another storm hit's us today, for the third day running, eighty mph wind's and yet more torrential rain, falling on already sodden ground, thank the prophet mohammed, or jesus or buddha or kurt cobain, or ronald mcdonald, or steve jobs or the chuckle brother's or whatever god you follow, that we live on 'badger-hill' or 'hale-brock', as i walk ted. the j.r terrier, [my other boy, gus, is making slow progress after his major surgery and is limited to three, five-minute walk's a day. just enough for six pee's and a dump and two attempt's to nail the neighbour's cat] the earth is literally moving under my feet, the ground so wet that there's no grip to be found, as i gaze up at the chevin, over the other side of the amber valley, i can see the 'W W 1' carved into the hillside and try to imagine what it must have been like for the tommy's in the trench's, living amongst the human filth, dead bodies and squalor of war, frozen with cold and fear, shell-shocked and suffering with malnutrition and trenchfoot, ordered to go 'over the top' to face certain death at the hand's of the well entrenched german machine gun's, or, shot for cowardice if you didn't. by a nineteen year old public schoolboy, 'officer' the working class, alway's touching our fore-lock's and uttering 'good morning sir' know your place scum! the expendable's? yep, that's us and then? there's me moaning about getting wet taking the dog for a walk in the 'inclement' weather, talk about a reality check, i feel humbled when i think about the sacrifice of my fore-father's, what they endured so we can, eh, well, bitch about the slow internet connection, the roadworks on our journey to work, amazon not delivering our frappucino machine on time and a drop of rain, in february, made some progress on the 'false' triumph, front caliper mounted and finished, rear cagiva mito caliper, 'mr muscled' and cup-brushed, just need to figure out how to mount it, might try and use the o.e.m triumph bracket, nothing to lose, if i fuck it up, well, no-one died did they..............?
Don't read too much into this mucker, but, you turn me on, intellectually that is, the handiwork is your usual immaculate level shit, as for the WWI meanderings, truer than true . . . a quick memory of one of my heroes, the great Aussie cricketer WWII veteran, Keith Miller, when asked by a journo how he copes with the 'pressure' out on the pitch when under fire from the Pommy quicks, he responded in his best laconic Strine, "pressure, what pressure, this is cricket mate, pressure's having a BF109 up your arse at nearly four hundred miles per hour, that's pressure" . . . yes mate, it's all about perspective. Have a cracking weekend hen.
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