The heat has dropped splodge like sweaty lettuce and hot greasy bacon slapping repeatedly against your cheeks and rubbing itself in your armpits. Who put this swelt in the sky, and who melted the line holding it above our heads? Comfortable chill has been usurped by gasping airless buses and window burn. Personally I’m stuck to the sofa and the walls around me can no longer support their own weight; I don’t know about you, and the structural integrity of your anthropomorphic home. How could I presume to such knowledge?
As the water goes down your gullet it immediately evaporates from the top of your clammy pate and mixes with the tissue of your socks to form a richly dense cheesy pâté in your shoes. Oh, the joys ofsummer. “Summer breeze, makes me feel fine, blowing through the jasmine in my mind...” Yeah? Oh really, where’s that fucking breeze? I’ll take the breeze if you’ve got one, but you can keep your bloody jasmine and all that darn pollen. Nope; I’m your typical modern small-chested asthmatic weakling, riddled with allergies. Common cold in summer and allergy in winter. But beside that I’m fine, thanks for asking. And how are you?
Time for a song:
And again on spotify!
Let's have it again, but better:
And... on spotify!
Oh, go on then. One more time! And cranked up a further notch of awesomeness:
Spot' it!
Says me, and the searing keys of my burned up laptop. There is nothing that is not a source of uncomfortable heat - the fridge radiates burning plasma; the cold water tap drips superheated fire-water; and the coolant systems of my biomechanical organs are magma chambers ready to explode. Everything runs sweat, except my sinuses which are concreted up and abandoned. But beside that I’m fine, thanks for asking. And how are you?
Blackpool tomorrow for some Pleasure at the Beach; and a day spent eating rock, floss, and dog. There will be cool summer breeze with a slight smell of Blackpool’s dirty water, and the jolly sight of a seagull cheekily pinching an ice cream from the hand of an elderly gent wearing a knotted hanky on his head. The breeze will blow gently through my long flowing hair, lifting up my fringe exposing a slowly receding line; follicles abandoning their posts one by one. Fortune will have sent all thrill-seekers to join the same queues at Alton Towers, leaving the Big One free as my own personal play-thing. All these things will happen. I will them to happen.
Tomorrow I can report back the power of will. The demands I have made the universe will be met, you betcha. I’ll bring you back a donkey ride and some hen-night filth and a Wish You Were Here tattoo on my arse.
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