Wainscoting’s all it is, the contrivance of a façade that confuses, by sheer tyranny of ignorance, the Lord’s blessings for civility.
How else to make sense of sunset clauses so endless even Bainlsley didn’t have a credible reply for Qohen. [They soon kiss one another]. In Casablanca they had a name for it, and a signature drink. Those that sang La Marseillaise were not of a nation girt.
What went on at Massacre Hill (Ealing Studios, United Kingdom, Australia, 1949) anodised the spirit, to be sure, but that layer has now deteriorated, and offers only the protection of some hastily re-refurbished underwear. The nation’s arse is showing, peeking out of material so gauzy it could dapple the sun.
Speaketh Juvenal, “who discretes those with discretionary powers?” Don’t know. Give up. Heave up the flag, and cry the rallying cry: PO-TA-TOES
Written on Saturday, 4 April 2020
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