that guy and his life choices.

Imagine the scene of the purchase:

1: “Louis! Look at this here shirt! We have to get that for you!”

Louis: (laughing) “Oh come on you guys! I know I like a lie-in but that T-shirts got swearing on it!”

I’m sure you’ll appreciate my “fuck that guy and his life choices” comment.

And although what one wears might not necessarily denote what one is; it is a truth that a guy who looks awesome is a guy who looks awesome and the looking-awesome guy who looks awesome probably has a degree of insight and input into looking so awesome-guyish.

Essential; a funny or expressive phrase upon your T-shirt says something about you.

Hence, therefore and thus; make it something awesome.

Be awesome.

Beats making lemonade.