Curds versus Whey

Dear Bobby

Here is a cheese. It is a stinker and roll down hills nicely. When I rub it on my feet the smells cancel each other out so that both my stinky feet and this stinky cheese are odourless. No smell at all and that is a good thing, believe me. My feet stink, yes. But not as much as my nob. Or is it knob? I rub cheese on my nob - in fact, I fuck the cheese - and the cheese stink cannot even begin to compete with the nob stink. The nob stink win. It contaminates the cheese and fills it with disease and bigger stink. But still, my customers cannot tell. The stinkier the better they say. And only two of them have died.

I hope you enjoy cheese. Maybe you could fuck it too. Fuck it good.

Love

Tango Inparis
Cheese Bangs & Bungs Ltd

And Rest Can Never Dwell

Lost, west. I took a steering direction from the wrong person. From you. It’s my own fault.

We cruised through towns and villages, avoiding cities and motorways. We saw post boxes and post offices. Duck ponds and small, functional bridges. We saw planted trees and boxes of tomatoes on windowsills. We passed horses and bos-eyed rabbits. Nature couldn’t touch us.

Through windscreen, past broken fly bones and red smears, we viewed tiny paths of escape. The best thing about it all? The pubs. The best thing about anything? The pubs. We drank until we were drunk and ignored the locals. We drove, drunk, taking the risk of colliding with goatherds. The devil took us.

And we drove like devils through the vast joyless grubs of new eco-towns. Eco hamlets. Me mashed on the finest lager, you destroyed by the shittiest cider. We hoped – openly, loudly – that we would never get lost again.