Dovet Days

Today has been one of those days where the little mind mites nip, leaving your general mental state feeling like a depression-filled cheese sock. Should we blame the excess drinking and the general piss licking? Probably not, but it sure is a great catalyst for the old mind to excuse dovet wrapped days spent lying in worry. Scrape off the crud and you have yourself a wonderful tale about boys splitting their sides and canes full of laughter. Thorns, railway tracks and spent people bring our heroes to a deserted coastal wall. Here they drink, piss and talk about all things splendourful. The waves crash as the boys dance and throw boulders into the sea. The Owl fills a glove with urine and gives his fellow gents a good firm pat on the back. Whilst sucking on the yellow latex fingers, he ponders over which flavor of Hula Hoops is his favorite. Red original packets bleed onto sea-flung seaweed as the lads begin a game of piss-roulette. The glove foams after the first toss and by the second it is dribbling onto the rocks.

The Bray Head laments us into a bar propped stupor. There we take the piss and order one of their fine warm ales. In exchange for a custom we receive abuse from a haggard wife-beating fuckwad. His blood soaked cane speaks volumes for his callous demeanour. If only this cane could speak! Chances are the old cunt sliced out its tongue with a rather dandy swiss army knife and then proceeded to cut apart his darling wife's child hole. Walking away we could see his feeble eyes peering from above his copy of the first Bray People. His wife, the cane and the entire hotel had already started making their way back inside of him, waiting for the day when they could get the fuck out.

Other gents join our four fuckers and the rest of the eve becomes a cold condition of vocal exchanges and making sure the rain does not drizzle on their "skins". Gent No.1 takes a concrete block for a swim and the outcome causes great displeasure on behalf of the baby and his planned Corey Hart smokeathon. Shots and sips continue until the gents disperse.

We dilly daddle for a while in the house of grown ups and observe that same corner where some sorry sack of shit can be seen crying each weekend. The scent of cologne fused with the smell of cooking meat makes me think of our lonely coastal seats and the bobbing head of a seal, learning the ways of the gentleman.

All in all it was a rough night, but nothing a bowl of serial killers and some M.S Tablets would not cure. Rest your head on feathers and think of all the pleasures still left to come. Cherish these Dovet Days, they will be over soon.