Friday, May 31, 2013
Mary Arden's Obviously Imagined Fluffy Cutesy Pigs
On a social networking site of a cyberfizzog-oriented nature, I promised a sequel to a recent post — a sequel high on fluffy, cutesy pig action.
So here it is, wriggling and squeeing in the soiled hay of bloggerly interplay like the fulfilled promise of a kiss from a vampire invited ‘pon your lips — ’pon your neck — by virtue of your own witless stupidity.
Yes! I love you this much, guys!
You’ll recall from my last-but-one post that the recent Bank Holiday weekend here in the UK was generous with its sunlight, affording multiple days out in the non-rain for anyone interested in developing a suntan reminiscent of the Dulux Colour Wheel hue, ‘Ultra Bleach’. On day one, we hot-footed it round the grounds of Staunton Harold; on day two we greeted the relics of Shakespeare’s imagined past with the cheery smiles of mismatched lovers a-thwarted suddenly discovering new hope in the thoroughly ridiculous.
I don’t deny that Shakespeare was a genius — his ruminations-made-proclamations still hiccup loudly centuries after he wrote them — but for heaven’s sake, people who tend to the upkeep of Mary Arden Farm, I have no interest in the probable contents of his Elizabethan pantry, nor still the beautifully landscaped gardens flourishing where once there existed a not particularly interesting yard in which one of his many girlfriends might have posed half naked.
Ah — maraud ye not over my sensibility with your impatience, follower friends!
I WAS GETTING TO THE PIGS, OK?
Here’s one! Look!
Lodged, fluffy and cutesy (as foretold), in the handwashdispenser-rich sty in the grounds of Mary Arden Farm (along with the traditional multicoloured plastic play area and the goat-on-a-podium obsessed with rubbing its raw anus against stonework the bard himself might have bumped into in a drunken haze between penning the final lines of Hamlet and trimming his beard
you will find a selection of Perfectly Pettable Pigs!
Aaaaaah! Looookadum! All cutesy and fluffy and reminiscent of a failed genetic mutation experiment involving the DNA for Ed Sheeran’s hair!
But there’s more!
In the sty next to the overly enthusiastic faux Elizabethan musicians (with their tuneless strings, barking mad voices and bedsheets-cum-doubloons) there were more, EVEN FLUFFIER, cutesy pigs.
Blow-dried pigs on an Elizabethan farm? Like the ones groomed by hand by the Bard himself as he suckled at the breast of Mary Arden on a wheeled hammock?
Off, off, verily, must thou feck.