My Heaving Arc of Vomit

After a worrying growth spurt, Gary has begun to shrink back inside himself, but like the barnacle on my soul that is the Ringwood Carnival, his shrivelled form will forever haunt me. What's that you say? Ringwood Carnival? Why yes, it is that time of year again, where the 'adults' of the town become their feral children, and the aforementioned children carry on as usual, but with more volume. I sit here typing these words as the procession outside is in full swing. Oh my ears. What did we do to deserve this fate? My would-be autumnal & leafy September memories are forever soiled by the black cloud of Carnival doom. I HATE Ringwood Carnival, with excessive curmudgeon-like passion. You'll all be sorry when the oil runs out!

Oh look, it's the Carnival Queen, and oh look, following on behind, it's the Carnival Queen of Christchurch. Why are you here? Bugger off back to Christchurch. Look what this day does to me, it brings out my inner xenophobe. What now? Oh, it's the Carnival Queen of sodding Swanage, and there's a big fat swan on the front, oh how bloody clever. Oh Queens of Fordingbridge, Verwood, Bournemouth, is one day not enough for you, preening harpies, must you drag your feeble, waning moment of glory out for months?

But I must off, to buy my Woolworths Worth It sheet, with which to complete my recycled bishop costume, and then to work, with blini and carrot stick in hand, to consumate the alcoholic needs of the alcoholics and stamp on the face of the vodkary desires of the 12 year old.


Currently listening: Awkward Annie by Kate Rusby