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We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold. I remember saying something like “I feel a bit lightheaded; maybe you should drive…” And suddenly there was a terrible roar all around us and the sky was full of what looked like huge bats, all swooping and screeching and diving around the car, which was going about a hundred miles an hour with the top down to Las Vegas. And a voice was screaming: “Holy Jesus! What are these goddamn animals?”
Hunter S. Thompson ~ Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
Who did it remind you of? Who is this evil person you’ve met? Is it Floella Benjamin?
Further to my last post:
Twaddle, rubbish, and gossip is what people want, not action.. . . The secret of life is to chatter freely about all one wishes to do and how one is always being prevented—and then do nothing.
Soren Kierkegaard
Pepper’s one was like an mid-period Tony Hart.
Where did you say you were, Kent? Leeds or Sheffield or somewhere revolting like that? Have you got a hospital booked somewhere more civilised so it’s not stained with the shame of being born there? Really, you want to get up as far as York or Harrogate or, even better, head over the border into Derbyshire. The baby will thank you for it when it’s older.
I’m going to shun him.
Bin Laden is a Ram. He was at the West Ham game last year.
Five great poems, I would say. The authors are like the lyrical equivalents of Friedrich, Fuseli, Géricault and Lowry.
I agree with Esmeralda. Self-righteous ex-smokers, sanctimonious ex-drug takers of all sorts, in fact, make me want to throw up on their shoes. Spoilsport quitters.
