Monday, May 04, 2020


Faro de Santa Pola

The snotgreen sea,
the scrotumtightening sea,
Mr Joyce would probably write.

Isla de Tabarca


  1. I am rather sure that Mr Joyce would have employed a multitude of more words than you offered, perhaps an entire chapter of "... and the watery wetness with not a drop of alcohol in its limitless depoth that shimmered and sparkled and oh, as Sean sat and gazed and recalled his day as the watery, watery alcohol-deficient wettyness splurpled and sparlplped and sent beams of light into his eye as Sean still sat and waited and wondered in his fretful head: "When will I get another fuckin' drink!" And then he turned sadly to the alcohol-free water that still sp....." finishing 23 pages later with, "...and still Sean had not yet lifted the drink to his lips, that had been there waiting for him by his hand, all that time, as he gazed at the fuckin' sea."

    1. A fiver, a fiver ... no a tenner, a tenner on the tenth. May I? A tennery tenth into the Golden Helmet of Perthino, so that Don QuiScottie can invite Dulcinea to a fish'n'chips party and still – Feck of, tea! Feck of, sparkling water! – will have a few quid left in his private pocket, for some stoutish stouts. Avanti, avanti, not even six days to go.

    2. Price of one fish supper - £6.50, so that's 13 quid for a start. A few stoutish stouts by the bottle, two, maybe three bottles at £1.68 each... Make it twenty into the helmet, kind sir? Maybe a biot extra for the petrol home? I am a poor veteran of many wars sir, against enemies so great you could never imagine... Dulcinea doesn't drink the alcoholic stuff, she just daintily sips her water and gazes lovingly at me as I get merry and start telling her what a lucky fellow I am... - she loves it you know - so twenty will do, kind sir? Or maybe another fiver for ice creams?

    3. Oh... and six bales of hay and three sacks of oats for Rocinante and some sugar-coated gold dust for Apocalypse... and, come to think of it.... ach never mind, just the thought will be fine :) (Ooops)

    4. A voice. A voicely voice. Not Joyce. The voice of Mrs Doyle whispery whispering eerily into my ears: "Stick that fuckin' fork up into his hole."

    5. After he's had his nice cup of tea though...

    6. Feck off, tea! Sláinte, brave Don, cheers, kippis, serefe & salute. Alchemy is no witchcraft. Two more drams of Talisker, and sugar-coated gold dust for Apocalypse will sparkle within less of no time.