Louis XIV Horoscopes, Part Trois

If you don't want to see something magnificent, avert your eyes MAINTENANT!

Bonjour mes petits

It is I, le Roi de Soleil, mes amis. France’s most celebrated ruler. Je suis ici! Je sais, mes petis, Je sais that you ‘ave missed me, my sexual friends. Of course you ‘ave missed me. You miss me like Sven Baldwin, miss ‘is Bible and Prince misses ‘is Ice Buns.

Another one of my sexual friends, Docteur Ange avec le monde du Sheds ‘as asked me to come back vite, as I ‘ave been earing with my sexual ears that there is a, ‘ow you say, une Twittie-Tweet campaign for ‘more louis xiv action’.

Of course, I is hearing this a lot from my Queen, Anne of Austria, and my many many mistresses. The Sun-king has an appetite like the raging surface of the sun, mes petits.  I burn with sexual energy, so hot, so sexy. I am like a french Dane Bowers, Dieter Brummer, Stefan Dennis, ou Matthew Kelly. Oui. Be careful, les dames, vous might get ‘burnt’. He he. Louis is only joking, I will not really burn you, although I may try and push you up on les worktop in les kitchen when you come into my Versailles palace after a night out. I may well call your knee boots, ‘hooker boots’ but it was your fault for wearing them, you sexy tease.

Alors, I did not know what I was going to be talking about when Dr. Ange asked me to come back due to your vociferous demands, all through the night. Louis is used to such demands, oui oui. Night after night I am demanded to do such practices as ‘the intrepid welshman’ ‘Electric Boogaloo-Electric Avenue’ and ‘coffee table literature’ by the royal mistresses. Did I mention that there were many of them? Well there are. Many. Oh, my sexual friends, you would not believe how many. But, je pense que that I would tell you about my illegitimate children, who are also known as ‘the Royal Bastards’. I thought I would tell you their names, but I tried to remember them all, but my sexy sexy brain was too tired from all my sexy-time practices, that I could not, so I just had to guess. One might be called Phillipe, I think. Or is that my worthless brother? Hang on…

There’s Randy, Michael, La toya…Oh no, that’s not them…silly, gorgeous, virile, Louis!

Hang on, mes petits, there’s Matt, Luke and Craig, oui, and then there’s Mark and Spencer, and petit LaShawonda et Chaka Demus, Pliers, Pato Banton and oh, hehe, CJ Lewis. If I had children I’d call them those names, so I think that they will be bon guesses.

Ok, time for your monthly star sign, my firm rumped amis:

Healthpoint the Arrow
When it comes to money a long term investment will yield better than a get rich quick scheme, or maybe a get rich quick scheme might work better than a long term investment, it’s not clear yet. You’ll have a cunning scheme that might save you money. You decide to wash less. Go for it! you’ll have way more cash than usual to go shopping with, or mayne your friend will, or someone who may or may not sit next to you on the bus/train/ ferry.

Look out: a one night stand could lead to a one night stand. Watch out for a sexy french king. He could open your mind substantially and possibly ruin you for all other men.

Oh, my stout friends, as toujours, I ‘ave so much fun here, mais, now I must away. The Pope-dog-bastard threatens to ex-communicate me again for making up another religion where I am the God and only sexy femmes may worship at my ‘temple of the third leg’.

a tout l’heure

your handsome, muscular Divine King

Louis xiv
xoxox

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Bad Romance Part 2: Clippit

 

You look like you’re getting undressed. Can I help you with that?

Here we see Clippit. Sexy and fascistic.   Oh he’s so proud! He’s an absolute nightmare to date though. You may have seen me talk about  (drunkenly) on Sherby57’s blog http://sherby57.co.uk/2010/01/23/clippit/.  Oh he’s an absolute beast! When we went to the pub as soon as you even go to stand up he’s all “you look like you’re going to the bar, can I help you with that?” and I’d be like “Jesus clippit, I’m going the bog”. 

If I spend too much, he gets all bent out of shape, turns into an exclamation mark and tells me to ‘save’ what I’m doing. When he’d come around to mine, we’d be watching TV, I’d have a hard day at work and just want to lie, comatose, on the settee.  Oh he wouldn’t like that. He’d be tapping me all the time. Then I’d lose it with him and start shouting at him for tapping me with his little wiry finger thing.  He’d reply “you look like you’re getting angry. Can I help you with that?” The sarcastic bastard. Then he’d say “Do you want me to rub your feet?  Do you want to turn into your mother?  Do you want to take out your issues with your ex-boyfriend on me?  Would you like to bring up the incident from the past when I wet the bed that you always bring up when we have an argument?”

He knows me so well. Darn Clippit. Anyway, see a lovely portrait of him that I did. I know it’s a bit risqué, with me doing a nude portrait of him, but he really is quite proud of his body.  He is an overbearing piece of stationary, but swit-swoo!

Ode to Shadowsans

On this glorious day

in scotsville town

A babby was born

Wrapped in paper brown

His name was shadowsans

and he was a fella

and like most infants

he had a soft fontenella

Don’t poke inside it!

You’ll touch his brain!

Then he’ll be all funny

and not the same!

Now the townsfolk did rejoice

and act all silly

they broke out their spectrums

and played jet set willy

Happy birthday shadowsans! Thanks for all your ace feedback and support.

love

Angel x

Bad Romance

If you and I wrote a bad romance, what would be in it? I’m sure we could write one. I’ve had enough bad dates to be able to bring a significant amount of ‘research’ to the project.  I reckon if we did have a bad romance, eggs would feature quite heavily in it. The romance would probably start in an abattoir or a tattoo parlour. I’d be getting a packet of tampax tattooed on my upper arm.  I’d felt left out cos everyone in work had a ‘tat’. That’s what you’d call it. A ‘tat’.  That would piss me off immediately.

We’d go for a meal, at a carvery, even though you know I’m vegetarian.  You’d have a wee next to the table. You’d forbid me from saying the word ‘romp’.  You would say it gave you horrific flashbacks from when you saw ‘The boat that Rocked’. You’d have a point, but just mentioning that film would piss me off. Seeing the cover of that film in the video shop ruined my day yesterday. The boat that sucked a big fat dick. At some point in the date you’d probably cry. You’d tell me some long-winded tale about how you got Legionnaire’s disease on holiday in Corfu with your ex-girlfriend. You’d mention her quite a lot and say that she looks like Jennifer Aniston. You’d mention that you had the shits very badly. I’ll imagine you having the shits. The image will haunt me for three and a half months. I was also eating when you mentioned it. You won’t take off your crag hopper anorak throughout the date.

Later on in the romance you’d wear a jump suit. Constantly. You’d say ‘It makes my arse look like J-Lo’. You mean Joe Longthorne. His arse is nearly as amazing as Sisquo’s.  You will let me see your thong and you will also dump like a truck. In view of Lord Rhomboid. You absolute tease. You would cover the walls of my house with painted ‘proverbs’ in italics like ‘There are no strangers, only friends we are yet to meet’ and ‘if you want to drink longer, come earlier or ask for a bigger glass’ and ‘My jeans are very snug around the gentleman’s arena’.

What a bad romance. Perhaps we shouldn’t get off with each other at the local underage disco? Yes, I know you arranged it after Science class, but come on, it doesn’t sound like it’s going to be good. I’m sorry, but the boat that rocked is a truly awful film. And I’ve got an appointment for Wayne Carriger to touch my arse at 9.15 at the community centre.

Breaking News

Recently I blogged about my rage at the playboy bunny epidemic here.https://worldofsheds.wordpress.com/2010/01/06/playboy-bunnies-the-rage-continues/

Since I wrote that blog, when I was driving home from work tonight I was behing a crappy old white Peugeot, carrying what can only be described as ‘a load of old crap’ in the back. Upon it’s very boot was the playboy bunny. Yeah. Heff insists on crappy old peugeots as standard issue for the bunnies.

It gets worse.

There’s a sweet kid who lives next door to me. She’s about 9 years old. As I was driving up the road I saw that she has a massive playboy bunny sticker adorning her bedroom window. She told me once, when she’s old enough, that she’d like a tattoo. I asked her what she’d like a tattoo of. She beamed widely at me and said a leopardskin playboy bunny.

Louis xiv’s horoscopes, part deux

Bonjour mes petits!

Alors! Je suis ici, your regal ami, Louis xiv, back with my horoscope corner. I know I’ve not been ‘ere for a while, Louis fans, but I’ve ‘ad a terrible problem avec infestation in my state. You may be theenking, “oh louis, you gorgeous, mane haired sun-god-king, surely a leetle pest like une cock-a-roache ou un petit woolouse could not keep you away for so long.  You are tres strong et tres sexy”.  Oh, mes petits, you are so right mais so wrong. Yes, eet is vrai that I am indeed a sexy man thang and strong comme une powerful ‘orse like a shire ‘orse, mais, le infestation problem is not le teeeny tiny beasties! D’accord? No, my sexual friends, eet was le ‘orrible hugenots. You know them as protestants.  Either way they are total bastards. You may know the mother france is une catholic state, so bastard huguenots are not welcome, no.  I instructed my elite soldiers, le Dragonnades, to force them out of France by installing a dragonnade in every Hugenot household. Once ensconsed in le maison, my dragonnade forces the family to watch ‘Will & Grace” all day. He he he. Oh, I am soo evil. They leave pretty soon, I can tell you.

Alors, today’s horcoscope is Axel F, the Axelottle.

If you are desperate for someone to get in touch, be patient.  They’ve probably got a hectic social calender, or an impacted bowel, but that doesn’t mean they’re playing it cool.  They don’t like you. Girlfriend, men don’t play it cool. If they don’t get in touch they don’t like you. It’s probably that playboy soapdish, quite frankly. Mercury rising in Focus carpark gives you breath that smells of peardrops.

Someone close could reveal a big secret to a priest, or a friend, or maybe a parent. Or someone that’s not that close to you might, or even someone on the telly. Maybe on a soap.

Single? A fun night out may or may not see you cop off. If you drink enough, someone will do.

Oh, that was fun, n’est-ce pas? Oh, I’ve had such a great time here at le monde de sheds, avec Docteur Ange, mais, maintenant I must away. I have bored a hole in my mistress’ powder room and she is about to get a bath!

A tout le heur!

Louis xiv xoxo

Playboy bunnies, the Rage continues.

When he goes for a piss, he'll know just what sort of lady you are.

Hey you guys! (I’m talking like Sloth from the Goonies here, can you tell? Hmm, I’m slightly worried that this might marr the gravitas of what I have to say in this blog. On the other hand the juxtaposition of light hearted, childhood-remininscent humour may be the perfect backdrop by which to juxtapose my next piece, thereby making it seem more weighty by it’s counter-position. Yes)

You may remember my, some might say, ‘unreasonable’ bile at the playboy bunny motif. Read more about this here: https://worldofsheds.wordpress.com/2009/08/25/when-i-grow-up-i-want-to-be/

You’re probably thinking that I’m some sort of birkenstock wearing, sturdy bottomed, linen pant wearing feminist. If that turns you on, continue thinking it. I’m not one to question what you’re attracted to. Anyway, what is “attractive”? Let’s deconstruct that…let’s sit in a circle and ‘rap’ about it. Maybe some light role play questioning society’s views on what is ‘beauty’. Maybe we can spilt up some perfectly good words by putting a hyphen in them in a sexy post-modern way like ‘dis-ease’ or just put every single word in inverted commas in a sligtly questioning (some might say, ‘mocking’) way. Maybe we could use and empty chair to symbolise ‘the man’. I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about the implications of you being attracted to your ‘phantasy’ (spelt this way in the Freudian sense, Freud fans) of me. Anyway, I digress, albeit, erotically.

I suppose I am a feminist, yes.

Anyway, you might remember that what I was specifically enraged was a worrying new trend to have a playboy bunny on simply anything you could lay your square acrylic-ed nails avec ‘nail-art’ed hands on.  I jauntily hypothesised that this bunny might be the worrying aspirational icon for the next generation of women. That worth was denoted by knockers. I suppose much like the ‘porn star in training’ t-shirts that were popular in the late nineties, that being seen as a ‘porn star in training’ was a bit like saying ‘please see me as sexy and therefore more worthy of your time/affections’.  I know someone who is a careers advisor. She says that girls at school really do come and see her and say they want to be a glamour model.  It seems that women themselves are contributing to the myth that the only dimension of worth as a women is being ‘sexy’.  Sexy doesn’t cure illnesses. Unless you are Doctor Sexy.

Anyway, I’ve been patrolling the sector of this part of the country that I’m responsible for and have found some more playboy delights to entrance your eye. Ecce!

If you make your eyes go gozzy, a picture of a slag emerges.

Gasp! Just think! If you had this on your wall! What would the boys think? Oh they’d just think you were fabulous! Oh no, wait.  Just hold on. What would the boys think if your 11 year old daughter had this on her wall?  It’s 3d and everything! Amazing.

And look! Just LOOK! at the bee-yoo-t-i-ful bathroom set you can get from TK Maxx. Nothing says ‘class’ more than a playboy soap dish. Reasonably priced too.  You’ll have some spare change from a fiver to spend on a t-shirt that says ‘This bitch bites’.  Girlfriend (I’m talking like Gok Wan here) your hands might be clean, but he’ll be thinkin’ you is dirrrty.

Please, if you spot any noteworthy playboy merchandise, do let me know so I can mercilessly ridicule it.

Until we meet again, my sweet, sweet rogues.

Happy Birthday Angel?

Some of you who are embarrassed and unfortunate enough to know me, know today is my birthday.   Yes. I hate my birthday with a great passion.  This dates back to very early on staring out of the window in my bedroom, bored, with nothing to do, wearing an aaran jumper. I really hated wearing aaran jumpers as a child and I couldn’t believe my mum had made me wear one, on today of all days (not today, literally, My mum no longer chooses my clothes)

I always felt because of the time of year, other people had much more fun birthdays than I, and in that sense, I always had a feeling of ‘missing out’. In the summer I’d jealously regard my brother’s barbeque in the back garden, when he and his long-haired friends (women) would frolic on mum and dad’s garden furniture drinking cans of Skol. Everyone looked like they were having so much fun. Contrast this with the pitying apologetic looks I would get when I asked people to come out for my birthday (when I was older, not as a child):

me: you coming out for my birthday we’re (insert amazing suggestion here to tempt people to come)?

them: “but it’s so close to Xmas and New Year”

me: “Admittedly yes. I can’t dispute that. It is still, however, my birthday and that I can’t change. I wish I could”

Them: “Oh I’m sorry I can’t come. I’m skint”

me (crestfallen): “Totally understandable”

…which it is. It is totally understandable. This, however, has led me to associate feelings of disappointment with my birthday. Like one of Pavlov’s dogs, I’ve been classically conditioned to feel a sense of doom and disappointment at the whole despicable day. I hate my birthday as it’s the one day of the year where I think I should feel special and the day should be full of aceness where people want to demonstrate how important I am to them, and every year I realise how untrue that is. Every year I get disappointed that only a select few reply to the ‘who’s coming out for my birthday?’ message, or say “I’m sorry I can’t” and don’t even say why (In my head I fantasise that they can’t bring themselves to say why as the only reason is they can’t be arsed) and when no cards reassuringly plop onto my poundstretcher mat. 
 
I wonder whether other people feel this phenomenon?  Or people don’t expect anything so they are never disappointed?  Or only a handful of people go out for their birthday? I have to say, that if I know it’s someone’s birthday night out, I won’t miss it at all, as I know how much birthdays mean to people. I’ve had an e-mail just this moment saying that other people at one point have felt this, and then they gave up having expectations and just saw it as ‘another day’ and then the ‘birthday depression phenomenon’ was much less/ameliorated.  This is a GOOD IDEA. Drop expectations on your birthday. It only really matters to YOU. Make it so it no longer matters to even you.

No I’m sorry Angel, I can’t come out for your birthday tonight. I’ve got some bells to drool at. Look, things are just so hectic around here, I’m just chocca with work stuff and I’m really skint after Xmas and new year.  You know how it is. I told Pavlov we’d save up to go away at Easter. Yeah, we’re going to the Isle of Dogs or Labrador.

Let me share a text with you that I received from my ex boyfriend today

“Now then Dr (yes, he really does call me Dr!)I felt really depressed going back to work today after 2 weeks off and I remembered it was your birthday(I like the way ‘feeling depressed’ remind him of me). You must have your birthday on the most depressing day of the year (pretty much) and I won’t even mention the age! Anyway, have a great day (yes, I will, sitting and rocking with a bottle of vodka, and chaining marlboro reds, my body racking with sobs of anguish. Ta.Thanks for cheering me up)

Angel’s Birthday Status

Cards hand delivered: 3, one from The Cow, one from el parents and one from my secretary.

cards through post: 0

presents: 1  from my secretary. A key ring.  I’m weeping as I write this, it’s so depressing. Sweet viscose tears. (I’m not really, so don’t get concerned. I was merely using hyperbole for comic effect. I’m such a naughty birthday scamp!)

Facebook messages: 11…hmm, not too bad.  Ooh, now it’s 13. It’s like ‘Going Live!’ here.

Texts: 7, again, not too shabby (and I bet you’re thinking, “7? I get 800 on my birthday because I’m so attractive and populaire” well, stop showing off and pretending to be French. Jesus)

Trips to Imax cinema to see Avatar: 1.  More than once in one day would be a bit much. Financially and time wise. I might start thinking I can talk to the trees and can hear my ancestors through the electrical wiring in the meter cupboard.

Minutes missed of film due to trains being cancelled: 10. This is why we take our cars everywhere, because we have a rubbish infrastructure that were daren’t rely on. (Is that a real word? It sounds old school. Like Jane Austen may have said it. “He was so handsome, I daren’t tear my eyes from his crotch”. Yeah, she would have said that)

Parking fees due to shit train system: £5.80. For fuck’s sake.  This is why we try to take the shitty unreliable trains.

Anyway, it’s not all doom and gloom, before you go and run that bath and get the electric heater ready to throw in it. No, for yesterday I had a special birthday podcast made in my honour by Hans Klaussner, a friend of Sherby57, who also does the Gravyboat Podcast (please take a listen to it and follow them on twitter and Facebook, it’s very very good). To be honest, the podcast is a bit pervy, as is Hans’ way. However, how many people can boast special birthday podcasts? Not many! So here for your delight, is a special birthday podcast devoted to yours truly, which is very, very funny. In this podcast, Hans speculates about where I come from and what I am made of, as well as my parentage and he performs his impromptu rendition of ‘Das Naughty Kitty’ that you might have seen me mention on here or on twitter. Anyway, relax, fart into a glass, put your magnet on your laptop and enjoy.

 http://poursomegravyonme.co.uk/2010/01/03/the-gravy-boat-dr-angels-birthday-message/

Before I sign off, spare a thought for the poor bastards who have their birthday early January. They didn’t choose to be born then, and you have the power to make their day.

Happy Birthday Angel?

Some of you who are embarrassed and unfortunate enough to know me, know today is my birthday.   Yes. I hate my birthday with a great passion.  This dates back to very early on staring out of the window in my bedroom, bored, with nothing to do, wearing an aaran jumper. I really hated wearing aaran jumpers as a child and I couldn’t believe my mum had made me wear one, on today of all days (not today, literally, My mum no longer chooses my clothes)

I always felt because of the time of year, other people had much more fun birthdays than I, and in that sense, I always had a feeling of ‘missing out’. In the summer I’d jealously regard my brother’s barbeque in the back garden, when he and his long-haired friends (women) would frolic on mum and dad’s garden furniture drinking cans of Skol. Everyone looked like they were having so much fun. Contrast this with the pitying apologetic looks I would get when I asked people to come out for my birthday (when I was older, not as a child):

me: you coming out for my birthday we’re (insert amazing suggestion here to tempt people to come)?

them: “but it’s so close to Xmas and New Year”

me: “Admittedly yes. I can’t dispute that. It is still, however, my birthday and that I can’t change. I wish I could”

Them: “Oh I’m sorry I can’t come. I’m skint”

me (crestfallen): “Totally understandable”

…which it is. It is totally understandable. This, however, has led me to associate feelings of disappointment with my birthday. Like one of Pavlov’s dogs, I’ve been classically conditioned to feel a sense of doom and disappointment at the whole despicable day. I hate my birthday as it’s the one day of the year where I think I should feel special and the day should be full of aceness where people want to demonstrate how important I am to them, and every year I realise how untrue that is. Every year I get disappointed that only a select few reply to the ‘who’s coming out for my birthday?’ message, or say “I’m sorry I can’t” and don’t even say why (In my head I fantasise that they can’t bring themselves to say why as the only reason is they can’t be arsed) and when no cards reassuringly plop onto my poundstretcher mat. 
 
I wonder whether other people feel this phenomenon?  Or people don’t expect anything so they are never disappointed?  Or only a handful of people go out for their birthday? I have to say, that if I know it’s someone’s birthday night out, I won’t miss it at all, as I know how much birthdays mean to people. I’ve had an e-mail just this moment saying that other people at one point have felt this, and then they gave up having expectations and just saw it as ‘another day’ and then the ‘birthday depression phenomenon’ was much less/ameliorated.  This is a GOOD IDEA. Drop expectations on your birthday. It only really matters to YOU. Make it so it no longer matters to even you.

No I’m sorry Angel, I can’t come out for your birthday tonight. I’ve got some bells to drool at. Look, things are just so hectic around here, I’m just chocca with work stuff and I’m really skint after Xmas and new year.  You know how it is. I told Pavlov we’d save up to go away at Easter. Yeah, we’re going to the Isle of Dogs or Labrador.

Let me share a text with you that I received from my ex boyfriend today

“Now then Dr (yes, he really does call me Dr!)I felt really depressed going back to work today after 2 weeks off and I remembered it was your birthday(I like the way ‘feeling depressed’ remind him of me). You must have your birthday on the most depressing day of the year (pretty much) and I won’t even mention the age! Anyway, have a great day (yes, I will, sitting and rocking with a bottle of vodka, and chaining marlboro reds, my body racking with sobs of anguish. Ta.Thanks for cheering me up)

Angel’s Birthday Status

Cards hand delivered: 3, one from The Cow, one from el parents and one from my secretary.

cards through post: 0

presents: 1  from my secretary. A key ring.  I’m weeping as I write this, it’s so depressing. Sweet viscose tears. (I’m not really, so don’t get concerned. I was merely using hyperbole for comic effect. I’m such a naughty birthday scamp!)

Facebook messages: 11…hmm, not too bad.  Ooh, now it’s 13. It’s like ‘Going Live!’ here.

Texts: 7, again, not too shabby (and I bet you’re thinking, “7? I get 800 on my birthday because I’m so attractive and populaire” well, stop showing off and pretending to be French. Jesus)

Trips to Imax cinema to see Avatar: 1.  More than once in one day would be a bit much. Financially and time wise. I might start thinking I can talk to the trees and can hear my ancestors through the electrical wiring in the meter cupboard.

Minutes missed of film due to trains being cancelled: 10. This is why we take our cars everywhere, because we have a rubbish infrastructure that were daren’t rely on. (Is that a real word? It sounds old school. Like Jane Austen may have said it. “He was so handsome, I daren’t tear my eyes from his crotch”. Yeah, she would have said that)

Parking fees due to shit train system: £5.80. For fuck’s sake.  This is why we try to take the shitty unreliable trains.

Anyway, it’s not all doom and gloom, before you go and run that bath and get the electric heater ready to throw in it. No, for yesterday I had a special birthday podcast made in my honour by Hans Klaussner, a friend of Sherby57, who also does the Gravyboat Podcast (please take a listen to it and follow them on twitter and Facebook, it’s very very good). To be honest, the podcast is a bit pervy, as is Hans’ way. However, how many people can boast special birthday podcasts? Not many! So here for your delight, is a special birthday podcast devoted to yours truly, which is very, very funny. In this podcast, Hans speculates about where I come from and what I am made of, as well as my parentage and he performs his impromptu rendition of ‘Das Naughty Kitty’ that you might have seen me mention on here or on twitter. Anyway, relax, fart into a glass, put your magnet on your laptop and enjoy.

 http://poursomegravyonme.co.uk/2010/01/03/the-gravy-boat-dr-angels-birthday-message/

Before I sign off, spare a thought for the poor bastards who have their birthday early January. They didn’t choose to be born then, and you have the power to make their day.

Bontemptation at work

You may remember that I’m championing a new word to enter the english language. The word is ‘Bontempt‘. You may have noticed some of my ‘followers’ and I using it, in what can only be described as, a ‘cavalier manner’.

Read more about ‘bontempt’ here: https://worldofsheds.wordpress.com/2009/12/16/joey-santiago-in-sheds-shocka/

Well, WoS fans, my thoughts about the cause entered the atmosphere and affected the collective consciousness.  The thoughts transcended my mortal body and were projected onto a heavenly screen. The gods, paused from the revelry of their ferrero rocher party.  The stopped. Bearded jaws, dropping, to marvel at the heavenly projection. A smile played upon their divine lips. I don’t know what game it played though. Not sure what games smiles play. I’m not a doctor of smiles, OK? I didn’t choose that module at university. I did English literature and read the boring ‘Wide  Sargasso Sea’.  Had I not made a bad decision, I might know. Just leave it OK? I DON’T FUCKING KNOW.

Sigh.  Anyway, the Gods saw the projection, and before switching over to ‘You’ve been framed’ (the Gods love Harry Hill) they saw fit to return my thoughts back to me in a physical manifestation.  

Today I was leaving work and I was exiting the fire door, just for kicks. I stumbled over a box of musical instruments. This was the happiest of health and safety violations, for what should be contained in this serendipidous hazard?

Ecce!

Come hither, play me.

Come hither, play me.

Dare to dream, Shedders. Dare to dream. The Gods may be listening, if they’re not messing about with Seasonal chocolate.