No Thank You Turkish…
by Gethin A. Lynes
So, here’s a little tidbit, entitled as above, that I came across when cleaning out some of my digital crap this morning. It was from sometime in January 2011, or at least I can only surmise by my apparent recent arrival in Bumblefuck.
In my current mood I should be sitting here drinking hot, bitter tea, thick and black to boot. But instead, I’m having what the Scotland St Massif would refer to as a wet one. In fact, it’s a very wet one, with double the usual ration of sugar that I have of late become accustomed to, and don’t be shy with the milk either. It is hot though, and along with the lack of breeze in the house, and the ire with which I am viewing the world, it doesn’t make for the most comfortable experience of a balmy summer evening in Perth.
This was supposed to be a discussion, alright, a fucking monologue (as usual) about the Armed Forces – or if you prefer the Defence Forces, which you shouldn’t by the way, because let’s face it, they do fuck all defending anymore… ok, well, if they’re a nice, internationally sanctioned, religiously & ideologically acceptable body of troops, well, then they do fuck all defending unless someone happens to fight back a bit more than anticipated – and more the fool them. If, on the other hand it happens to be a body of freedom fighters – sorry, sorry, terrorists, and they don’t fight for their freedom, they fight against ours… um… well, as I was saying, this ain’t about the Armed Forces. More on that next time… unless I get distracted… again.
Instead, I’d like to have a word about furniture, and the location and relocation thereof. See I’m sitting here, drinking my tea, adding to the sweat – I know right, what am I thinking? – that has been pretty much ever present all day… or in fact, for that last eighteen days. Yes, in fact, since I moved to Westralia.
You know, pursuant to my previous commentary on the West Australian State of Perspiration, I might have been altogether wrong about the abandonment of clothing. See, if you lose the shirt then yes, you do get slightly greater benefits from the breeze etc, but what I am discovering is that you actually end up feeling worse. If you sweat this much inside a shirt, the shirt absorbs it. Stinks like fuck by the end of the day, but that’s about the end of it – well, apart from the massive increase to the frequency of the laundry cycle. If, on the other hand, you spend the day sweating away in glorious semi-nudity, the sweat dries on you in those brief moments (and they are brief) it has a chance to, like when you duck into the sickeningly large carbon footprint of the air-conditioned Coles – which, by the way, they are not too happy with you doing without a shirt on. And subsequently next time you sweat, you’re not only sweating through the gummy layer of your earlier perspiration, you are adding to said layer…
Anyway, digressions and all that. Back to the furniture.
Furniture? Well, I’m stumped. I have absolutely no fucking idea what I was on about… though judging by the title, and the ensuing comment regarding the fact I shouldn’t have been drinking my tea with sugar in it, I can only surmise I was leading up to something to do with the fact that:
And next time, back to our (ir)regular programming…