Skimpy Scrawlings

I've moved up to the North East of England at least for the summer. The reason for this is because as opposed to the South of England, we have an abundance of water up here. Down south, a serious drought is sweeping the land. People are only allowed to drink water between midnight and 3:30 in the morning. The environs are slowly transforming into a strange post-apocalyptic nightmare as man turns on his brother for the smallest drops of the precious elixir of life. Old women with swollen ankles are being kidnapped and tapped dry. A new strain of lizard people are evolving from the firey landscape while others are burying themselves deep below the desert, immersing themselves in a subterranean stasis in an attempt to hibernate through the infernal horror.

Up North, we have water coming out of our ears. Soooo much water we don't know what to do with it. There's not a day goes by without a new water feature being erected for the sole purpose of haemorrhaging away the excess. The latest is a 600 metre high rendering of a water molecule made entirely of ice.
Entire towns are being built entirely out of water, completely serviced by aqaubots who work the traffics lights and run the library and that. In contrast to the south, strange new breeds of creatures are emerging from the watery oasis. Not five minutes ago, a mersparrow hopped and paddled its way through the garden, singing and gurgling like a heavenly cherub. We live in a beautiful paradise.

On another note, I am going to Berlin today to join in the festivities surrounding the greatest marbles competition in the world. Sven Gordon Bennett, who must surely be acclaimed a the most swedish England manager of all time, has astutley guided his team to the quarter finals and I will be there to cheer them on, albeit 320 miles away as England are actually playing in Gelsenkirchen. The main game in Berlin is Germany vs Argentina. I am currently boning up on my irish accent and will be calling myself Bradlaw O' Skimp. Just in case the, "Hope we're all cool about that war thing" line doesn't cut it.

Here is a poem what is about that.

Me and my mates are going to the football,
We'll drink in the bars and eat in the food-halls,
Our arms we will wrap round the German and Argie,
Our smiles will be wide, our hangovers largie.
And when we are done, with new friends well met,
We'll shout from the airport,
"Auf Wiedersehen, Pet!"