Why stay in the EU?
By the way, I’m not campaigning; I’m pleading.
Having come back recently from Italy and noticing the ubiquity of EU flags outside commercial centres and all government institutions; it would be frightfully embarrassing to explain this to them when next I visit.
How do you not take this personally?
When the Scots threatened and nearly did leave; I took it personally with a worrying proximity to truly meaning the much repeated mantra of “Fuck the Scots”.
And let us maintain the fact that Europeans are not a bunch (a fairly accomplished bunch at that) of folk to insult. Two World Wars and a whole load many more is an indication as to whether or not Euro-Unity is a necessity.
I can picture too easily the heaving shoulders of a Belgian confused and hurt as to why I left him; and I can only say “it’s not you. It’s not me either. It’s fucking Nigel!”
I loathe, with enough depth so state the word “loath” nice and slowly like I mean it, Nigel Farage.
As of then and as of now; he took purple from us.
And I had purple intentions; and only a few of them were throbby.
Mainly revolving around immigration, though less so by fantasising hoards of ‘worringly-brown’ families walking up to me in a dark alley and stealing my job and raping my benefits and far more so about wearing a fairly funky shade of the stuff as I make my way about the planet.
And now purple denotes displeasure towards all other dark shades; particularly skin-wise.
I might feel inclined to omit Europe from my travel from hereon; owing to being English and quite ‘simply’, ‘terribly’ and ‘awfully’ (not to mention ‘ever so quite rather’) embarrassed if that’s not too imposing thank you please sorry.
Similar to when travelling around any country where incredibly dangerously English is not the first-language and you are happened upon by a regrettable local regrettably insisting on some back-and-forth tongue wagging and all you can muster (in a manner as though protecting your family) is: “I’m sorry; I’m English”. Essentially translating as “I’m sorry…I’m English…I just can’t…”
Because I’m European.
I feel you’ll be able to tell the change in my demeanour; from dainty absurdist of luxury to…now…melancholy.
Perhaps I should have written more with an aim to convince in the hope of at least 1 chap happening upon it and from then seek to Remain.
And there are things that will be missed, and things we shall surely flinch at.
An economic dip (dipped in shit); forecast to upset even Eskimos.
A decline in international influence (we were an effective and moral country and now we can accomplish less for the world).
The future of generations only young are tarnished by the moral fibre of our elders; whilst the efforts of our even-elders are admonished (how could we have betrayed that corner of those foreign fields that are for ever England?) so as to indulge cowardice and ignorance at the hands of demagogue profiteers.
In a world of in dire thirst for unity, even less than that sacrifice of our European brothers and sisters; we have betrayed ourselves and the as-one spirit that can only come from a world of noble individuality.
From here; there is one way forward.
The absolute and merciless progression of compassion for one and all.
Outstanding or nothing.
The forging of great days or bust.
Though it is odd we are doing this now, not for our children, but for our grandchildren, such are the repercussions.
Epic-up Great Britain; for we now have no option but to save the world.
Ridiculous; isn’t it?
One of the most prosperous aspects of my body would have to be my limbs.
Vitals, organs and head are all fine, well and occasionally dandy; but it is in the lengthier extremities by which I earn my living and dying.
Naturally there will be some echoing hushed speculation as to why in the world my most extreme extremity; that of my really-rather-male junk (I’m talking about my penis; which is occasionally your penis) doesn’t bring home the bacon.
Because people will talk; that’s why.
Bringing home bacon with one’s flaccid phallus denotes that the two filthy breeds, pigs and apes, are come together in a manner that only David Cameron would find fetching.
Plus I imagine one would have to resort to tying it in a knot so as to carry said pork product, in which case I’d carefully consider the etiquette of the situation before I serve this to my wife and children.
Perhaps a bow is more suiting.
Perhaps bacon entwined in a pleasantly bowed father and husband penis is not suiting.
Either way, in any matter and whatever, my penis is more a class of width as opposed to length, meaning that whilst my wife and I appreciate regularly jabs (“What an occasion!”); I receive no passing praise in the street.
Instead, whilst my feet (previously listed – LINK) have had their say and instead to have many more (my feet, comrades, are non-negotiable), today is a matter of hands.
My hands; my hands.
I’d give my hands a round of applause if only that weren’t ridiculous.
Rather than cut to the chase, let us cut to the capture, and know now all of you; my hands massage elephants.
They can cause an elephant to wither, from fingertip to trunk; they can make elephants forget their own family.
It’s a grasp and shaft action, gripping a vast many roles of grey skin and then pushing the fucking elephant down to the fucking compound (should one deign to phrase it aggressively).
“Shove the elephant” is a mantra charged to endow one with hands like those of Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam, though my hands refuse to spend time hanging around on ceilings. They’re a rooftop collaboration and they massage elephants into submissive amnesia.
My hands are the talk of the town and the song of the city, strolling with stride into drinking establishments, emitting an elephant story or two, raising a few fingers in jest, inserting a few finger in romance pits and finally balling up into a versatile meat-boulder and making their way to the colonies because they really haven’t changed their views yet.
They may be a tad on the reactionary side but, being hands, fuck ‘em.
And whilst “Fuck ‘em” is assured, they still do some outstanding work in their community, if only they’d get along a tad more serene.
The left hand is of pomp, holding cigarettes in that certain way, twirling a movie star with the reddest lips about and lazily gesturing his way through dialogue that must surely have been signed by Shakespeare.
The right; sees to the garden.
It also has a way with dogs and doesn’t trust women wearing trousers.
This being so, when in and amongst the elephant community, they move on through and the population becomes congregation and I swear I’ve seen the elephants smile.
Have you ever seen an elephant smile? It looks like a vagina; pouting.
Unified they are too damn fine typists, whilst eagerly awaiting their return to the elephant village, the garden and the red carpet.
They can type 400 words a minute.
Or, to put it more accurately: they can type “400 words a minutes”; taking about 3-4 seconds to do so.
They can get a great deal done, my hands, so before you dismiss them as being not what this country needs in these sadly brave times; recall that the silliness occurring here goes a great way to give me something to do on a dozy Saturday, remind one another that being British does require a certain noble absurdism, and that from here on out; let’s just smile a tad more regularly. Eh?
Give my hands a chance.
And fuck Nigel Farage.
That’s an order.
Give my hands a chance and, it’s probably best, leave my penis be.
Thanks for doing so,
I was fortunate enough to notice recently that my feet are non-negotiable.
With me and where I am, they go and there they are.
Offer any offer and my response, with no tone of mirth nor pleasantries, shall come as: “and my feet? Have you calculated my feet?”
Look me in the foot when you’re talking to me.
From the ankle down I really do represent a threat to international internationalism, as opposed to national internationalism (in which people of a nation are in favour of internationalism owing to largely national issues and somewhat even-more-so-largely owing to yearning for a greater selection of cheeses and meats).
Before concurments of worldwide benevolence may take place, I’m going to need some devastatingly tasty preferences in terms of what my feet get out of it.
My feet deserve it.
Just look at them; they’re so helpless. They can’t even kick, their best efforts amounting to a slap-via-foot. They need a good mothering don’t they just.
They do themselves no favours; my feet are aloof, tending to look down upon most that tower above them.
Not to mention I have a bulbous toe.
“Bulbous? How so?” (I hear you mutter admiringly)
Well, sometimes a man’s got to swell, and I swell with an abundance of testosterone having nowhere else to go and an urge-undeniable to tell you all about it.
Every man must have a flaw, and whilst for the longest time I assumed this meant “floor” and found myself purchasing many (though I’m more of a wall-guy than a ceiling or floor-guy) before I realised the in actuality I needed a flaw.
Though what flaw to have?
To begin with, it’d better be sure to not interfere with my meaning; you know what I mean? Because if you don’t get my meaning and it’s due to my flaw interfering then I’m afraid I’m going to have to discipline it with the back and palm of my hand as though I’m fanning it poorly.
I hate being misconstrued, especially by something that’s eventually going to be in my toe.
So then what?
“Too much of a good thing” is something some people say sometimes.
What do I have that be bountiful?
Once such vast amounts coursing through me to the point by which I had to shave twice a day, if only it were my (muscular) jaw and (movie-star) chin but alas it…I had to shave my fiancé.
So much testosterone I made other people hairy and then by proximity their recently sprouted hair stood on end, less so as a matter of friction and more so as a desire for it.
I am most favourable in enclosed spaces with strangers, because everyone leaves with a tale to tell, a whole bunch of new friends, a great-day-in-the-morning grin and I fucked you all.
And I did that on my way back home to shave my fiancé, by gosh I must stop indulging in games of sardines.
It’s a wonder I can get my bulbous toe in nowadays, but they must come with me and I must be victorious at sardines, otherwise fucking you all in only half a victory.
By the way, having adorably helpless feet is a great way to meet women.
Just lay them on the table in front of some witty gals and state with no understanding of the possibility of a negative refrain:
“So…I see you’ve noticed my feet. Sure, they look like they can play a fair few concertoes (I’m not sorry) but they’ve only got a few left in them.
We’ve just come back from the chiropodist and…they’re gonners.
Apparently they’ve a condition known as, and I hope I’m pronouncing this correctly since I’m no fancy doctor with a hat from the city, but I think it’s called: ‘Isavedtoomanyorphansitus’ and now they’ve got nothing but their enormous fortune and me for company here in this dive.
Hey! I see you’ve got feet too, perhaps we could mingle with a little more tingle?
So it goes.
Look, it’s been weeks since I last posted and I had to get something up.
So this happened.
Not a lie has been told and I feel better.
My smashing jumper gifts me a perception from others as follows:
Erect but casual.
Sure, my erection might well enter the room without me owing to extraordinary confidence from the 5th limb, but all is well; I’m wearing a jumper for goodness sake.
Of course, whilst I might find purchase in such activities as sinking into a comfy armchair to the point drowning; all is well – “They say he had an erection with him at the time he went missing”.
I am confident there are those out there who will claim that luscious hair is the means to all favourably flavoured ends, but I tend to lean rather more towards the erection side of the debate, mainly because it’s sturdier to lean on.
A 21st Century renaissance chap has newer and distinctly less reasonable facial hair than the rest of the class and a tiresome duty to type with his erection.
This is the 21st Century after all (this far).
The erections of these people are named.
Weighed and measured.
And finally hung and smoked before being unleashed upon the unwittingly nearby congregation.
The regrettably nearby congregation
And, with regards to virginity, terminally there.
And I am among them, keeping all at a 6-inch reach from me and one thrust away from grasp.
Please don’t misinterpret me here; the erection doth not the wooing, for his is merely the domain of the pleasurable presence and chemical pride.
Rather more so it is the smashing jumper that doeth the greatest woo.
These stiches know a woo or two, with a pattern so simply super that neither man, woman, beast nor basil bush can do much but falteringly implore for “Not here…my parents are downstairs”.
And whilst there might be little sway granted to man, woman, beast and basil bush, there have admittedly been some rather wall-like resistance and, in fact, submission to the fungi community.
It would seem my smashing jumper is not what once it was whilst away a’wooing.
Perhaps if I flailed?
Willingness to motion is a point desired in all but the most stationary of cultural backgrounds.
And should you see myself in such a smashing jumper as only I can actually be bothered to labour about; take care. For I’ve only a few jumpers and even fewer are smashing.
I thought you’d be asking me this at some point.
I like that.
It’s not so much that I enjoy being asked questions; rather more that I cannot help myself answering…things.
Mother Nature’s Champion on the field of sporting combat. That’s quite a compliment to pay to myself. Thanks.
Of course, your questions will revolve around football because it’s distinctly not deadly; whilst my expertise are the precise means of dismounting a foe upon horseback.
Who doesn’t joust; I mean really?
And my trick is simple.
Ride underneath the horse.
A good sturdy knot and a love for the risk of being kneed by your steed; that’s all you need to succeed in jousting.
Plus a slingshot, shiny pebble and as much hand-eye coordination as is required to clap.
Why a slingshot? Christians love it.
It’s good to please the ecclesiastical market; and they love themselves a hero with a slingshot, particularly if they’re diminutive and diminutive is a natural state of a good fellow saddled beneath a horsey.
By the way, horsey is the correct term for your mount. It shows your childish-side and this is key in fooling your opponent into thinking they’re lancing a child strapped to the belly of a steed whilst they bellow “Faster horsey! Faster!”
And then they find themselves slingshotted directly in the heart by a damn fine actor beneath a horse; plus an exquisite choice in pebble.
As I said, Christians love a slingshot-hero. The villains tend to go about their dastardly deeds with a hammer and nails (typically 3).
Oh, you want football?
Breathe these next few sentences in; why don’t’cha.
To begin with; boots are for pussies.
Barefoot your way to victory.
Take no prisoners but do take their boots (because you’re a helpful chappie).
Next up comes some actual tactics.
Don’t do it.
Do this far more regularly that shooting.
Don’t do it. This could be valuable time spent scoring.
How to score…
Real men of manliness don’t casually tuck the ball in the net, with a whooping and looping curvy bastard to delicately arrive like a really rather helpful and hopeless fish into a fisherman’s net.
Instead, please, break the net’s heart with nothing deceptive.
A ball that moves in the air is dishonest; and that’ll never do.
A real man’s kick is like a cannon.
Not a cannon that fires cannon balls, but rather more like a cannon rocketing through the air, causing defenders to scatter and wish that one day they might grow up to become a cannon kicked by me.
Also a real man doesn’t run; he chases.
And he doesn’t chase balls either.
Balls, though full of breath, neither breathe or bleed.
I require both of these facets in order to justify a chase.
Besides; we’re in no position to be in any position but a Goalkeeper.
The Goalkeeper should allow the opposing team to approach as near as they like and then, once a shot is shot (a shot being all it’ll amount to), he shall simply swipe away the ball with casual reproach, uttering extremely quietly to himself (and the ball): “No.”
That’s how I’d play football if I weren’t so occupied dismounting baddies from their horsies.
I always take their boots.
That’s how you play football; by taking the spoils.
You know you all desire the plunder.
So go get it; with superior kicks.
Keep up the sports guys and girls; it’s good for the success story.
Like me; because I’m the greatest human to ever live.
And so are you.