Laaaahndan VOLUME DEUX (VOLUUUMINOUS curvaceous TROLLOP dollop)
...Und den, back to the auld smoke, me aulden macker
No luck mit ze 'cool stranger' thing on coach way doon, but then ich habe patriq fur cheer so no need. We spottum in service station, a crusty truckdriverman and his beautiful 'companion' - that was *definitely* the relationship, not father/son. Bringe to mind Rob's telling of
SOCIALIST KNOCK-A-DOOR
when 2x handlebar-moustachioeds answer, and one is *lodger*.
LODGER! Creepus, transitory connotaziones. Also like when you get things lodged in passages...*a young man in a new city...a guiding hand* euch (shudder)
Back to tale.
Cwoffee (Noo Yoyk) obtainable frame said service stazione WARMS OUR COCKLES with its treatum stimulant contributions of gratitude for rare National Express restbreak allowance. Really, it's never done more for me (as da usual result mean scream und breathe too much, caffeine angst over nothing).
Forbidden personal stereo, lengthy chattering occurs and lengthy journey becomes non-lengthy. In Victoria coach station, I sit on toilet as reeegal moozik strikes up through aircold filter ventilate. I wonder if i am evacuating myself as a royal pays a visit und smile mit satisfaction if this be the case.
Soon furnished wid the utter delightment of a London A-Z complete with tubemap yumyum (for the long cold lonely nights) and the sight of a sweet Canadian boybackpacker, we head fur Tate Modern replete on scotch egg HobNob fuel. After NevinsonBeuysDaliRichterGroszGilbertundGeorge etc. wunder, we observe outside the museum possibly the only universal in universe, that of
CROOCROO (harold from Neighbours neck) pigeon mating rituals. Yesterday patriq speculate that never actually see end result just before mounting and rutting occurred before our eyes, to which he excitedly yelled 'SEX! SEX!', machen inhabitants of Platt Fields think we birdperverts. i care not.
London again. Wanderment inevito sets-in, Soho first stop then that frantic desperado needless standards food desire. Irony tightened our pricks in its only-joking vice, and after lengthy search we have shittest Chinese ever. In Chinatown. When one we been in before and was supa just round corner. Concoct a storm we did, grand sweep down stairs stating opinion loud as could, put off good number of potentialclustercustomers at door. A sort-of retribution.
Hmm, more in a bit.
No luck mit ze 'cool stranger' thing on coach way doon, but then ich habe patriq fur cheer so no need. We spottum in service station, a crusty truckdriverman and his beautiful 'companion' - that was *definitely* the relationship, not father/son. Bringe to mind Rob's telling of
SOCIALIST KNOCK-A-DOOR
when 2x handlebar-moustachioeds answer, and one is *lodger*.
LODGER! Creepus, transitory connotaziones. Also like when you get things lodged in passages...*a young man in a new city...a guiding hand* euch (shudder)
Back to tale.
Cwoffee (Noo Yoyk) obtainable frame said service stazione WARMS OUR COCKLES with its treatum stimulant contributions of gratitude for rare National Express restbreak allowance. Really, it's never done more for me (as da usual result mean scream und breathe too much, caffeine angst over nothing).
Forbidden personal stereo, lengthy chattering occurs and lengthy journey becomes non-lengthy. In Victoria coach station, I sit on toilet as reeegal moozik strikes up through aircold filter ventilate. I wonder if i am evacuating myself as a royal pays a visit und smile mit satisfaction if this be the case.
Soon furnished wid the utter delightment of a London A-Z complete with tubemap yumyum (for the long cold lonely nights) and the sight of a sweet Canadian boybackpacker, we head fur Tate Modern replete on scotch egg HobNob fuel. After NevinsonBeuysDaliRichterGroszGilbertundGeorge etc. wunder, we observe outside the museum possibly the only universal in universe, that of
CROOCROO (harold from Neighbours neck) pigeon mating rituals. Yesterday patriq speculate that never actually see end result just before mounting and rutting occurred before our eyes, to which he excitedly yelled 'SEX! SEX!', machen inhabitants of Platt Fields think we birdperverts. i care not.
London again. Wanderment inevito sets-in, Soho first stop then that frantic desperado needless standards food desire. Irony tightened our pricks in its only-joking vice, and after lengthy search we have shittest Chinese ever. In Chinatown. When one we been in before and was supa just round corner. Concoct a storm we did, grand sweep down stairs stating opinion loud as could, put off good number of potentialclustercustomers at door. A sort-of retribution.
Hmm, more in a bit.