Smash their kneecaps. It might not be the only language they understand, but it is the one that most quickly achieves the main objective.
There are tales I could tell on that topic. Not the kneecap thing, a manual of trauma surgery should be fine for that. No, the catering…
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Okay - I’ll sleep on that, Dear Gus.
Soo xxzz
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The sort of horrid catering firm that thinks slapping a lump of cow on a plate is enough to make a meal appealing has been brought to notice that you can’t really get away with doing the same with a carrot. So they actually put in a (smallest possible amount of) effort. Which makes the carroty thing rather nicer than the lump of cow.
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That is so profound. I may not sleep, just thinking about it. Hmmmm…
Soo zzzz
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A bed of tactlessness?
Sorry, dear Bee. Sleep tight nonetheless, wafted on dreams of carrotty deliciousness.
Gxx
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My plans in that direction got seriously buggered up. Having—so I thought—cleared the horrible backlog of work that had deadlines for this Friday, I was suddenly required to cast an editorial eye over a memoir of the late Jane Manning (see Jukebox thread), to be submitted to Tempo for their next issue (yup - another deadline) then got a panicked email looking for my agreement to be part of next year’s Finding A Voice festival. Not a problem - until they asked for my CV as well. The CV I haven’t updated for about five years. Which they want tomorrow morning.
Cue frantic scrabble through records of all the gigs and recording sessions I’ve done since (Admittedly, not that many of late…)
Still, it is now done and emailed to the festival director, so I think I may possibly broach the bottle of Boyle’s that somehow fell into the basket while I was in Aldi the other day. Very clumsy of me, but what to do? What with covid, people tend to look askance at stuff being picked up, examined then put back on the shelf…
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AttaJoe…
Carinthia.xx
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Really, you’re doing them a favour to saving them from potential gin-bottle-borne infection.
yardarm
(write write write)
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Morning all
Bacon (made from real pigs) butties ready
A platter set by Joe’s desk and a vast samovar of tea as well to fuel his writing
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No option for those who only eat surreal pigs then?
Oh well, I’ll settle for the real ones.
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All pigs are surreal.
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All pigs are surreal but some are more surreal than others.
(Is that one of your mates perching on that trotter?)
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I was merely channeling my inner CMOT
But that pig resembles me trying to exercise
I am that supple
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Channelling your what, dear? Not your Computational and Mathematical Organisation Theory, I trust?
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Have you read any Terry Pratchett?
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Mr ‘Cut Me Own Throat’ Dibbler, an Ankh Morpork street vendor of comestibles such as sausage inna bun.
https://wiki.lspace.org/mediawiki/Cut-Me-Own-Throat_Dibbler
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Sometimes the sausages are named meat and consequently rather more egxpensive
His pies are best avoided
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Nope.
Ah, I see. Seems like a nice chap.
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TFM
Try some Discworld books
If you like books to giggle along with in bed
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Wimp. Got flavour to 'em, they have.
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