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Friday 2nd November 2007.

The rush hour traffic,the host of rubber wheels driving steel through a slip stream which conjures up so many visions beyond the drawn curtained window is beginning to absail away,if my imagination is torrid enough the sound reminds me of Echo Beach,pounding surf,spitting pebbles in massed white foam rising up around King Canute's open sandals.
His trident in hand vainly trying to stem the woolly mammoths from lurching up the shingle shore line,to join the urban landscape that is increasingly beginning to froth at the mouth more so each new seasonal turn of the wheel.Urban living becomes rabid,not even the November fog tinted by yellow neon lights throws any softness across cracked paving stones held together by thrust out expended chewing gum,spat from mouths to young to care about the mountain of shite they will one day have to climb over.I wonder if, when, they climb to the top pause,look over,how much of King Canute will still be visible,perhaps not much if at all.
I find myself going crazier each day,my old England melts under this weight of instant shit.I wonder if people stop and stare and think Gosh..what if..

As old King Canute sits there back erect, trident stiff a new sound is beginning to crump echoing off the shinny grey slate,the crump of fireworks,not quite banned from public sale yet,give it ten years more and the history books will have been rewritten,Guy Fawkes will have become another chocolate bar in silken wrappers.Perhaps a play station two game where any reality as to whom,when,Guy Fawkes touched the history books is but a blank page torn out by political correct Woolly Mammoths.Maybe the game instead will surround a homosexual orgy..it has that ring..the burning of huge cocks under the Houses of Parliament,a vast sea of sperm showering the night air,as a single match is all it takes to explode all the crap coming from within the palace placed so apocalyptic on the River Thames.Perhaps no,perhaps my imagination is too vivid this evening and in ten years time the Woolly Mammoths will say there are no Homosexuals in England..but you might find one or two transvestites which is why Woolly Mammoths are still coming ashore poor old King Canute how his sandals must weep.

The crump of fireworks is growing,the traditionalist in me screams tis not the Fifth Bonfire night is on the fifth or not at all,but hey all that soggy tradition has gone,you can even buy hot crossed buns at Christmas.The wireless this week bleats ever on telling tales of woe..therefore go only to organised bonfires..the kids of today have been so brain washed Penny for the guy now wears a nappy in case he shits newspaper stuffing.Organised bonfires are what they sound like everyone goes weee..oohh at the same time..little Johnny face full of toffee apples pisses down his sisters wellington boot Mun and Dad wonder if a sky rocket will explode under the bonnet of the four by four..the loud speaker will tell them all to go home,and the rich history of self build will receive one more nail in King Canute's sandals.The woolly mammoths are winning that is the sad part as another crump softens on my window payne.



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