This is your mum
:and this is your son:
Give up. Give up now.
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4 comments:
Those gargoyles are grotesque to a truly wretched degree.
If I was languishing in that cosmetic underclass I would seek immediate relief via a cheap polish plastic surgeon or failing that simply go back to my casket.
Do old people sleep in single beds at a certain age to prepare for their final bed under the sod?
Heh heh heh. Who are you? I like you. You funny person.
Today has been unkind. I attempted to transport my girlfriends dying greyhound to the Queen Mother Vet Hospital in Herts for a last shot at stopping her liver from collapsing.
I got that creeping sense of doom usually felt by an England fan in the 119th minute of score draw extra time. The hound was yellow and jaundiced, like a hospice prisoner that bruises easily.
What should have been a simple 40 minute journey ballooned into a 3 hour death spectacle in close up with pyrotechnics and video screens compered by colin murray live at wembley arena. so to speak.
The reason for this was the M25. This totemic monument to decades of quango incompetence in the field of 'highway maintenance' left me feeling imprisoned like a bean in a jellybelly machine. More significantly however the dog brought forth contagion and crimson viscous all over the pastel rear interior of the vehicle. And girlfriend.
The recurring '40', '40', '40' flashing bulb speed limit restriction appeared like a ritualistic set of satanic numerals. Deriding me. I imagined the adjacent Vectras and Passats suddenly tearing my car apart, like Bishop was in Aliens.
By the time I got to the Vet I realised some fucker somewhere had now reached Paris from London on the Eurostar, having just browsed and folded their copy of Le Monde in an air conditioned cafe.
The dog will not be resuscitated. It is now on a drip. I hope it lives. We wish we could hold its paw.
http://www.rgtcroftview.co.uk/
nice music. but this lookism suck.
but the M25...everything get stranger...
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