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Tuesday 3rd January 2017.

These deep mid-winter days make me wonder why my ancesters stayed in such a gloom ridden Northern Mill Town and not ventured forth to California..Western Australia...or better still the island of Bora Bora...the concrete grey sky matts into the grey pavement the only colour are the red Coco-Cola cans hurled from car windows as they pass with the boom box rapping in words only heard understood on far flung planet Zog their life the can that is, to be squahed by the gutter side and to lay there in silence spent, sapped, in quashed mouth to mouth bubbles.
There are no Elephants on the road...The busted bra of the large lady lies in a heep, her last notes from deep within have been caught in the depths of turkey stuffing, tangled between riotous amounts of some fire brimmed spirits unknown to man knid.
Her smacked arsed corset has crawled to the corner, it's last gasp raspy voice trails wailing, amongst the defunct crackers and empty tissue boxes...the wiff of orange peel coupled with stale spirits gives a new dimension to builders bum.
Infact Bob the Builder...is throwing up in the porcelain hallowed halls, caught in a sea of carrots that always seem to pour from ones eyes, even though the gremlins in carrot fashion have never passed ones lips. Betty the wood chopper is just about recovering from spiders hands wandering over her fishnets, her high heels trapped in the mass of bubble gum that generations have poured forth in an effort to stem the tide of false promises, empty hand bags, and blue rinse  hair so frontily barnacled by the Kimono clad Maggie Thatcher that once was, fills all those sand filled fire buckets hanging from sadly painted walls in clubs that once rang with northern soul...there is no talcom powder on the floor and the tune " love on a mountain top " is frozen in a coffee machine that no longer takes the old copper penny.
For yet another year the festive season is over....So Goeth...

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