A rebel without a clue.

Yes we are all the same Cries the plus 4 striding youth And happy we are to mimic Just to pull a few birds Before we settle into law And ways via physic That bound the lawns Of lincoln's inn and temple And rip a ripe naive beauty With simple virtuosity to be PR consultant with a mammory For jansch and still the maintain Wings of youthful graceful  Braceful triumph, both. And we're now laced with smokey layer latter day saints.

Wetherby is a camp for the dying and the dead. There are old people and dangerously ill people too everywhere on a Thursday. It's that midmorning time of day and a Thursday market day too, but it's another symbol of the death of Wetherby. In the previous allegory metaphor there were just a few atoms left circling dying and now I see the remnants of galaxies. Somewhere someone is being bombed indiscriminately and somewhere 3 media darlings are fanning another media dreadful: Fern! We're bombing the wrong people. Not sure what this means: I've been on the X98 the last couple, three days and it's half empty from Wetherby (where it was full before I moved back to Leeds). I postulate it is a sign of the times: mass unemployment reduces the footfall on public transport: this in turn will reduce the overall income of this public function and the knock on effect will be higher price, followed by still lower footfall. This ain't over yet! Even the red ...

Worth @ 11pm. If I thought living in a dismal half hearted, cold, excuse for comfort, which equals £50pw on top of working 50+ hours a week for an adhd ad-hoc chef who has a simple mind and rattles on about the ways and means of getting Cajun chicken ready like pick and pick and pick (just do and be done to a reasonable standard! Please!!) and being a  hieronymous Jew in flesh made real. Where there is a Matt who is a dull repeat of my man from Portsmouth 2008 without the dreads: oh I dread the repeat and lies and lies unless he is the actual urban guy who actually swallowed the poisonous tropical fish and spent 6 months strumming a 6 string guitar. Then there are the managers who are nice, but hooked in Cornwall hospitality and are not in this charmless slopping roofed old and smokey joint: people are so happy with my apparent nothing. I expected respect but I got The Rising Sun! Then again the feeling from the Harbour Inn was nonchalant. A commis called Smithy who...