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Wednesday, 21 May 2014

In which One is on the lookout for a trousorial twitch…


That’s it!

You selfish bastards!


Anyway, I hate painting.  I loathe it with a passion.

In my deepest soul ‘One is a writer.’

‘One is a writer?’ I hear you chorus, Dear Readers, ‘You call this daily diatribe writing?’

Well it keeps One amused and a goodly amount of you losers out there trawling through life desperately seeking someone with a sadder existence than your own.

And as for the remaining petal of the flower of One’s youthful beauty…

‘Twill be bestowed upon some lucky Whittakering bod (yes still in hot pursuit) and definitely not on any old passion prohibited reprobate.

One has clearly learned nothing.  One’s head was briefly turned, by what?

The foul mutterings of a chain smoking old drunkard? 

And – One is not referring to Oneself.

Were it not for the absence of the Ve-Hicular device, One would, no doubt be ruffling the 600 count Egyptian cottons in a dull village in Devon.

Praise be the Lord that One has been confined to the Underground Lair or One would be knee deep in making an absolute fool of Oneself YET A-FECKING-GAIN

Henceforth it shall be Tea and Buns with inoffensive old codgers that One is still able to run away from at the merest trousorial twitch!