Crystal Branches Everywhere...

Well, it's winter, innit, again? The snow is falling and the trees are sheathed in knobbly ice as is my car - not good. This is hell. Or is it? The fisher cats (weasels, really, not cats) are patrolling, looking for real cats to eat, and I've seen four foxes in the last several weeks. Foxes are nice little things, and cats can put up a decent fight against them, thank goodness. But it's the shrill sounds, the piercing bizarre utterances from the mouths of the fishers that really gets my goat. If I had a goat it might well get it, get it? The deck outside is covered in snow, and the football has been whited-out where it stands. Must be a god few inches out there. The cats won't go out, will not wear it. So where does this leave me?
It leaves me pondering over the tackle that broke Eduardo's leg yesterday, and the fall that tore my mother's ligaments on Thursday. I sit and add bits to my next book, and hope it gets published, or I'll publish it myself, and then I drink a cup of rosy lee with the missus. Go for an Eartha Kitt, that's right, lay a few Henry the Thirds in the ol' bag 'n' boil it. Up the apples and pears for a Tom Tit. The fact is, we utterly pasted the Geordies last night and the ICJ nicked the Tyne Bridge to weigh it in for beer money, but somehow all I see is Eduardo, and Gallas, kicking the hoardings like a third-rate Cantona, before collapsing in the middle of the park and sobbing like a fucking loon.
Bloody ridiculous, that, wannit? A grown man, crying like a girlie boy, like a big pantie-girdle. Get back to France, pantie man. In England we are men. Those of us that are actually English, and the other 99.9%. An Englishman's home is his Adi Dassle, knowhatImean? The Tyne Bridge was dismantled early this morning in a bus depot outside somewhere horrid, and flogged to a herd of gyppos who came through in a caravan train, like post-industrial pioneers across a pre-Mad Max landscape. They've got it sussed, the ol' Romani. Nick and buy and sell and glean and scrape and keep on moving, do not stop. Buy a Roller with the dosh, a slightly bigger caravan, have bare-knuckle fights and wreck pubs in moody areas after funerals. Show The Man who's boss, and all that. Copper pipes, tarmac, fortune-telling, good ol' fashioned graft, bicycle thieving, Ufology, Crown Green Bowls, Church Institute cloakrooms, old red phoneboxes, aeroplanes to Spain to smuggle ciggies back, the full Montezuma.


SO there you 'ave it.