Author: basgallop

Once i was off ambling through the hills and bogs of bonny scotland
away down a track, miles from anywhere, when what should I see come a fluttering by?
A ten pound note! Oooh that’s lucky I says to myself.
I pounced on it butterfly collector stylee. ‘got you my beauty!’
Wonder how that got here?
Next a second one came by. Quids in!
lottery millionaires whirling blizzard of cash?
Another! bonanza. the simple elation of greed.

It was then I looked done and noticed that my money belt was unzipped.
noodles of dosh! An entire cashed gyro, scattered on the scottish wind, It was all my money! bagpipe wail
frantic lunges into the heather, oh the moot despondency of mood.

money belts. pah. your better off with a sporran

back when it was built, 1890’s, the Volks railway ran all the way to Rottingdene.
the track must have run on some sort of bridge, viaduct thing, within a few years, the track got washed away, by huge seas, much as todays

but if you look out over the marina wall at low tide, you can still see a parallel lines of stones stretching away into the distance, marking where it used to run

kind of right yes… was for a different type of train though have a read of http://www.urban75.org/railway/brighton-sea-railway.html

cheers james, thats great
life is always much more pleasantly bonkers than i could imagine it to be

as Yeats would have it

Long-Legged Fly

that civilisation may not sink,
Its great battle lost,
Quiet the dog, tether the pony
To a distant post;
Our master Caesar is in the tent
Where the maps are spread,
His eyes fixed upon nothing,
A hand under his head.

Like a long-legged fly upon the stream
His mind moves upon silence.

my new chair makes a twanging spangle tinkle glockenspiel pianola noise when i swivel. hurrah!

Anthem for Doomed Youth

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries for them; no prayers nor bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,–
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

Wilfred Owen

ok Steve, drum roll, why was my chair called Nelson Mandela?
Because it was falling Apartheid.

marcus received 2 official complaints about it (he complained twice to himself) so sadly it had to go
It was a bit odf a clowns car of a chair. First the arms fell off spectacularly, then the back and it kinda shed foam dandruff
…but it swoooshed!

I’ve just seen it outside, lonely and folorn in the car park.

somebody might steal it! yikes

last time i saw it was Friday evening, i sat down in the lift on it with, pete ‘peg leg’ brown riding shotgun

the new chair feels a little bit like Capn Kirk on the Bridge of the Starship Enterprise, without the drinks cabinet in the arm rest

 

A Sunny Winter Saturday, last night was a new moon and the islamic new year, so a time for optimism, beginnings and wearing green!

The kids dawdle jump about the living room curious as to what i’m up too.
Can’t say i blame ’em.