the lime in limerick
The following Learism – in the loosest sense – was originally posted last Friday and subsequently withdrawn by the taste police: I could\’a bin a sex pistol, but I wasn\’t invited; I could\’a bin a contender, but I wasn\’t from Detroit; I could\’a bin a banjo player, but someone clipped my strings; I could\’a got out my f@ckin\’ bed in the morning, but, then again, I\’m a genuinely lazy sod.
Suck my sock. Winston\’s dead and I\’m still sleeping. Give me a motherf@ckin\’ moment. I\’m trippin\’ on the stairs. zzzzz. By way of an afterword, you may or may not remember that I mentioned some time back that my wife and I hatched a plot to paint the communal landing in our decaying apartment block.
Not just the plot, you understand, but the vaguely tiresome physical undertaking.
While not to everybody\’s taste, perhaps, we were subsequently approached by the authority in charge of maintenance – the very same body, in fact, which refused to furnish me with paint some five years previously – and lukewarmly thanked. As opposed to being threatened with eviction.
Well. I was expecting to be reprimanded at the very least.
What I was not prepared for, however, was their using our – accidental – colour scheme as a template and employing a team of twenty painters and decorators to \’refurbish\’ all twenty-three floors in the very same institutional hues. Including the back stairwell, I hasten to add.
Result. Although I gather a number of tenants are less than enamored.
Here\’s 2 by 4. Neither of which made it onto on EMI\’s \”Entertainment!\” in their original form.