Not me, but such thinly disguised mimicry of my own noble adventures. 'tis true. My fame rightly spreads! And in the meantime, after a fine long sleep, I have been informed by my Dulcinea that many typos (those cursed third of my great foes) do lurk in the far province of Romford, and she seems keen for me to pursue them.
'But my sweet lady,' I declared, 'Rough Romford is many days journey by steed, and even a full day away by the extortionate wheeled iron carriages of Network Derail. Were I to chase such distant typos you would be denied the tender touch of my love for many days, or even weeks.'
'I can tolerate the sacrifice,' she declared instantly. Such a noble and self-denying jewel is she not?
Now apparently Squire Shaunso hails from this Romford province, so perhaps if I follow a path towards Shaunso's simple origins the source of the damned typos may be found? Onwards! To the chase, in haste!
Ah... He is gone. Sweet fortune thank goodness for that... Or ewen thunk gadness, thamk goudnesh, think giddyness, Ha ha :) :)) :))) Oh! I do swear I do love him more the farther away from me he does get :))
Hmm I think we should discuss this Don QuiScottie. I know you righteous wrath on your side but I have the awesome power of the maladroit to protect me.
Much is confusing me. Do you know of my Shaunso, Master Jams O' Donnell? And what are these wild (and surely mythic) tales I hear of Romford being a place where men and women in black drapes do pose in carazily contorted forms before garish coloured walls and wrap Dulcinean headscarves around them? What fiendishness is this? I may find much work to be done to straighten the place out when I get there. Have been delayed, meanwhile, as Network Derail insist I should have something called a ticket. A ticket? All Rocinante needs is oats and water. I should not have chosen the wheeled iron carriage for travel. The fellow in the peaked hat who is demanding a ticket seems disinterested in my offerred oats and water.
"carazily"? I have been infected again with Typo Thyphus :( Oh and smilitis too. I shall lie down and recover for a while. From whom am I catching these awfulmost ailments? I will examine the company I keep when I feel stronger.
Ah Don QuiScottie it is a land of wonders where men are men and women re men and nothing is what it seems.
Romford is truly the setting for many of Dali's work where time and space contort... and where the odd little scrote nicks bins from Debenhams!
It is strange that the Network Derail people will not carry a man of your carriage on their carriages or a beast of the stature of Rocinante. Do they not know the mighty power of oats?
And where the youthful populace doth lack a certain intelligence or perhaps imagination? Were I to raid the delights of Debenhams I doubt that I would make a bee line for... the bins... Rocinante and I have been despatched most roughly from Network Derail by a quite foul mannered oaf. Our arrival will take longer than we thought but at least we will arrive on time (a logical contortion that makes perfect sense to me).
The bins would not be my first choice either but then the lack of imagination may be down to living in what is a most surreal environment.
I am glad you will be on time. However, a sound thrashing for the head of Network Derail is in order. I believe he lives in a fifty storey high windmill
You see... there were some leaves in our path and I asked Rocinante, 'the wrong kind of leaves?', and the answer came 'Neigh...'; and I asked 'is there a wrong kind of snow for you?', and the answer came 'Neigh...'. This great steed of mine is a triumph of bio-engineering that, unlike Network Derail, will carry me through anything. Onwards to Romford! (slowly)
A fifty story high windmill? Pah. A mere swipe of my lance will suffice. I hear tell of a mighty glass windmill many more stories high called Canaries that Woof (I do believe) and a whirling round milly thing called London Sigh (I think); all overseen by Mad Boris Buffoonsome of the White Hair... and I do swear that after Raiding and Rampaging through Romford I shall gallop to Londonium and surmount them all, and triumph. Dulcinea shall see me on the televisual newscast, riding high on Mad Boris with a whip in hand and crying 'How do you like it then white hairy madman? Take this whipping on behalf of the bicycles.' Nothing can stop me now. Oh.... whose Bloggy thing is this? Not mine. I shall shush then....
Ah no... I shall bow and kneel humbly before Lord Boris the Cat and beg his indulgence; and as for Towering Ted... well surely then I will have met much more than my match. Take on Ted? I may be deluded (some claim) but I am not completely mad.
'Tis the very work of the Devil himself.... (I mean the dark photo from CherrysomePie not the 100% naked Seanso... although by Atomik Theoricity Seanso must surely be 25% pure pillow and sheet by now?).
Don QuiScottie, it's certainly the embodiment of the evil. The dark photo, CherryPie sends us to shiver with horror, not tired Seanso who by now is almost 45 percent pillow and sheet.
And the Don is 30% Dulcinea... a better deal for the Don than the deal for Dulcinea, I fear. (I fear everything, actually... but don't tell... I'll pretend again to be brave in a moment).
Good lord Our boss Don QuiScttie is looking the worse for wear!
ReplyDeleteNot me, but such thinly disguised mimicry of my own noble adventures. 'tis true. My fame rightly spreads! And in the meantime, after a fine long sleep, I have been informed by my Dulcinea that many typos (those cursed third of my great foes) do lurk in the far province of Romford, and she seems keen for me to pursue them.
ReplyDelete'But my sweet lady,' I declared, 'Rough Romford is many days journey by steed, and even a full day away by the extortionate wheeled iron carriages of Network Derail. Were I to chase such distant typos you would be denied the tender touch of my love for many days, or even weeks.'
'I can tolerate the sacrifice,' she declared instantly. Such a noble and self-denying jewel is she not?
Now apparently Squire Shaunso hails from this Romford province, so perhaps if I follow a path towards Shaunso's simple origins the source of the damned typos may be found? Onwards! To the chase, in haste!
Ah... He is gone. Sweet fortune thank goodness for that... Or ewen thunk gadness, thamk goudnesh, think giddyness, Ha ha :) :)) :))) Oh! I do swear I do love him more the farther away from me he does get :))
ReplyDeleteFor the journey:
ReplyDeletehttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=45KxeBonUGI&feature=related
Hmm I think we should discuss this Don QuiScottie. I know you righteous wrath on your side but I have the awesome power of the maladroit to protect me.
ReplyDeleteMuch is confusing me. Do you know of my Shaunso, Master Jams O' Donnell? And what are these wild (and surely mythic) tales I hear of Romford being a place where men and women in black drapes do pose in carazily contorted forms before garish coloured walls and wrap Dulcinean headscarves around them? What fiendishness is this? I may find much work to be done to straighten the place out when I get there. Have been delayed, meanwhile, as Network Derail insist I should have something called a ticket. A ticket? All Rocinante needs is oats and water. I should not have chosen the wheeled iron carriage for travel. The fellow in the peaked hat who is demanding a ticket seems disinterested in my offerred oats and water.
ReplyDelete"carazily"? I have been infected again with Typo Thyphus :( Oh and smilitis too. I shall lie down and recover for a while. From whom am I catching these awfulmost ailments? I will examine the company I keep when I feel stronger.
ReplyDeleteAh Don QuiScottie it is a land of wonders where men are men and women re men and nothing is what it seems.
ReplyDeleteRomford is truly the setting for many of Dali's work where time and space contort... and where the odd little scrote nicks bins from Debenhams!
It is strange that the Network Derail people will not carry a man of your carriage on their carriages or a beast of the stature of Rocinante. Do they not know the mighty power of oats?
Haha Truly thou art hoist by your own Pet Toad!
ReplyDeleteAnd where the youthful populace doth lack a certain intelligence or perhaps imagination? Were I to raid the delights of Debenhams I doubt that I would make a bee line for... the bins... Rocinante and I have been despatched most roughly from Network Derail by a quite foul mannered oaf. Our arrival will take longer than we thought but at least we will arrive on time (a logical contortion that makes perfect sense to me).
ReplyDeleteThe bins would not be my first choice either but then the lack of imagination may be down to living in what is a most surreal environment.
ReplyDeleteI am glad you will be on time. However, a sound thrashing for the head of Network Derail is in order. I believe he lives in a fifty storey high windmill
You see... there were some leaves in our path and I asked Rocinante, 'the wrong kind of leaves?', and the answer came 'Neigh...'; and I asked 'is there a wrong kind of snow for you?', and the answer came 'Neigh...'. This great steed of mine is a triumph of bio-engineering that, unlike Network Derail, will carry me through anything. Onwards to Romford! (slowly)
ReplyDeleteA fifty story high windmill? Pah. A mere swipe of my lance will suffice. I hear tell of a mighty glass windmill many more stories high called Canaries that Woof (I do believe) and a whirling round milly thing called London Sigh (I think); all overseen by Mad Boris Buffoonsome of the White Hair... and I do swear that after Raiding and Rampaging through Romford I shall gallop to Londonium and surmount them all, and triumph. Dulcinea shall see me on the televisual newscast, riding high on Mad Boris with a whip in hand and crying 'How do you like it then white hairy madman? Take this whipping on behalf of the bicycles.' Nothing can stop me now. Oh.... whose Bloggy thing is this? Not mine. I shall shush then....
ReplyDeleteDear DonQuiScottie please rampage through Romford but not many will notice the difference!
ReplyDeleteAs for Mad Boris (not Lord Boris the cat or course) I fear that he already pays good money to be ridden around London like a horse but I digress....
Ah no... I shall bow and kneel humbly before Lord Boris the Cat and beg his indulgence; and as for Towering Ted... well surely then I will have met much more than my match. Take on Ted? I may be deluded (some claim) but I am not completely mad.
ReplyDeleteEnfin...Un Jacques Brel que j'aime!
ReplyDeleteYou shall not kneel but you shall tremble before Ted!
ReplyDeleteHaha Claude thanks for bringing us down to earth!
ReplyDelete@Jams - Frankly, I didn't understand a word of what you and Quicky were talking about.....
ReplyDeleteHa ha Claude. Perhaps it is better that way!
ReplyDeleteRemember and tremble...
ReplyDeletehttp://www.flickr.com/photos/-cherrypie-/5316332485/
Oh, what did I miss while being more bed and pillow and 100 percent naked ...
ReplyDelete'Tis the very work of the Devil himself.... (I mean the dark photo from CherrysomePie not the 100% naked Seanso... although by Atomik Theoricity Seanso must surely be 25% pure pillow and sheet by now?).
ReplyDeleteDon QuiScottie,
ReplyDeleteit's certainly the embodiment of the evil.
The dark photo, CherryPie sends us to shiver with horror, not tired Seanso who by now is almost 45 percent pillow and sheet.
And the Don is 30% Dulcinea... a better deal for the Don than the deal for Dulcinea, I fear. (I fear everything, actually... but don't tell... I'll pretend again to be brave in a moment).
ReplyDelete