29/10/2013 - IT RAINS LIKE COLLEGE GIRLS

It rains like drunk college girls in red sparkly dresses, their tights all lathered up and flung over their heavy shoulders. The sky shudders at the thought of another bottle on the last wink of the lust that circles and grinds across our hearty hearts and bendy straw legs. The big but is one that often gets left behind in preference of the chosen one, they just pick him out of the bag and she does his/her thing. Noughts. Cleanliness is next to cuddling in Sheffield. The taps runneth under the regulated speed limit for the first four weeks of good behaviour. And psychotic medication gets looked on with crackerjack vacation, a placid expression erupted by milky blinkers and a few bin liners here and there. As for the manager they wanted to spruce up, he has no back with which to glide around, he has a napalm stuck to the inside of his ribcage. He is surprisingly cool with this, he even makes jokes though they're often at the expense of black women in wheelchairs. He is Bosnian. This living detector yanks off his quick quirky knuckles and renames a few of the teams that play around in his head space without proper documentation or even a perky search warrant. The living detector is a soft touch with the women's netball team because who can really say no to ladies who tie up their hair and thump balls for a lark? The only downside is that the very thought of the brunette shifts his mind to the rectory without authentic sound bridges. The inside of the very nature of living detectors demand that people talk about them with a squeaky, popping concoction of fear and salesmanship. He made Colorado, before it was merely a shoddy portmanteau that terrorised local Irish villages without mercy or even minded mascots. But we'd all rather blow raspberries than suck up to his squinty impression of Jessie on the toilet. All weddings should go around made of sugary clouds filled with cleaning fluid and perhaps a few under the counter tropical hashish nibbles. All art forms should gel and gas their still life depictions before they gain sentience and ruthlessly eroticise granite countertops. As the bishop said to his beloved, now a former actress of the gentlemen's persuasion: YOU COULDN'T BE MORE OF A CENTIPEDE, MY DEAR. YOUR FEET ARE MANY AND YOUR IDEALS ARE BLISSFULLY FEW. This is swiftly followed by a chainsaw chase that leads into an erect form of the night time choir as they belt out a whistle tune in the style of hammy jazz. The leaves are all folding themselves into vibrations and pretending they can actually do something about the current outbreak in Syria. The wizened people from under my homogenised bed do everything in their power to invite and subsequently disinvite players from the big ice hockey match. As far as Saturday nights in Cyan go, the grudged could be a lot more manipulative if requisitioned by dry foot fiddlers and their bountiful board rooms.