By Edward Usher

Spotify. Rhododendron. Anaphylactic shock. Surreptitiously entranced with left-wing politics.

Progress is poor. Brad Friedel dons a smock and donates his time to the pursuit of haplessness.

Enamel chips off the sabre-toothed biker. Tracy Beakhead snorts some more Jacqueline Pills

on the last Sunday of the month. The Blue Moon rarely walks alone. You’ll never wear cologne.

Emperor Armani has been quoted as being against the war in Cry Me A River. It’s in all the

reputable newspapers, and some of the trashy ones. Putin put in a shift last week. He’s the star

of the show now.

But most people email their mothers first. Years and years. Gameboy. There’s a crit protection

helmet and smell of petunia with six thinking hats and stop. Four hundred mugs of mineral

water.

With the lid of a house and high five, the other glass was dusty. The garish light of the studio

was brilliant. Where’s the grid? Who is Chevrolet? Is Kanye West? Dusty Springfield’s

masterclass on musk was pretty key that day in September when forty men perished in the cold

Alabama air. Jack. Maureen. Four. Pencil case. Studded leather belt like in Turkey and the

Syntax Error would not compile.

Half of forty-two is twenty-one like the cars and one flew over the cuckoo’s nest. Day and night

nurse is twenty-four hours of earthenware. Creatine. Herbal Essences. Much ado about

something. Home sweet hetero-normative view of the world, you twat. Blue belt bluebirds

bearing bandanas beat up Brian Blessed. Cantankerous is a word not taught in the Soviet

curriculum, at least not pre-Stalin.