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Hate Coupons
03:58
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I spy Little Tommy Two-Names, tiny cap in hand. And I spy the fecund Mr Fox dressed as spiderman, weeping. Although I’m not allowed to see the kids on alternate weekends, I’ve got my hate coupons so I am going to Alton Towers. I spy happy fish disguised as pillar boxes. And if you check the digital receipts you’ll publicly agree that I was acting only as a decent father should. Although I’m not allowed to see the kids on alternate weekends, I’ve got my hate coupons so I am going to Alton Towers. I can probably keep outrunning death indefinitely provided that he does not average less than six minutes fifty per kilometre. I’m sorry, Lizzie, for embracing the metric system. Please don’t interpret this as a slight on the majesty of Empire. I continue to measure my worth in pounds and ounces it’s just that the KM is slightly more flattering. I’m sorry. I can probably keep outrunning death indefinitely.
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2. |
Pninian English
02:13
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I’ve been speaking Pninian English. It makes me awkward on social occasions but that’s ok ‘cos I’ve moved to the country. Enveloped myself in pastoral imagery. At garden parties, surrounded by celebrated emigres. I swing my mallet with surprising poise and grace. It’s a metaphor and not to be trifled with.
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3. |
Local Hero of the Year
03:34
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This is the tale of a consumptive man. A diarist of sorts. There’s blood on the tips of his fingers where once there was ink. His cheeks are powder black, his cuffs damp, his brow unwhite. He limps through strange towns, foreign dust on foreign boots. This is uniform. Later there’s the promise of a tattered hole in his throat from an errant sniper’s bullet for the bitter words to spill from. His lungs hold the dust of these hills. His lips are frozen. This is uniform. This is you. The rivers of this nation are crying out for more copper and bronze. And I’ve been counting in units of Clive. In that peculiar shade of puce. This is uniform.
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Fashoda Crisis London, UK
At all times Fashoda Crisis play from the bottom of their twisted, blackened tumourous little hearts. They spew forth vitriol and acerbic wit in equal measures, melding political rhetoric and social commentary with opaquely personal lyrics. Intelligent, violent, passionate, honest, spleen-rupturingly humourous (and modest, let’s not forget modest) genre mangling mentalists. ... more
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