Florentine_Pogen

Doydgay. [emoji41]

Outstanding response. Fuxake.........

“Clairvoyant and Spiritual Teacher”. Dave King should benefit from all the skills this lady has to offer. [emoji149][emoji149]

Och, gie auld bigotchops a break.......he was probably on his second bottle of Bombay Sapphire when he made that wee grammatical slip-up.

Molybdenum

Meticklaus ? Fuxake..........

Mods, please.........[emoji149][emoji149]

I believe that the above is a verbatim transcript of Boris Johnson’s pitch to the 1922 Committee to become next PM.

Fück ‘em....they could just get one of their junkie mates to administer a manual evacuation. [emoji50]

“In The Realm Of The Senses” (complete, in original Japanese, no subtitles) is available on some cultural site called ygerbil or so a friend tells me.......[emoji41]

Yeah, but she gets a pass this time cos’ she bought tattie scones too...... [emoji56]

Jawöhl.....Hier Kommt Alex was a bit of a cockrock anthem back in the day.

Might have already been mentioned but BBC Sounds have a podcast (in 13 episodes).....shreds: Murder In The Dock, about the murder of a young sex worker in 1988 in Cardiff’s Tiger Bay, the lives that were destroyed and the lengths that police went to in order to try and cover up their botched, and ultimately, illegal behaviour. A tough listen in places and made me fùcking angry too, but very interesting , also the history of old Cardiff and Butetown, before the Bay development took off.

Wahay !!.......SkandiBigot ! [emoji149][emoji149]

Feck that krautpop shecht.........Rammstein and Dagmar Krause are where it’s at in the Reich ........ [emoji41]

I lived in Germany many years ago. Spoke no German prior to going. The most invaluable thing turned out to be a wee book I took with me called “Benjamin’s Elementary Primer of English Grammar”. Not sure if still in print but well worth trying to find a copy IMHO. Good luck....how do you say “Pics or GTF” in Swedish ?

“Do you know where my (name any one of several hundred objects) is / are ?” “Yes darling, exactly where you left it / them.” This is my stock answer to this type of question.

Possible alternative :- ‘Try Wanking - it’s more enjoyable than Puritanical hypocrites would have you believe.” They could use my coupon on the campaign poster if they were struggling........

So Danny Baker gets the bullet for his mixed race Royal Baby / chimp tweet yet the Cro Magnons of Pacific Quay are allowed to do homophobia ?

Get that cow telt...................🥾

Cup Final Day and we have Cowan and Cheeky Chirpy Chappie Chico. Nope. Fūck. That. [emoji35]

Esther & Abi Ofarim ? (One for the real oldies 🤣)

First read this poem at school in the 70’s, has always stayed with me. It is the poet’s response after the birth of his own son. The Almond Tree by Jon Stallworthy. 1 All the way to the hospital the lights were green as peppermints. Trees of black iron broke into leaf ahead of me, as if I were the lucky prince in an enchanted wood summoning summer with my whistle, banishing winter with a nod. Swung by the road from bend to bend, I was aware that blood was running down through the delta of my wrist and under arches of bright bone. Centuries, continents it had crossed; from an undisclosed beginning spiraling to an unmapped end. 2 Crossing (at sixty) Magdalen Bridge Let it be a son, a son, said the man in the driving mirror, Let it be a son. The tower held up its hand: the college bells shook their blessing on his head. 3 I parked in an almond's shadow blossom, for the tree was waving, waving me upstairs with a child's hands. 4 Up the spinal stair and at the top along a bone-white corridor the blood tide swung me swung me to a room whose walls shuddered with the shuddering womb. Under the sheet wave after wave, wave after wave beat on the bone coast, bringing ashore–whom? New– minted, my bright farthing! Coined by our love, stamped with our images, how you enrich us! Both you make one. Welcome to your white sheet, my best poem! 5 At seven-thirty the visitors' bell scissored the calm of the corridors. The doctor walked with me to the slicing doors. His hand upon my arm, his voice–I have to tell you–set another bell beating in my head: your son is a mongol the doctor said. 6 How easily the word went in– clean as a bullet leaving no mark on the skin, stopping the heart within it. This was my first death. The "I" ascending on a slow last thermal breath studied the man below as a pilot treading air might the buckled shell of his plane– boot, glove and helmet feeling no pain from the snapped wires' radiant ends. Looking down from a thousand feet I held four walls in the lens of an eye; wall, window, the street a torrent of windscreens, my own car under its almond tree, and the almond waving me down. I wrestled against gravity, but light was melting and the gulf cracked open. Unfamiliar the body of my late self I carried to the car. 7 The hospital–its heavy freight lashed down ship-shape ward over ward– steamed into the night with some on board soon to be lost if the desperate charts were known. Others would come altered to land or find the land altered. At their voyage's end some would be added to, some diminished. In a numbered cot my son sailed from me; never to come ashore into my kingdom speaking my language. Better not look that way. The almond tree was beautiful in labor. Blood- dark, quickening, bud after bud split, flower after flower shook free. On the darkening wind a pale face floated. Out of reach. Only when the buds, all the buds, were broken would the tree be in full sail. In labor the tree was becoming itself. I, too, rooted in earth and ringed by darkness, from the death of myself saw myself blossoming, wrenched from the caul of my thirty years' growing, fathered by my son, unkindly in a kind season by love shattered and set free.

They’re selling postcards of the hanging They’re painting the passports brown The beauty parlor is filled with sailors The circus is in town Here comes the blind commissioner They’ve got him in a trance One hand is tied to the tight-rope walker The other is in his pants And the riot squad they’re restless They need somewhere to go As Lady and I look out tonight From Desolation Row Cinderella, she seems so easy “It takes one to know one,” she smiles And puts her hands in her back pockets Bette Davis style And in comes Romeo, he’s moaning “You Belong to Me I Believe” And someone says, “You’re in the wrong place my friend You better leave” And the only sound that’s left After the ambulances go Is Cinderella sweeping up On Desolation Row Now the moon is almost hidden The stars are beginning to hide The fortune-telling lady Has even taken all her things inside All except for Cain and Abel And the hunchback of Notre Dame Everybody is making love Or else expecting rain And the Good Samaritan, he’s dressing He’s getting ready for the show He’s going to the carnival tonight On Desolation Row Now Ophelia, she’s ’neath the window For her I feel so afraid On her twenty-second birthday She already is an old maid To her, death is quite romantic She wears an iron vest Her profession’s her religion Her sin is her lifelessness And though her eyes are fixed upon Noah’s great rainbow She spends her time peeking Into Desolation Row Einstein, disguised as Robin Hood With his memories in a trunk Passed this way an hour ago With his friend, a jealous monk He looked so immaculately frightful As he bummed a cigarette Then he went off sniffing drainpipes And reciting the alphabet Now you would not think to look at him But he was famous long ago For playing the electric violin On Desolation Row Dr. Filth, he keeps his world Inside of a leather cup But all his sexless patients They’re trying to blow it up Now his nurse, some local loser She’s in charge of the cyanide hole And she also keeps the cards that read “Have Mercy on His Soul” They all play on pennywhistles You can hear them blow If you lean your head out far enough From Desolation Row Across the street they’ve nailed the curtains They’re getting ready for the feast The Phantom of the Opera A perfect image of a priest They’re spoonfeeding Casanova To get him to feel more assured Then they’ll kill him with self-confidence After poisoning him with words And the Phantom’s shouting to skinny girls “Get Outa Here If You Don’t Know Casanova is just being punished for going To Desolation Row” Now at midnight all the agents And the superhuman crew Come out and round up everyone That knows more than they do Then they bring them to the factory Where the heart-attack machine Is strapped across their shoulders And then the kerosene Is brought down from the castles By insurance men who go Check to see that nobody is escaping To Desolation Row Praise be to Nero’s Neptune The Titanic sails at dawn And everybody’s shouting “Which Side Are You On?” And Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot Fighting in the captain’s tower While calypso singers laugh at them And fishermen hold flowers Between the windows of the sea Where lovely mermaids flow And nobody has to think too much About Desolation Row Yes, I received your letter yesterday (About the time the doorknob broke) When you asked how I was doing Was that some kind of joke? All these people that you mention Yes, I know them, they’re quite lame I had to rearrange their faces And give them all another name Right now I can’t read too good Don’t send me no more letters, no Not unless you mail them From Desolation Row