LEFT, RIGHT, LEFT, RIGHT, LEFT, RIGHT

Many years ago I visited Canterbury. I do not remember it as being filled by big bold men with hairy balls. What I do remember is the smell of a leather tannery, pints of black ale, the taste of fresh butter, and a lovely hotel surrounded by green lawns, the Abbots Barton.
Tea trays at six in the morning, left outside your door, with a discreet knock to alert you to your wake-up beverage, are a smashing idea.

Big bold men with hairy balls making a racket perhaps far less so.


FILMED FROM THE WRONG ANGLE!


[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZRVS4XxSn9Q.]


If I seem fixated on the bigness, boldness, and hairy balledness of it all, that's because I did not get a wake-up pot of tea this morning, and I've just hit replay for the third time. Scots do not wear boxers underneath their woolen kilts. All I can think of is velcro.

I presume that Scots have hairy balls, but I do not know.

Finding out if they do is not on my bucket list.

Confirmation is not required.

Nor wanted.



The status and condition of the representative Caledonian scrotal ensemble is far from a subject of abiding interest.




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