Birmingham FFS

I explained the rules at match point.

I explained the rules at match point. My father loves his mother. No one loves my father. What is the emotional equivalent of the discountenance lining the cloth of the tiring pallbearer, reluctantly holding you. (Nobody eats the mint from the mint leaf you old f**k)

The flowers, the glass.

My mother was upset so whilst I was gardening (guerilla) I collected some little white flowers with thorns in their stems, chopped them up and put them in a vase for her. Not because I’m nice, but it is apparently a nice thing to do. I think she liked them but I can’t be sure because I had my earphones in.

They smell pretty darn good too people. If you have a friend, or significant other, or a mother, perhaps you could do the same. Also, if anyone knows what flowers these are – please tell me.

The ants to coffee ratio here is way, way off.

Eaton (Rise)

The Beacon, 85 miles and my aching posterior. (Yellow jersey Cavendish aspirations)

“Cracher dans la soupe..”

Don’t be a misandrist, Saaman.

No number of exhausting references to your self declared cheerlessness

No number of exhausting references to your self declared cheerlessness will make you any more pathetic than you already are or is it John Mayer you are listening to, maybe in the throws of singing along “Fathers be good to your daughters,” you caught sight of yourself bent over in shame and realised just how f**king redundant you (not really) are (really).

In the name of dodecahedron

Seu. In the name of dodecahedron and whatever else you place in the gaping deceit of your moving mouth and nauseatingly affected smile, Jorge. teach me Zissou on your guitar and when is the first time you heard this? I am hearing ‘Strange Fruit,’ inevitably and I think this is the first time I have actually listened to anything in any period longer than now and the last time we spoke.