Calypsoner of Leek

If I were to critique, it would be laden with pith,

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It’s self-entitled turdcicle Jayden “hugged too much” Smith

Punch it! Punch it in the neck!

Luscious hellos to you on this almost universal bank holiday, recognising the sterling work done by labour parties and socialists all over the world to turn people off the idea of labour parties and socialists. Orwell called them “Sandal-wearing fruit juice drinkers,” and as much as I love me a Capri-Sun, man sandals are akin to murder in my book.

In fact I would go so far as to call myself an extremist, adhering to the Italian rule of no one should ever see skin below your knee unless you’re about to try and “liase” with them. Leather shoes, long socks all the way up the knee and a small firework in the belt buckle to fire as a distraction if your sock should ever roll down delivering to the viewer a forbidden taste of sweet milky man-calf. Disgusting.

If… somewhat ennervating <shivers>

I’ve just seen that it’s not Labor Day in the US. Trust it to Obama to let the pinkos back in the pantry.

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This is just what Bin Laden wanted. Exactly like Benghazi + Obamacare.  But Trump will fix all that when… ugh I’m getting a headache. How do people do this on the reg!?

This week the new destination is Zurich. Back in Switzerland, I can find myself getting used to the good life of pre-breakfast chocolates and a staff of domestic help dedicated to stopping my underpanties riding up on me. The point of me being there is all workyworky so is more an exercise in sleep-deprivation than the jetsetting lifestyle of a professional instagrammer. Wait is “Instagrammar” my new album title? MC Baps O’Tittle feat. DaTonerOfLeek. Singles include “Wide Rump Bunch,” “Eat My Chicken” and “Who’s Got The Bikelock (To My Heart)?”

Warsaw, last week’s merry jaunt went rapidly with me not getting a chance to break out my sweet golf style and barely managing to quaff the endless bottles of apple juice that lie on every dinner table there. This weird detail is down to the fact that the Putin has banned the Russians from buying EU apples so the Poles are having to brush their bloody teeth with apples to get rid of them.

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Russian apples are so much better anyway

As a kid I remember thinking how Poland would be a concrete slab, divoted by small arms fire and cracked like a kicked biscuit. In actual fact, Poland is very slightly run down in parts but in a mundanely charming way that reminds me increasingly of areas of Ireland. Though the old Soviet architecture, still makes me want to swear allegiance to the politburo out of fear for them taking away my last Russian apple.

It was going to be a gift to my grandchild before we boiled her for soup.

My first trip there in 2010 was my first holiday with the Megger and started a strong tradition of us ending up down holes in the ground. In Krakow there is an abandoned saltmine that they built a chapel in, using rock salt. The Pope was keen on it and went there on his school tours apparently. And not the current Pope, Pope Frank ‘n’ Beans, or the previous guy who looked like a withered panda with a propensity for systematically shielding sex abusers from prosecution. Exactly like that…

No, Pope Jonny-P (the deuce!), who defeated communism while kicking Parkinsons ass for 27 years on the bedoilied throne.

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Damn you Parkinson…

This salt mine ended up being one of the weirdest experiences of the trip, beyond the leery welcomes of our receptionist who I think was struggling to decide who between Meg and Myself he fancied more (it was Meg). Obviously feeling that a poxy savoury chapel wasn’t quite killing it in the tourism draw stakes (bloody right too), they had done some sculptures (that is the prteferred verb, “I done a sculpture”) down there, including a bunch of warped nightmare munchkins for whom there was a soundtrack (a kind of calypso enema, only appropriate on a cruise ship in the 80’s where we’re about to go to an island where the natives eat our skin) and a nauseating light show.

This tableau of inanity was preceded with an awkwardly playful intro by the guide who was cleary a frigging oddball. “We must be very quiet, there is only a chance they may come…”

In another devastating turn she walked us into a high ceilinged cavern with a note of finality “Now we do it.” Then she pressed a button somewhere and the cavern lights dimmed. An air of anticipation settled on our group. There was an ambient noise coming from somewhere, was it… whatever was coming? Oh what could it be!? More skin-eating salt trolls? A mural of Popey McGee? Some delicious sausages?

The lights came up. Silence.

“Okay, we go on.”

Since then we have been keen to go back, but as much for the liberal view of day drinking rather than the sodium-heavy tourist attractions.

New low alert. My mother’s project “Raise A Good ‘Un” took another hit this week. I got a saddening reaction to my recent attempt to extract addresses from possible wedding attendees. As I asked for people’s addresses, I got the following response three independent times.

“Please don’t send me poop.”

I haven’t always been able to afford to lavish money on stamps, so this mail-heavy period of wedding correspondence has sprung much fear amongst those that know me well.

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To those people, just because you get turds in the post, doesn’t mean I sent them.

Anyway I was probably trying to send them to your neighbour. They’re WAY more fun.

In other news Meg has developed the habit of the “tit-grab.” Apro-po of nothing she will grab my chest and squeeze it hard. When I protested recently, she was angered that I would deny her my “delicious titties.” The game used to be that I annoyed her, but… I don’t know anything anymore.

See you next week, I’m late for my calypso enema.

Calypsoner of Leek

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