Paging number green

The car park is too small for the number of cars it purports to accommodate (I do not like that sentence). And they always make the spaces too small (though this may be a reflection of the size of the modern day 4x4 [scumbags])

Capitain Beefheart half peers at me from a black and white photograph whilst Flash Gordon’s Ape squeaks in the background. Its alright sitting in a caravan in the Mojave Des(s)ert whilst painting pictures which sell for fifty grand, but what about the boys from the pink house that you left behind? They are left to pose for photographs, pretending to be a man with a bell in his head whilst wishing he had an eight octave voice. Electricity. Yabba Zabba Zummm. The big baboon.

That’s as well as may be but the Singing Postman has bin born a long time. He didn’t have to worry about Chelsea tractors, just his teeth and his drinking habit. Love him. Pity he didn’t love me. Just his miss from Diss. Not muc rhymes wit Sheringham I suppose.