It’s…
Last year’s expedition?
Don’t talk to me about convenience. Love consumes my naughty mind; I’m delirious with desire.
Pratt… back to Pratt… Pratt again… a long ball out to Pratt… and now Pratt is on the ball, a neat little flick back inside to Pratt, who takes it nicely and sends it through on the far side to Pratt, Pratt with it but passes instead to Pratt, Pratt again, oh and well intercepted by the swarthy little number nine, Concito Maracon. This twenty-one-year-old half back, remarkably stocky for 6’ 3", square shouldered, balding giant, hair flowing in the wind, bright eyed, pert, young for his age but oh so old in so many ways. For a thirty-nine.year-old you wouldn’t expect such speed. Normally considered slow, he’s incredibly fast as he wanders aimlessly around, sweeping up and taking the defence to the cleaners. Who would have thought, though many expected it, that this remarkable forty-five-year-old, 9’ 4" dwarf of a man, who is still only seventeen in some parts of the world, would ever really be … Oh and there was a goal there apparently … and now it’s Pratt … back to Pratt… Pratt again… a long ball to Pratt…
Now then my little banana, my little fruit salad, I can wait for you no longer. You must be mine utterly!
I’ve got ninety thousand pounds in my pajamas.
I’ve got forty thousand French francs in my fridge.
I’ve got lots of lovely lira,
Now the Deutschmark’s getting dearer,
And my dollar bills would buy the Brooklyn Bridge.
Hello Sailors! Listen, guess what. The Minister of Aviation has made me head of the RAF Ola Pola.
Vera, my little hedgehog! Don’t turn me away!
I see that you have a cabbage.
Look - it’s the old man from Scene 24!
But soon the killer sheep began to infect other animals with its startling intelligence. Pussy cats began to arrange mortgages, cocker spaniels began to design supermarkets…
Vera! I distinctly heard a Mexican rhythm combo.
There will now be a medium-sized intermission.
And look what you’ve done to mother! She’s worn out with meeting film stars, attending premieres and giving gala luncheons.
I won’t ruin your [del]thread[/del] sketch for a pound.
But soon this quiet pattern of life was to change irrevocably. The commonplace routine of a typical Monday morning would never be the same again, for into this quiet little community came … Mr Neutron!
From these glens and scars, the sound of the coot and the moorhen is seldom absent. Nature sits in stern mastery over these rocks and crags. The rush of the mountain stream, the bleat of the sheep, and the broad, clear Highland skies reflected in tarn and loch, form the breathtaking backdrop against which Ewan McTeagle writes such poems as “Lend us a quid 'til the end of the week.”
“House? You were lucky to have a house! We used to live in one room, all hundred and twenty-six of us, no furniture. Half the floor was missing; we were all huddled together in one corner for fear of falling.”
Luxury!
So… where do we stand? Where do we stand? Where do we sit? Where do we come? Where do we go? What do we do? What do we say? What do we eat? What do we drink? What do we think? What do we do?