A RIVER OF MANY MOODS

It's probably a good thing that the evening was uneventful. Although when we passed the karaoke joint it was packed with young white marketing types emoting. A slice of hell, worth avoiding. The burger place had some rap songs on the player, which sounded for all the world like someone summoning a daemon, and strictly old-school. A relatively peaceful respite, though. The beer hall was kind of packed, so bypassing the karaoke joint that we used to go to despite better judgement (which now we act upon) we headed over to Miss Vivien's. Which seems to have been discovered by white people.
But was considerably quieter.

They ought to make a law that white people can't drink in public until they've become adults, age forty or so. And are permanently disbarred from karaoke joints.
Or at least get restraining orders.

In case you're wondering, both the bookseller and I are over forty, and don't do karaoke.
Though we might quote at length from Monty Python's Flying Circus.
Which might include the Lumberjack Song.
Or the Philosophers.


Yes, I know all the words to We Love The Yangtse.

We love the Yangtse, Yangtse Kiang,
Flowing from Yushu, down to Ching Kiang.
Passing though Chung King, Wuhan, Hoo Kow,
3000 miles, but it gets there somehow.
Oh! Szechuan's the province, and Shanghai is the port,
And Yangtse is the river, that we all support!

Imagine both of us channeling for so many of Britain's top goalies.

That smoke while waiting for the bookseller to get off work was peaceful and wondrous. The bowl preceding the weekly pub crawl is always enjoyable, one of the best. I've smoked that Dunhill nearly as much as the Comoy Sunrise which used to be the Pipe For Watching Rats In Spofford Alley, which is, of course, still in the collection, albeit not in the current rotation. Sometimes a man needs change. I've been filling the same Charatan after Tuesday lunch for two or three months now instead of just winging it before I leave the house, and I know that tomorrow I'll probably have the same battered Shellbriar with me that has been the postprandial Wednesday puffer for over a year.


While walking up the street from the bus stop I passed a streetperson harvesting from the garbage can on the corner of the block. Rancid hegseth scattered all around him as he rooted through the rest of the hegseth in the bin.

At least I didn't step in any hegseth as I passed.


Why are so many of Britain's top goalies moved to write about the Yangtze?



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