06/04/2013 - GOD PUTS TOFFEES IN THE BOOTS

God puts toffees in the boots of sandy Welshman in order to pass the time in the most delightful way possible. With regards to your competitive streak with our smelly deity, we will not sign out your forms in full until you recognise the authority of this hosepipe and all its widening siblings. The law says so. My mother taught me all about the politics of the Wandering Oak and that is what I am sticking to right now. Sweet respiration keeps me from vomiting all over your pathetic sensibilities, that and maybe the Nowhere Kind. And who leads the Nowhere Kind, you ask? Why Erasmus of course. He normally puts on a robe before proceedings and rarely waxes underneath his soles. It’s a lifeline to my complications and all their potential existents. How the guitar strums celestial fortitude in my ungodly direction. It keeps the heathen sustained as well as the heretic. Mother dropped lilies in the hope of seeing her favourite author drag three wallabies beneath the surface of a mudslide. The candle is wanking over the castle manoeuvre and will not stop until you make your children blink a total of 542 times a minutes. It’s not unreasonable, not if you really love sight-seeing tours. It refreshes the human condition with respite for the bad and scurrying foxes of our portal mentality. That’s your lot; no-one’s exiting the audience without being prepared for the underwhelming sky dance. Your shoes don’t quite fit the whispers of my own anymore and I feel that that is an act of severe risk against your assessment of holy water. The gherkins just pore all over you like some thirsty tome, eh? Well that won’t be stood for, that won’t occur twice in a millennia. Not according to my doorway, not according to my book that tells me stuff. I imagine you think that it has it in for you and you’re probably right but then what rugged responsibilities keep this book from ever sharing judgements on soldiers of fortune? I’ll tell you but only on a bath mat. It’s like the pebbles of your right pocket; they keep coming and don’t ever wear plaid. It’s a utility thing, I think; to ask them would lead only to a whiny cow covering my malice aforethought with soot and besotted roots and routes. She contacted me the other day, don’t you know, she has plans for your hat collection and hatred towards your remaining coat rack. I’ll get Erasmus and Neil to talk her down; they’re getting to be quite the team now, quite the duo. I hope she isn’t the wishful unrequited squirt we assumed she would be in the 60’s. I’ll stake a claim on her grotty lettering that she’ll survive to see next month’s beer festival. It’s a bargain for the unabashed sadists like you and me: we wear our colours with pride. What colours are they for you? I may have stained mine in the wash but that’s another story.