Marmite is the smell of pure raw animal sexuality. I wish I smelled of marmite. After my recent termination of a relationship, after several questions as to my sexuality by a girlfriend of six months and culminating in the immortal words 'YOU CLOTH-EARED BINT' I decided no more, no more would I be yet another pawn in a card game. No more. No freaking more. But the heart has once more proved itself the king, while I play the pawn. Enough with the crap similies and illusions to board games WHAT A FREEKICK BY BUCKTOOTH RONALDINHO!!!!!!! Play up Pompey anyway. Yeah, well.
So I find myself swinging from roundabouts and spinning on slides, looking for a strawberry in a mulberry bush, writting shit on a blog. Woo a blog, I said to myself, always wanted one myself. And now I have one and I'm writing about strawberries and roundabouts. About the half-eated kit-kat on toast that is my life. Sickly but wholesome I like to think.
Two paragraphs and not one mention of the Alex, I must be going good. Dario is not necessarily a positive, although I love him to bits, hes nearly 5,000,654,234,567 years old, maybe he should resign before his dies at a match? Better than Stevie Dutch anyway. Bring on Nigel Clough I say, maybe he can stop the freefall and give us a kick up the righteous bottom.