Boleyn-er of Leek

Murdering hors d’oeurves like they’re Communists under Franco,

It’s posterboy for letting oneself go, Serge “time is a cruel mistress” Blanco

He made running around carrying ovals into an erotic danger-game. Now he looks like someone punched tiramisu.

Well there is really sod all that is dominating over here that can compete with the rugby. Pretty much everything anyone is doing is over the background sound/visual of sprinting meat-mountains merrily subjecting themselves to car-accident levels of damage like they would really rather be wheeled to their 40th birthdays.

It’s brilliant. I went to a meeting in town. The squawks of exhausted Japanese players getting trounced underfoot by angry Scots. I went to a media festival on Saturday. Italians getting pummeled by syrup-addled Canadians. Made a little sangidge. There are some worryingly large and white Africans savagely chasing some Pacific Islanders around looking like no one had told them it was no longer the 80’s. Rugby is a violent and beautful blanket draped over the hums and drums of softy South West life.

Sometimes the “beautiful” part is a bit further down the list of things that rugby is…

As I mentioned previously, Saturday, Meg and I joined a work compadre of mine to go to the Radio Times festival (think a swish English RTE Guide my Irish brethern). In Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridien (watch out for it in a Leekly review blog coming soonish) he describes war as the ultimate trade, awaiting it’s ultimate practitioner in man. Deep stuff. If the Radio Times was an eternal constant, then I suggest it was awaiting for it’s ultimate venue in Hampton Court. Hampton Court is one of several things that (if such a thing is indeed possible) too English. Like Downton Abbey and watching some lads in fancy jackets walk around in unison because the Queen dodged the reaper for another 365 consecutive days (though I’m starting to think she takes April off to hibernate in a coffin filled with formaldehyde and gets the corgis to electropaddle her out at the start of the Summer.)

So Hampton Court is filled with the kind of old dears that would normally be rattling around an Agatha Christie novel, getting accused of all kinds of nefarious doings by some snooty Belgian with moustache so twirly that he clearly bloody did it. One for the David Suchet fans there.

I spy with my little eye… a pile of corpses I made die. Stop faffing Christie and put the monster in the dock!

News just in: Christie is dead. Well done Mr Suchet <claps>

The economy of Hampton Court is mainly based on shop selling weird antiques like dolls with pink faces from hell and assorted coal scuttles. I have been raised to have a complete lack of respect of such things by my dear grandfather who would refer to such things as “Phil Dalls” or slightly less cryptically “useless fucking shit.” Apart from this cornerstone of their economy they also trade on the fact that they have a palace that was the stomping (and if we’re being honest humping) grounds of King Henry the 8th. The one with all the wives. The one who liked marrying people so much he decided to make up his own religion (Anglicanism) to keep right on banging through once the Pope had called time. He even topped a few of them because “something something secrets of the crown your younger sister looks pretty clean.”

Anyway such is the hold this old horn dog has on the town, that the bins of the shagshack that he stashed Anne Boleyn in has this outside it:

IMG_0714Totes Ridick. This is one of my own photos. It’s not even the only one I took of the bins.

As with many such places around here, it’s objectively gorgeous and the event fit against the backdrop perfectly. Fish and chips like a wrinkly boogie board on some fried fluffy train sleepers, charmingly befuddled best-selling writers and an average attendee age of thirty thousand years. If Meg wasn’t there, 75. Meg is old. That’s my joke.

It was the first time they had put this event on and attendance was a little sparse, but the roster was pretty high-end with Doctor Who, Cillian Murphy and that Scouse lad that does the baking all presenting their credentials. Ya know. Shmiggy. That git. Unfortunately for the organisers the weather was so nice none of us could really support sitting in a tent for an hour so we sat outside drinking ourselves hilarious and stuffing our chortling faces with fried meats. It was some Famous Five level merriness. Without the worryingly domineering Uncle Quentin. Ain’t no way he was on the level.

While we sauntered about on Saturday I found out a good chum of mine, Brian, was about this weekend. He was coming down for the game and as luck would have it the friend of his that was meant to join him had a sudden fit of career-minded responsibility and pulled out allowing me to make it 2/2 for the Irish games so far. The game itself was in Wembley and the local pubs were a lot more professionally profiteering on their location than the Welsh last week. 5 pound pints of pre-poured piss? You bet your bippy! The game had a really good atmosphere with a world record crowd for a rugby game, mainly people like myself and Brian, young immigrants with half an eye on going home gathered together in the capital of the old enemy to cheer on the one thing everyone on our own island likes. To pointedly understate, it was rather nice.

In other news Meg got home from our little shopping trip to London today and saw she had 130 work emails and this soured her mood somewhat.

I made her some tea and was letting her know that I was now removing the bag, a situation which begat the following possibly stress fuelled exchange.

“Okay Meg, I’m debagging the tea.”

“I’ll be teabagging your d.”

“I’m not sure what that means or whether it is even physically possible.”

“I’m going to put my balls on your dong.”

130 is a pretty big number. Like 30,000. Meg is old. That’s my joke.

Boleyn-er of Leek

Leekly Review: Podcast Edition – Second Captains

Hum-ding-daddy-dong!

It’s the last review of September and I have assuredly kept the best for last.

Second Captains is the undisputed top podcast in my auditory arsenal. Originally an evening sports radio show in Ireland, they were denied an expansion of their timeslot by the powers that suck and decided to walk.

Denied largely by this puffknuckle.

By then they had become a word of mouth sleeper hit for anyone with even a passing interest in sports around the country. Honestly, one Christmas I mentioned I listened it to my family and we divided down the middle, civil war style into who did and did not think football correspondent Ken Early was “a bollocks.”

For the record my darling dear Meg is firmly in the bollocks camp. While I was listening to them commentate live on the hurling final last year, Meg stomped in.

“IS THAT KEN-FUCKFACE EARLY!?” she thundered. I tweeted this to Ken. He thought she sounded lovely.

Now a podcast via The Irish Times (and occasional TV show) they put together something that calmly mocks the self-important pomposity of top-level sports while recognising the human stories that weave through even the most “I couldn’t give a fudge about it” athletic pursuits. I do not think it could be a better thing than the thing that it is.

Highlights include the letters slot entitled “Scum Around the Country,” Pierce Brosnans immigrant shoutouts (bonus points if you meet the man himself) and the at times endearing (the death of his epileptic dog Frank) and sordid (when a pimp turned up at the Millwall FC Christmas party with a gun) tales from his professional footballing past of frequent guest Ritchie Sadlier.

And the reason for the name in all this? Because sometimes a national football manager who is himself on very thin ice, cannot hide his juddering disdain for you.

Check the podcast here:

Or on iTunes or wherever else you get your podcasts.

Incredulous Tone-r of Leek

She’s a girl who won’t work without her 2pm pilchards,

It’s 00’s cautionary tale, Denise “I saw Charlie Sheen and thought I want me some of that” Richards!

I’m sure she’s lovely.

Lo and the Lord says, let thee run around with a ball, sometimes with the kicking the ball, other times with the throwing the ball. Still other times, punching and slapping the ball. Everything short of blowing on it. And Lo, it shall be viewable on every glass surface in the land.

And it will be brilliant.

The world has obviously become drunk on sports. And if sports be the booze of life, I’m Oliver Reed.

Oliver Reed. A man who loved booze so much, he married it and had many children, then grandchildren with it.

Then his liver exploded like a pipe bomb.

On Saturday morning, myself and Meg got up nice and early and started off on the long and standing-room-only route to Cardiff for the third game of the 2015 Rugby World Cup. The well-oiled bone-grinding machine of Ireland versus the tits-on-a-bull of Canada. Meg had elected for the garb of her countrymen, a $1 red stetson and a faintly beer-stained red and white maple leaf top (both of which were actually mine). I had made the risky decision of donning my new Kerry top. The colours match up pretty well as a substitute for the national team if you’re unfamiliar, but the following day was the All Ireland final. So I spent the day either having to return insults to opposing Dublin fans or warmly congratulating anyone who declared “Fuck the Dubs.” It was about 60:40 in favour of the Dubs being copulated with, consent seemingly optional.

Are thoroughly high-brow stuff.

We arrived in time to get a few pints in as well as a slopshow burger. Everyone around us was dousing their ketchuped chips with plenty of mayo and using the larger chips to stir the whole goopy mess together. It couldn’t have felt more like home.

The trick is to really glob it on. You’re missing out.

On to the game, or at least the start of it. Meg is under the impression that the song played before Irish rugby games is the national anthem. It’s actually a little patriotic ditty designed to be apolitical enough that the lads from Ulster in the North who may be of the Protestant persuasion aren’t made to feel like turdburgers for singing it. You can tell the difference because the lyrics aren’t in Irish and aren’t so keen on murdering the British… like all our other songs are.

Nevertheless Meg like to belt out the two words she knows of it. “Shoulder… to SHOOOOOULDER!” For the mathematicians out there that`s three words, with one repeat. When the poor little tykes of Canada were compelled to belt out their anthem, there was relative silence, apart from row 26 seat 9 where Meg belted out the only national anthem in the world with a tone of disappointed surprise.

“Oh!? …Canada.”

I obviously joined in with the lines about hockey and dangerously cheap donuts but Meg so stole the show that the surrounding seats actually gave her a round of applause.

The game was not necessarily Ireland’s finest 2 hours (two disallowed tries for Canada) but after some spirited, “Please God, just not in the face” style resistance, Ireland eventually put a few execution-style rounds through the forehead of the maple menace and allowed us get back to our drinkdrankdrunkening. Once we had gotten outside the stadium we beelined for the first pub and while I was attempting to get deliverance from my terrible thirst, Meg made a little friend.

Some details about this guy. Well he was “Cahhdif, boan an bpred.” He had a picture of his daughter, who was older than Meg and frankly looked older than him. Good life decisions all around. And he had formulated the perfect joke. A song had broken out in the pub amongst the Irish claiming they were “Going to win the cup.” But Tricksy Magee had realised the song didn’t specify which cup. He just changed the cup we were going to win. So simple.

“We’re gonna win the cup”

<incredulous tone> “Yeah, the egg cup.”

See what he did there?

Meg was suitably worried about his interest in her and dragged me away from the bar to chaperone. He then suggested we all take a little photo, but was too drunk to get the camera to reverse and then as we held our rictus of awkward smiles, I noticed he was shakily but purposefully moving the camera to the side to effectively crop me out. His intentions were not pure. Then he told Meg she looked “miserable” and staggered off to revive his egg-cup routine.

Due to someone getting a smack of a train the previous night in Twickenham we were forced to stand outside the train station for two hours with no info, shelter or pee-bottles. Once we got in it was standing room only again, but now drunken-shouting edition. Someone beside us asked a waif-like Dublin girl how she was doing.

“I’M SHITFACED!” she responded demurely.

After a tough 2 hours we were back on the good old Tory-voting side of the country on a small train, close enough to the toilet that we could hear a belt clanking open. Meg had done a reccy previously and had to employ her emergency kitchenpaper, but this poor bastard had himself in a bind.

“Hells bells!!” he exclaimed several times to no-one in particular, as well as the rest of the carriage. After a little spell of silence he far more illustratively enquired,

“Where is it all coming from? There’s THOUSANDS of them!”

Smurfs with blue gold? A tiny train bee-hive? Succession of small turds? You be the judge.

In other news Meg has taken to fake-answering my phone. Usually, it’s just “Yes Mr President!” Todays was particularly… developed. She outed me to the imaginary tabloids.

“Hello? Yes he is gay. I AM a close personal friend.”

Starting to fear that one of these days I’m going to come home and she’s going to have made a friend out of a bag of onions and a broom. And then gone insane and murdered his children.

Incredulous Tone-r of Leek

The Leekly Review Podcast Edition: The Smartest Man in The World

Hey! You there in the bushes! Wait… that’s me.  Confusing. 

Does something in your soul cry out for recorded online radio in on-demand listenable form? Well read on you pretty thing.

The Smartest Man in the World podcast with Greg Proops is about as varied a podcast as you are likely to find. Which is a bit pistachios considering it’s just him for up to two hours. 0% guests. 0% reminiscing about his non-existent career as a Vegas showgirl (nod to best film of the 90’s Sister Act there). 100% sounds like his name is “Poops.” You might recall him as the nasally-voiced ginger with rectangular glasses from Who’s Line Is It Anyway? Well he survived and is in a small theatre near you speaking really quickly and airing so many audioclips of Steely Dan that they’re planning on suing him as their pension plan.

Politics, hu(wo)man rights, classic cinema and baseball are all favored topics, but in truth the monoversation can go pretty much anywhere. Some classics include reading out Karl Lagerfelds online journal as Jeremy Irons (“I never stop drinking… Diet Coke. Literally”), hammering GOOP (that skinny lady who used to be married to ColdPlate) and espousing the life-changing properties of “ManBag Beer”.

There is also the “Boring Preachy Part” where he takes 20 minutes to despair of the human race, but in a real way he’s made me reconsider one or two things about society, namely what a shitburger it is to be a woman sometimes. Weird that it took a man to point that out to me, but maybe that’s part of the point. He records all over the world and in fact I recently saw him in Heathrow while I was in BusinessGuy mode, he was trying not to inhale while surrounded by sweaty teenage students. My mother also saw him in an airport in Ireland, info I think I emailed to him at the time. I think he was a bit creeped out. And with good reason.

Check the site for the podcast below, or pick it up on iTunes or wherever you get your podcasts!

Smartest Man in the World Podcast

The Realtor of Leek

His concerts are now populated by Italians and sad Mums,

It’s overbooked warbler Bryan “playing at a carpark near you” Adams

Can you believe he’s only 55? Christ, he’s gonna play at my funeral.

In the past week I was back on the road to Poland fur work (see what I did there?), by and large a very nice country and I was lucky enough to get a replacement for my long since departed Polska t-shirt, which has managed to get me preferential treatment from staff on more than one Ryanair flight in the past. Meg also benefits from these trips as I procure for her local chocolate. In this case a kind of white chocolate whole peanut mix. I don’t think she liked it as much as the Belgian stuff. That’s probably fair enough.

Bar work, one of the main things we’ve been working on is trying to lock down a new place to live. Currently we’re looking for someplace that’s dog friendly and with parking. The dog in particular is a priority for both of us because Meg is a huge doglover and for my part Meg has assured me that if she had a dog, she wouldn’t keep pulling up my t-shirt and slapping my belly. I’m inclined to test this out.

Something needs to change. This belly ain’t getting any pinker.

So to this end we’ve been calling up the braindead chickenheads that staff the various real-estate companies in our areas. They span a bit of a range. On the first day we went around to each to get registered and some were looking at us like we were wearing meringue on our heads and still others, a meringue made out of the contents of a zoo skip. Especially the misleadingly jauntily titled Winkworths. They were not encouraging of our presence.

And Martin Flashman. And Spartan Cashman. And Tartan Trashman. All those jerks. 

So far in this batch we’ve had a place where the tenants were apparently sleeping on a blanket on the floor, somewhere where the neighbour stood at his front door scowling at us, smoking in a bathrobe (his little jonson going haywire underneath the wet and thin cloth as I was unable to prevent myself from invisioning) and one other where the the guy had ran his bath but heard us outside and thusly guided us around his tiny house with a face full of shaving home, paunch full of a heavy breakfast and his tiny Filipino wife grinning mutely from the couch. It was quite awkward.

We have however had worse experiences. When changing apartment in Manchester we were heavily considering moving to the hipster bastion of the Capital of the North, known itself as the Northern Quarter. Lots of excessively groomed beards and bagels, but really what they crave are butties, barms and Bovril.

Bovril is a powdered form of beef which is orderable as a beverage at the Man Utd and Man City stadia.

I am unashamed to say I have a cup with this image.

Anyway, we were trying to move on up as it were and had checked in with the local rentalists. As we walked up to one specific office we noticed a sex shop a couple of doors down and another two doors further along. “Nice area,” we joked, with much guffawage. Lord we were witty back then.

When we got there there (I just double there’d you) was some confusion about the keys, no one knew where the right set was. The girl bringing us was a little flustered so her superior brought us to the door, she stormed off on foot towards the property. The head honcho, called out helpfully “It’s really close by.” She stopped a few doors down. “It’s between the…[pause]”

“Sex shops?” I enquired. He nodded silently.

We hiked up a few flights of stairs to the top floor of this rather lightless domiciliary. She tried the keys. They didn’t work. She pulled out her phone and called the office. They were the right keys. So this time, she tried for propers.

She twisted the key around a few times. She started to slam the door with her shoulder. We suggested maybe we didn’t need to see this one so much. So she started kicking the door as well as shoulder slamming it, actually starting to make it give at areas away from the fringe. Eventually we talked her down.

She just really wanted us to have convenient access to range of competitive sex aids. Or was nuts. Bless her buttons.

My only other retellable experience was a pre-Meg mission where myself and a set of previous housemate chums (Simon and Eoin.) We wandered up to the house at the scheduled time (5pm on the noggin) and buzzed the doorbell expecting a maybe a young married couple with the realtor. Maybe a fancy executive type. Instead there was a Romanian chap with 30% English who surprised to see us, heard we were viewing and showed us in. Inside were about 10 men of about 40-60, smoking in the living room in total silence. Some of them looked up when we entered. Most didn’t. We declined the offer to see the upstairs and eventually we made our excuses and staggered out into the never-sweeter daylight, fighting the urge to break into a trot as we hit the front lawn. Still think it might have been a niche brothel where happy people go to get good and depressed.

Like Bolton.

In other news major congrats to Bonnie and Mark Twohig on the arrival of their new son Charlie Gregory Twohig on September 11th. He is stout of heart, true of arm and in all likelihood will be the most succesful and handsome contact in my Facebook friends in 30 years time. Though Charlie is of course a very fine name, I can’t help regretting that they didn’t take my suggestion of Osama Bin Baby. But we all have regrets in life. I may have my own chance to bring the name back. Watch out Meg.

The Realtor of Leek

Mid-leek Reviews podcast edition Dead Authors

May Septemberous greetings fall upon your salty brow.

After a long Tuesday chewing coal or grinding wheat you’ve decided to chill down with a nice fat podcast. Good for you! And some heroin. But I’m not gonna judge.

Look what you’re doing to your mother!

Anyway, you’re cycling through the options looking for cast iron comedy gold. Silver and bronze can piss off you say!

Dear reader I point you towards the Dead Authors podcast. Hosted by father of sci-fi HG Wells (actually comedian Paul F Tomkins), who uses his time machine to travel back in time to pluck famous authors from the past for interviews in front of a live audience somewhere in the US.

Overall the series is remarkably consistent in its comedy, surprisingly informative and all in the name of a kids reading charity in the United States. For those of you with a conscience. Fools.

<hits wombat> Because I’m evil and such. Never seen one? They’re super cute.

Some of the comedians are pretty household names like Kristen Schall, Andy Richter and Jon Hodgman.

A particular delight is HG’s ongoing feud with Jules Verne down to the argument on who was the true father of sci-fi. The crowd now knows to hiss when the name is uttered.

If you`re trying to give it a bash I would recommend going for the L Ron Hubbard double bill of episodes. If you’re unaware who that was, he was the absolute madman who founded Scientology but before that he was an A grade scheister and super prolific science fiction author. Seemingly dreadful books but there we are.

Favoured quotes from those episodes include on his writing style “first draft last draft get it out the door!” and how he spent the 60’s, “sex magic with an elemental!? Now THAT`S sex magic!!”

The site for the charity it benefits is here if you want to support it:

http://826la.org

And here is the page for the podcast, of course it’s also on ITunes or wherever you get your podcasts.

http://deadauthorspodcast.org

I’m off to go bowling in a shopping centre in rural Poland for work.

I swish thee not!

The Toner of Leek

Roll of Toner Hear My Cry

At high school track and field he was rated number one lepper,

1682035,+wriAlIJ19davfGDvXzlIufQWkKiLVaABmjAIxDq6vwCpzdB7gSn3YZw+bRYHkEGwyQHkgDu163xeErIJvHxhA==It’s owl-beaked Hollywood also-ran Barry “The Spray” Pepper

Poor Mr Pepper (stifles guffaw). His career never quite recovered after Battlefield Earth. Would only recommend watching it if you like the sound of John Travoltas credibility being burnt along with huge piles of his own money.

Hello to you and yours, I put out my first Mid-Leek review posting this week, the response wasn’t 100% positive. In particular Meaghan’s Mom had a right old go. “You’re boyfriend is a real jerk, and his writing is the writing of a jerk” she raged. I was honestly taken aback, but if that’s how Meg tells it then that’s proof enough for me.

I’ll be continuing with the Mid-Leek reviews this week (one in the eye for Meg’s Mom there), though in all likelihood I will be writing the posting from rural Poland. Last week I was in Copenhagen for (fur) work and no one who has been to Copenhagen has soaked up less of their characteristic sleek modern design and foul herrings than me. On the five occasions I have visited, (all for work) you would’ve been more likely to find me smearing poultry-grease into my shameful gullet in the city centre KFC, than pondering a very expensive and uncomfortable chair.

When the cat’s away, he eats fried chicken and does push-ups in his room. Don’t ever leave me Meg.

My Poland trip is shaping up to be a biggy as there is a 4 hours train journey once I land in Warsaw which also happens to be the name of a WW2 rationbook-friendly replacement for coleslaw, mainly made from woodchips and engine coolant. Trivia. I will be hitting the Pret a Manger beforehand to stock up on train food. A few things about Pret, My mother is obsessed with it (“You can’t go wrong!”) and Meg is obsessed with this obsession, constantly referring to it as “Pret(sh)” in order to capture her pronunciation. Alternatively we refer to it as we found ourselves explaining it to some Northern visitors as “Posh Greggs.” Not that Pret is posh. Just that Greggs is trash. Sorry Manchester.

Greggs_wrong_logoThe above was briefly displayed as their official image on Google after the above sentiment being deemed as accurate by the online hive mind.

Megs Irishisms are often more offensive than this. Friday night she started singing this little ditty, “We all ate potatoes, but then they got the famine.” Because that was the issue. The potatoes got the famine.

Despite my gallivanting I’ll hold off on doing any travel review type stuff as I will be saving this for my Mid-leek reviews in a future month (watch out Meg’s Mom). In lieu of such finery, I elect to draw your attention to something myself and Meg were discussing recently.

I grew up in a pretty sheltered existence, raised in rural Ireland, in a school of barely over 20 students in a class of two. Not to say I wasn’t interested in the world around me (no one else in my school knew what Hong Kong was and why it being Chinese and not British was a geopolitical hot potato, I was 9 and evidently a squit) but suffice it to say I didn’t know what a crackbaby was.

Who’s this baby? He look like craic. Also he stalks my nightmares.

But this kind of splendid isolation gave me a handy filter for weird prejudices in society. This was because many of my views, were pretty much based on stuff I’d thought up myself or not at all. On that basis I had kind of kyboshed all major religions by the age of 12. Basically on the back of this: “if God’s only keen on people who are all “no other Gods but me,” then the Hindus are really in for it.” That was it pretty much solved in my mind. If there is a God in any kind of way suggested by the major religions, bit of a jerk. And I’m out.

This meant that some ideas that I guess are accepted in some quarters seemed completely nuts to me.

For example, we were watching some piece of garbage on TV recently and there was some joke referencing the “Black guy stealing all the white women” …thing. I first encountered this reading Roll of Thunder Hear My Cry, about a sharecropper family trying to get by in Jim Crow Mississippi. It went comfortably over my head and I had to take it on a, “Oh I guess some people think this” basis. Like thinking chicken doesn’t go in an omelette.

But this simple thing required so many leaps of non-logic it really boggles when you think it through.

  1. White women, more desirable than black women. Beyonce? Naw, more of a Susan Boyle man myself.
  2. White women, their own fidelity, tastes, whatever don’t even come into it. If someone wants to allure them allured they shall be. Women really are the silliest little things aren’t they?
  3. It is then the duty, of white types to prevent any kind of white-non-white no-pants scrimmaging. Because mixing of the hypothetically pure racial line is worse than anything done to prevent it. Very Sig Heil-y.

Another thing that I had to baby-feed my own brain was the bonkers notion that somehow homosexuals = paedophiles. As a teenager I was going off on a group activity with a really camp and largely out gay guy, but who for the purposes of his dealing with parents maintained he was as straight as Meg’s Mom hates my review blogposts.

Very much so.

When I asked Ingrid why he’d bother with the charade, she shrugged and said, “I guess some parents wouldn’t feel comfortable with him taking care of their kids.” Such parents should probably be more concerned with the mercury-laced DNA they’re passing along but hey.

Even now though I don’t think there is a trackable thought process behind this. As close as I’ve got is “I find lasagna unsettling. I find turkey stroganoff unsettling. Maybe lasagna… is turkey stroganoff?”

In short, if you’re worried you might be mental, ask a rural child with too much time on his hands. He will be weird, but he may be right.

In other news I was able to trick Meg into watching the All-Ireland Semi replay where chalk-white man-mountains hammered each other into a fine creamy paste. Her favourite part was watching the various cabbage-headed Mayo-men (Mayo being both their county of origin and their favourite food group) and scobey Dubs in the pub.

Above: Scobey Dubs.

Watch out for my second Mid-Leek podcast review later this week everyone!

And Megs Mom.

Roll of Toner Hear My Cry