Whilst having a spot of light lunch yesterday I couldn’t help but admire this questionable choice of photo for a place that serves food. The rodents pictured are from the Tio Pepe Sherry bodega which has been serving generations of mice a glass a day for over a century, the kind workers of Gonzales Byass have even provided their furtive freinds with a little access ladder. I was told by the waiter that the practice has now been stopped due to EU health regulations: How many units are Mice allowed? I asked.
Britain’s rats are awaiting the announcement of a No Deal Brexit, then the Tennent’s Super swilling drunken bastards will go on the rampage bringing back the good’olde worlde Black Death, probably.
Hello my loves, what a difference a few weeks make eh? Well now that we are all caught up in this fog together we’d best make ourselves as comfortable as we possibly can. I can’t say I have anything that could console you at this time or even possibly divert, my main wish is not to make matters worse.
“He Tried Not To Make Matters Worse”
I wish to thank you dear reader for following my ramblings into the void and making it a less lonely voyage.
Now onwards and inwards until we can go outwards, where and what is Wards?
So, I have been dancing with El Diablo in the digital domain. Here are a few doctored iPhone pictures that I took this week to reflect Andalucían idle doom.
Beer Melting Time
The Quiet Life
The Quieter Life
The Art Life
So there we have it. Chins up, bottoms up, don’t let the bugger get you down.
This Light Switch may not turn on divine radiance, it is more likely to the kick into life the flickering bulb of a bar toilet, just as relevatory. Transcendence through a well lit piss: My aim is thus more true, thank The Lord.
I was in Cadiz yesterday and saw this appetising mural outside a place that may possibly sell this product. I wasn't quite hungry enough for cartoon food and opted instead for a realistic looking Havana Club Rum in what might well be regarded as a Spanish Fish & Chip shop around the corner.
Sitting stoned staring blankly at yet another shrine I have put together for dead friends. This one is dedicated to Sebastian Horsley. He wasn't everybody's cup of tea, nor would he have wanted to be. Even at his very worst he was far more refreshing to behold than a bag of dried leaves in hot water. One afternoon he crept up the stairs in Meard Street Soho, knocked on my door and gave me this lion's skull as it did not interest him.
On the way home I mistook these car seats for cops on a surveillance mission, then deduced that they had probably sneaked off down to the pub instead. Waiting for crime to happen is a bit of a bore around here.