Just like a modern shopping centre
We woke up the other morning to the crashing sounds of Tom and Daniel Taylor in the house (this is Anna's house, rather than my house, where Tom and Daniel Taylor live, along with Rosanne, and me occasionally. But Rosanne was in Austria so it was just the two of them). "Hey, come out! We've got a surprise for you!"
What surprise could greet our sleep-encrusted eyes on this of all mornings. Oh. It's a dead rabbit with its guts all hanging out. Tom and Daniel Taylor proceed to skin and cut up the rabbit. We have a cup of coffee on the doorstep and then go out.
Now a week has passed. It turns out that they bought two rabbits. So in our fridge there is one complete but dead rabbit, and one rabbit pelt, just waiting to be taxidermied.
More animal news. The phone rings the other day. It's Tom. "Quick, come down to Sainsburies. There's a pomeranian in a basket!". Now I've heard of this basketed pom before, but never seen it. With fluid motions, I leap into my awaiting shoes and throw my jacket round my shoulder, nearly get killed by a speeding motorcycle on Upper North Road, and skid to a halt on Western Road. There's Tom. The Pomeranian is in a basket on the front of a mobility cart belonging to an old man. Man and Basketed Pom push past. Tom had such a good day. He made a bread and butter pudding, had to go out for more milk, and saw the Pomeranian in a Basket again in Waitrose.
John Leslie - Celebrity Rapist
A poem to the ascent of prime numbers
Leslie
John Leslie
Oh do not rape me
Stop now! Desist, John Leslie!
You may have raped Ulrika Johanson, but
Lucy Record shall emerge untouched from your vice grip
And my nose is filled with the crackle of Richard Bacon. Is cooking.
I've been upstairs trying to write a big old essay about Tom Stoppard (nee. Tomáš Straussler) which means that on the lovely day that yesterday was, I had to decline Tommy, Maya and the Machine Brothers' kind offer to go down to the beach, inflate Marine Patrol 3000 and go for a sail. Now these kids had been up all night on some grotesque machine-led drug fest. I stayed in my room and addressed the immediate issue of authenticity in The Real Inspector Hound. Strolled down towards the beach at about sixish, and it turned out that they had already got cold and went to the pub. One thing led to another and some random guy called Ed was inflating the Marine Patrol 3000 in the Bedford Tavern and Dave the Machine all pouting and red-lipped and back home with a boat for the rabbit leaping out of the fridge and getting shot
maya sleeps in a crumpled heap on the mattresses in the kitchen to be stepped on by Daniel Taylor in the morning as he prepares the buffet
What surprise could greet our sleep-encrusted eyes on this of all mornings. Oh. It's a dead rabbit with its guts all hanging out. Tom and Daniel Taylor proceed to skin and cut up the rabbit. We have a cup of coffee on the doorstep and then go out.
Now a week has passed. It turns out that they bought two rabbits. So in our fridge there is one complete but dead rabbit, and one rabbit pelt, just waiting to be taxidermied.
More animal news. The phone rings the other day. It's Tom. "Quick, come down to Sainsburies. There's a pomeranian in a basket!". Now I've heard of this basketed pom before, but never seen it. With fluid motions, I leap into my awaiting shoes and throw my jacket round my shoulder, nearly get killed by a speeding motorcycle on Upper North Road, and skid to a halt on Western Road. There's Tom. The Pomeranian is in a basket on the front of a mobility cart belonging to an old man. Man and Basketed Pom push past. Tom had such a good day. He made a bread and butter pudding, had to go out for more milk, and saw the Pomeranian in a Basket again in Waitrose.
John Leslie - Celebrity Rapist
A poem to the ascent of prime numbers
Leslie
John Leslie
Oh do not rape me
Stop now! Desist, John Leslie!
You may have raped Ulrika Johanson, but
Lucy Record shall emerge untouched from your vice grip
And my nose is filled with the crackle of Richard Bacon. Is cooking.
I've been upstairs trying to write a big old essay about Tom Stoppard (nee. Tomáš Straussler) which means that on the lovely day that yesterday was, I had to decline Tommy, Maya and the Machine Brothers' kind offer to go down to the beach, inflate Marine Patrol 3000 and go for a sail. Now these kids had been up all night on some grotesque machine-led drug fest. I stayed in my room and addressed the immediate issue of authenticity in The Real Inspector Hound. Strolled down towards the beach at about sixish, and it turned out that they had already got cold and went to the pub. One thing led to another and some random guy called Ed was inflating the Marine Patrol 3000 in the Bedford Tavern and Dave the Machine all pouting and red-lipped and back home with a boat for the rabbit leaping out of the fridge and getting shot
maya sleeps in a crumpled heap on the mattresses in the kitchen to be stepped on by Daniel Taylor in the morning as he prepares the buffet
posted by Rufus Moonshine at 9:16 AM
1 Comments:
Huh. I always see that guy around town and wondered who he was. Now I know he not only walks around, but has a purpose too.
Found you from Bird's site - am gonna add a link to your blog because I think it's funny.
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