In Brexitlandia there are a lot of novelty named wines like “Old Git.” They are all by and large rubbish drinks but are popular amongst people who like whoopie Cushions.
Anyhow this local Spanish wine is not supposed to be amusing or descriptive but it might as well be both. I drank it and felt funnier after the second bottle.
It's name is Terrible
The fellow in the background resembles yours truly and that Tesco “Value” Scotch Whisky was bought in Soho for about 5 Quid when Tesco where denying claims that they lured customers in with cheap booze. Again, a terrible drink and I had to fight through a hysterical flash mob of Soho Street Drinkers to get my sweaty trembling palms on it.
I don't use Facebook, for reasons that will be made obvious by this post. I am very pleased that my blog posts are sometimes reposted there, as it boosts my readership from three people up to as many as seven, thus I hope this one is also reposted upon that ubiquitous Orwellian platform,
This post is just to help make things clear to the Facebook Genius who commented accusing me of not being able to spell the name of my own blog. How right he is. It should really be spelt Fuck Off You ill-Informed Cunt.
I shall explain simply for you that the name Andalusia is derived from Arabic and thus can be spelled a number of ways including the spelling I use for this blog “Andalucia.” You McNugget Munching Muppet.
Want me to draw you a picture?
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.
He prefered humans
As a teenager, like many others, I was really inspired by Storm’s album covers, Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin etc. He turned me on to Dali and Magritte setting me adrift upon the Seven and a 1/2 submerged seas of Surrealism. As a tiny tribute I offer this unposed snapshot taken on an old mobile phone on the roof of a Rubbish Drinking Club in Soho London.
I took this piss poor picture in Soho London’s Coach & Horses “Gents” toilet the day Norman Balon (Self Proclaimed London’s Rudest Landlord) told me he was giving up the pub. It was one of the sadest moments of my life. His catchphrase “You’re barred you bastards” still echoes fondly.