Skinny Jeans and The Wurzels

Recently I bought some new jeans. Not because I wanted to, but because I ripped my fav's out clubbing until 7am. Typical me. I don't mean the clubbing part of that statement. They split at 1am as well. So I had a 6-hour-long ability to accidentally flash my legs at everyone. How avant-garde. I wasn't bothered though. A temporary cover-up with my favourite shirt was installed. As mashed up as I was I just gurgled "Go hard or go home, weeyyy!" and kicked my legs about. I worry me.

What I thought I looked like

What I probably looked like.

But that's just stereotypical of me. I'm the King of Inconvenience. Got a banger of a deal on jeans though. Nice plain ones.

Which brings me on to my next topic. My body figure. Yeah, I am large, rotund or globular. Buying jeans is a horrific task. I liked skinny jeans for a while but then I realised I looked like a grape on two toothpicks. So I bought some baggier jeans, and now I look less Thalidomide and more like a person you'd see 3/4's of the way up when choosing your size on an avatar creation scene.

And talking of fashion, I do love my shit-old-shorts. I wear them when I'm gardening. But I've just become a typical Wurzel, lately.

Kinda like this.

I've been doing work in several different gardens for cash, ya see. I'm an every-day Alan Titchmarsh, for the working man. But I'm less of a show-man about it and I haven't yet got crows-feet. Touch wood. I do enjoy a bit of gardening, actually (read that back in a Yorkshire accent), it's got an addictive pace to it. And it's a good work out. Especially when you're deforesting allotments and ponds.

And what about the weather, eh..? 

The Rat with Ears.

I love Nonsense Poetry. I'm in a silly mood now.

The Rat with Ears

A farmer once craved

to be the scientist of days

months, years, laughed

at by his peers.

“So a rat with ears

could spy on their jeers.”

He worked in his lab

on his tiny rat friend

in attempt at revenge.

So he went by the graves

and dug up in the nave,

to find himself a body.

He lopped off a man’s ears

with some gardening

shears, and sewed them

onto the rat.

With some

electrical shocks,

he opened the box,

and the rat came

listening out.

And once it was done

his mouth shone

like the sun and he

sent the rat out to spy.

It would crawl out

by day, and come

back by night,

and he’d wait, with

a twinkle in his eye.

The Hill.

Picture this,

an English countryside, stretching far and wide,

while a man and his soon-to-be-bride watch the flow of the tide.

The seagulls call, ants and bugs crawl,

and in the air some dragonflies brawl.

He gives her a shawl, throws the dog his ball,

and watches it all, as day begins to fall.

The candle is lit, the scene is fit,

his mouth is slowly filling with spit,

he’s nervous about it,

but he knows that the relationship’s close-knit.

And if she’ll permit

then to her, he’ll commit.

Yet still, she’s ill,

and he gives her a pill,

that she’ll swill around her mouth,

and spit down the hill.

His tear ducts fill, spill and roll down his face

against his will, her condition will kill.

So he picks up the basket.

Time’s running out so he’d better ask it.

He bends down to one knee,

and now he can’t quit.

He charmed her with wit, her eyes lit,

she found him a hit. He was fit, clever,

The way they met was like a comedy skit.

He reaches in

with a nervous, cheesy grin,

picks out a small box and says “Lynn,

you’ve grown thin, got worse,

I’m scared about what’s going on, within.

Your skin is pale, and you’re not going to win.


But I love you,

I feel like our romance is still new.

If only we knew, that it wasn’t the flu,

things wouldn’t have changed

after that day at the zoo.

They said they’d found a breakthrough

yet you won’t come to, and inside you it will stew,

fall through, and kill you.

And that’s the way it’s going to be.

You’ve heard my plea,

but it was the first of three.

Now we’re here by the sea,

and to my heart you’re the key.

My second question, my Lynn,

will you marry me?”