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Poetry in Motion. My black t-shirt is soaking up the sun's rays like blotting paper. Cars in primary colours or polished-apple green sit at the kerb and don't seem incongruous, although they're still aesthetically redundant. I think that's why I hate sports cars - not because of the way the machine looks, but because of the utter contempt for style that the owners of said vehicles possess. It's like those $5 million dollar homes painted bubble-gum pink with leopard skin chaise-longues and fuschia carpets six inches deep. They cost a lot, but end up looking like crap. Today's the day that thousands, if not millions have a "flutter". Unfortunately, that's not as rude is it sounds - I just mean that it's Grand National Day. I've come to the conclusion that the Grand National is basically Jackass with animal rights abuses. Where else can tiny, undernourished men have a race whilst clinging desperately onto the backs of huge animals? Severe injuries to both themselves and the horses sustained whilst performing ridiculously dangerous leaps are commonplace - if that's not dumb as a room full of Rumsfelds, then I don't know what is. Grim linked this a couple of days back - Rumsfeld's words scanned into poetry - brilliant and profound. Dave xx
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