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@~Pebbles~ wrote:
@pete wrote:
Love birds are love birds cause theyre locked in a cage together theres not a lot of option eh
…and swans and seahorses mate for life and theyre free to do as they please
Im assuming the swans dont mate with the seahorses. So do albatross and many others but they aint called love swans love albatrosses (or is it albatrossi) and love seahorses and male seahorses carry the young the female seahorse probably shackles him she aint daft
they were lucky having exudations from a tramp’s gouty foot to suck on
Like a toasted cheese sarnie thought everyone knew that
@ukpilot wrote:
UKPilot aka Sneaky UK did NOT go to Stratford Meat Market or any other Meat Market for that matter so it seems that not only is someone getting porked in JC and often by the sounds of it they are also adept at telling porkies.
Strange how rumours escalate in such a way when the Sad & Delusional try to hide their affairs sexual or otherwise by adopting the garb of a lemming and following the leaders.
Careful now don’t stand too near the edge!!
lemmings do NOT jump off cliffs they just dont
Because the maintenance cost on renewable energy is huge the sea batters the shit out of granite cliffs it aint gonna be gentle on tidal barriers Wind farms are ugly
Once the oil runs out its nuclear or coal there aint much option just use fluid bed technology for burning the coal … invented in Britain used in Sweden dont you know :?Exactly if everything is fated what would be point of stopping smoking unless you were fated to stop smoking ?
Love birds are love birds cause theyre locked in a cage together theres not a lot of option eh
Fate … bollocks if it’s all pre determined then were merely robots we could smoke 600 fags a day we wouldnt die any earlier cause it wasnt fated?
Same as what goes around comes around .. some people get away with murder all their lives must be a bloody big roundabout
Fate thats what it is :shock: :lol:yeah what ya think i meant (smart arse) :lol:
Stratford on Avon eh
Alas, poor UK Pilot! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow
of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath
borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how
abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rims at
it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know
not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your
gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment,
that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one
now, to mock your own grinning? quite chap-fallen?
Now get you to my lady’s chamber, and tell her, let
her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must
come; make her laugh at that.