A warm summer afternoon, miles from home, alone;
A girl sits on a swing, lost in reverie.
The long ropes creak as she disects the air in a lazy arc,
Like the pendulum of a mighty metronome,
Slowing down time beneath the stately oak tree.
Out here, the Earth turns to a different rhythm,
Dancing through time and the universe,
Forever slow waltzing with the silent Moon,
Spinning and whirling, around and around,
To the tempo of the girl on a swing
Conducting the cosmos
In languorous curves of slow-motion,
As the sun spreads clouds of gold dust
And the lark sings songs of summer.
Distant lovely thunder
Trembles somewhere behind the clouds,
The sky begins to bruise,
The golden afternoon must end,
Soon it will be dark and summer will be gone.
Sitting in a beautiful English garden on a warm summer evening in July. The honey-coloured stone of the ruins of the old house are bathed in warm evening light and glow like gold. Behind the wall, in another part of the garden, a saxophone plays ‘Summertime’ by Gershwin. The garden is sweetly perfumed by roses and lavender; a small fountain adds the sound of water splishing and splashing and the chatter of birds in the waving tree-tops completes the magic.
This is the England that some people say doesn’t exist, that it is just a yearning for an imaginary past, a ridiculous nostalgia for the days of Empire and colonialism.
Well, let me tell you this, all you sneering, snide bastards who would rather sell your arse and your mother than stand up for your culture: This England, this so-called lost world, is not lost yet.
So Fuck You.
The last light is fading away,
The last birds sing before the dark.
We are here in a beautiful garden,
Somewhere between today and tomorrow,
The path is a maze of twists and turns,
The scent of lavender floats in the warm air,
Intoxicating every breath we take,
The night descends as the sun's life ends,
Lost in Eden, lost on Earth,
In circles among the trees we walk,
I hear your voice behind me,
In the darkling I turn and take just one last look before we go…
Nothing lasts but not all is lost,
We leave our presence in space and time,
We are a memory of an echo, we are shadows, we are dust,
Pulvis et Umbra Sumus, as Horace told us once.
When all is done and endless sleep is all we have to bear,
Silently we take our leave and melt into thin air,
Without regret and scorning fear we walk the road to ruin.
An abandoned house overlooking the sea, left to decay,
No one now inside to hear the tap of the corroded knocker,
There is no key that will open this door.
A crucifix hanging from a nail, broken by the wind and rain,
Crucified by nails again.
The sea air's Judas kiss corrupts the nail,
Stains of rust wept onto the body imitate dry blood.
Late afternoon light sculpts the weathered wood,
The texture reveals secrets in the cracked surface,
Three symbols tell the story,
Written in the language of a Byzantine Icon.
Behind this door, painted the colour of the Sun, spirit remains,
Waiting for the final call.
The evening fades to twilight, light begins to close its eyes, colours becoming drowsy, soft and muted until only blue remains. Birds and insects fall silent; there is only the silver sigh of quivering Poplar leaves aroused by the breath of the zephyr. Behind the old wall we hear the echo of distant footsteps walking another path. As light steals away to leave us blind, the aromatic nimbus of lavender and roses beguile another sense. We breath slowly amid the perfume. The garden cools and evanesces into darkness. We stand alone and watch the day close the gate and leave. It is time.
Time is present, time is past, time is not tomorrow, for tomorrow is neither present nor past. We watch, we wait, we breathe again; time and time again we breathe, while time remains then breathe we must. Light will ebb and light will flow while time remains, but darkness waits for time’s last breath when the fire dies in the arms of the rose and all is cold and turned to stone. The final light will flicker for a moment until all is but a memory remembered by nobody.
We are inside, looking out.
We are in darkness, we want the light.
In the distance, a glimmer; the door of perception is open, walk – don’t run.
Cold steel and primate genes to keep the lights on, we invent, we survive.
Keep busy, keep moving, create, repair, do it again and again, keep busy,
Take a picture, make a souvenir, do it again and send it to a friend,
Keep talking, keep walking, keep laughing at fools.
Watch the dark, look for the light,
Walk – don’t run.
Every day the world goes a little more insane.
Every day the light gets a little darker.
Every day the intellectual pygmies of political governance bend their weak and feeble knees to the even more intellectually bereft Marxist/Fascist pygmies of intolerance who shout and scream and accuse and hate. Everyone who doesn’t bow to their insane ideology is a ‘phobe or an ‘ist. They – and they alone, it seems – decide what we can and cannot think, what we can utter, what we can dream. How did we get here?
We got here because of Liberal cowardice and appeasement, just as we got to the second world war. “Peace for our time!” said the cringing, patrician Chamberlain, waving his piece of paper like a banner of victory, whilst at the same time writing: “I do wish it might be possible to get the Press to write up Hitler as an apostle of Peace. It will be terribly shortsighted if this is not done”. So, six years later, this “apostle of peace” had brought about 85 million deaths, a genocide of Jews (which would have been followed by Slavs, Romanies, Catholics, Blacks, Asians and anyone else who didn’t fit the Aryan image), destruction of apocalyptic proportions and the end of Europe, and its culture, as we knew it. It could have been much worse, except that, luckily, Chamberlain died in 1940 and Churchill took over. Stanley Baldwin, Neville Chamberlain and Clement Attlee were the epitome of weak, hand-wringing, arse-licking politicians who will do anything to avoid confrontation and hard decisions.
London, 1934 – “Listen Baldwin, the Luftwaffe is going to be bigger than the RAF, we need more planes, now!” “Fuck off Winston, you’re just scaremongering again”
London, 1934 – Mr Clement Attlee, leader of the Labour party, speaks “We want total disarmament!”
London, 22 May, 1935 – “Mr Baldwin, the Luftwaffe has twice as many planes as the RAF”. “Alright, I was wrong, I was completely wrong.”
London, May, 1937 – “Listen Baldwin, the Luftwaffe have got 800 heavy bombers, the RAF have got 48!” “Oh, err…fuck it. I have decided to retire, good luck with Herr Hitler, lads!”
Today’s politicians are following in the footsteps of Attlee, Baldwin, Chamberlain and their ilk. These craven lickspittles would rather sell their children than stand up and fight. They will continually offer to turn the other cheek to the barbarians who want to batter down the gates of civilisation. So the barbarians will gleefully take up their offer and lay their oafish boots upon the exposed arses of the supine politicos. And then they will be presented with the keys to the kingdom by the grateful burghers who will claim victory in the name of such things as diversity, muli-culturalism and brotherly love, not realising that those brothers whose love they seek to embrace, despise them for their weakness. The barbarians will then decapitate the appeasers because weakness is not an attractive quality and leads to cowardice and duplicity, both of which are a threat to the new revolution. Intolerant regimes have no place for liberal values like appeasement. Meanwhile, the ungrateful peasants who raise objections are informed that this is the best deal on offer and that those who refuse to accept the wonderful new deal are enemies of the state and will be relieved of their belongings, smeared with shit and expelled from Utopia.
Where did it all go wrong?
If a dog bites your child, you put it down. You do not give it a second chance because it will bite again. Put it down and immolate the corpse. If you invite someone into your house, you don’t allow them to throw out your furniture and replace it with theirs. You throw them out and man the ramparts, pour boiling oil and mockery upon their heads and beat them mercilessly until nought remains but ashes. Because if you don’t, the ashes will be those of your culture.
But the appeasers will have none of it. They are quite happy to give it all away for a handfull of plastic beads and a vote.
We are in a cultural war with the forces of intolerance and ignorance and we are being forced back to the beaches of Dunkirk. We can only hope that all the Chamberlains are suddenly taken by the Pale Rider and a few Churchills are found instead. But I fear it may be too late. Although old Joe isn’t looking too good and may soon be escorted to The Whispering Glades home for the demented and senile before he can give America to the Chinese.
Every day I have the blues.
On a deserted beach, who can hear you sing? The waves roll in, the clouds float by, not even a bird to be seen in the sky... Peace. Quiet. Harmony. The sound of solitude, just the whispering breeze and the sea, Be calm. Sing to the empty space, Become the music on the deserted beach.
Look into the silver air, beyond us all – one song.
Listen to the distant sky, silent music for the eyes. Here – on earth – the air is a nebula of vibrations, an infinite orchestra, one symphony of sonance. We swim in a tintinnabulationary ocean. Hiss, whisper, sigh, rattle and hum. There is no silence; silence is the end.
We are one song.
The War of the Words is upon us.
William Shakespeare – the most brilliant playwright and poet of the English language. His plays are performed and studied in schools all over the world, his language is magnificent, his plays immortal. But hark! What sulphurous stench from yonder window breaks? It is the Globe Theatre, and the Woke brigade is the darkest hole of hell that threatens to extinguish the light of Shakespeare’s dazzling Sun.
We watch the scene unfold:
Upon the Southbank of the Thames, in fair old London Town, the splintering sound of cackling voices rude, the very air turns black in shame. A plot begins to stir within, the game’s afoot, a spell is cast, fair is foul and foul is fair, “Shakespeare must fall!” the witches shriek…
How now, dear reader; gather close and let not the ears of hell list to our whispered words…the immortal Bard has been besmirched and demonised as a white supremacist, a 16th century Nazi, yet! How falls the vainglorious scribbler, the despicable degenerate, how ignoble shall be his end, from the lofty heights of Olympus he is dragged to be shat upon and immolated in the fires of ignorance, stupidity and hate by the black-hearted legions of self-righteous cunts and cocksuckers. So what’s afoot?
The thespian zealots within the magnificent edifice that is the Globe Theatre and a plague of third-rate academics from far, far away, have decided that the plays of William Shakespeare are actually not plays at all, but are instead manifestos of racism. I kid you not.
A certain Aldo Billingslea – sometime bit-part actor of third-rate movies and full-time teacher of ‘American theatre from the black perspective‘ says: “His work is ‘problematic’ for linking whiteness to beauty” How so? because Lysander, in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, says: “Who would not trade a raven for a dove?”, which, in the befuddled and twisted mind of Aldo means “the playwrite is giving ‘value’ to the birds ‘because of their colour.” Obviously Mr B doesn’t study literature or art or mythology otherwise he would know that ravens are symbolic of ill-omens, in other words, bad news – I refer you to Edgar Allan Poe – whilst Doves are symbolic of good news, hence the biblical story of Noah sending out a dove to find land and it returns with a branch in its beak. But that doesn’t fit the oppressed black person narrative, no. So instead we get a deluded interpretation, told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. Or perhaps the Bible and Poe’s epic poem are racist diatribes too.
According to another world famous Shakespeare scholar (not), Amanda MacGregor, a Minnesota-based librarian: “Shakespeare’s works are full of problematic, outdated ideas, with plenty of misogyny, racism, homophobia, classism, anti-Semitism and misogynoir (a clunking synthetic word invented by an idiot)”. She also demands that Shakespeare be dropped from the curriculum because: “I have come to the conclusion that it is time to set Shakespeare aside and downplay creating room for a modern, diverse and inclusive voice”, or to put it another way, Shakespeare is much too difficult for her limited intellectual capacity so let’s put him down as a racist.
Another clever bastard, who shall be named Jeffrey Austin, a no-account secondary school teacher from Ann Arbor, declaimed: “There’s nothing you can get from Shakespeare that you couldn’t get from exploring the work of other writers. When all cultures have transcendental writers who are not included in our curriculum or classroom libraries, it is worth objecting to the idea that Shakespeare is somehow independent as a lonely genius.” So ALL cultures have writers – and not just writers but transcendental ones – as good as, or better than, Shakespeare? Fuck me, some cultures haven’t even developed a written language, never mind a fucking play. There is a very good reason why some books are not included in the curriculum or libraries. They’re shit. Clearly, this man has studied Shakespeare’s oeuvre in depth and is a genius. Or just another intellectually bereft, band waggon jumping mountebank. If anyone from Ann Arbor is reading this, keep your kids well away from Jeffery Austin.
Meanwhile, over in Michigan, the highly esteemed and virtually unknown Dr Vanessa Corredera, another American expert (irony), stated unequivocally: “Every Shakespeare play is a ‘race play’ as ‘whiteness’ is part of all of the plays”. Her opinion is based upon her belief that: “In context with other plays and even the Sonnets, this language is all over the place, this language of dark and light… there are these racialising elements.” Fuck me sideways. That Shakespeare, what a rotter, eh? And there was I, thinking that old Bill was scratching out the most wonderful words ever to grace the English language onto parchment, sharpened quill guided by a poetic love of language, a genius with inky fingers, when all along he was just a mouthpiece for the Nazi party and a the KKK, wearing a pointy white hat festooned, no doubt, with tinkling swastikas. Forsooth! Good job the zealots are keeping us all safe in our beds.
But the stupidity isn’t all coming from the direction of the Land of the Free. Back in dear old Blighty, Professor Farah Karim-Cooper, co-director of education at Shakespeare’s Globe, said: “We have started anti-racist seminars to discuss ‘decolonising’ Shakespeare’s esteemed plays.” So the plays are both esteemed and racist at the same time? Methinks the esteemed professor speaks with forked tongue! Furthermore, she is obviously a bit light in the history department, otherwise she would have understood that there were no British Colonies in Africa and no British Empire until the 18th century. So plays written by our beloved Bard can have no colonial connections or references whatsoever. But don’t let truth get in the way of your esteemed, fascist polemic. Like so many of the professional witch finders she will brook no debate about her miserable opinion, saying: “To suggest that we are saying Shakespeare was racist is just food for a superficial culture war that frankly we are not interested in participating in.” No, of course not dear. What you mean is that anyone who disagrees with you is a racist. The enemy. The worn out old tactics of cancel culture, the Labour party and the Gestapo.
And so, here we are, almost a quarter of the way through the 21st century and the ignorant minority try to drag us all down to their small-minded, medieval domain. They howl and squeal about their imaginary victimhood, creating a cult that sees things that are not there to be seen, whilst invading everywhere and burying everything beautiful under mountains of shit, both actual and metaphorical. Are these yapping fascist turds going to be allowed to impose the Triumph of their Will on the rest of us? I can hear the crunch of marching jackboots and the guttural bellowing of slogans echoing in the floodlit stadiums already. Are you ready Leni? Action!
In the rarefied kingdom of ill-educated, self-righteous, hateful, half-baked cunts, these people take the biscuit. They are bereft of intellect, they are without heart, they are the emptiest vessels making the loudest sounds. Where there is beauty, they see only shit. They create nothing but shit. They are snivelling third-rate actors and they play the Dane oh, so well.
“I have of late – but wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth, foregone all custom of excercises; and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air; look you, this brave o’er hanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me but a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason! How infinite in faculty! In form, in moving, how express and admirable! In action how like an angel! In apprehension how like a God! The beauty of the world! The paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights me not, nor woman neither.”
In other words, everything is shit.
And now we must take our leave of this depressing entertainment, this circle of shit, this realm of dark agendas…
“Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp’d tow’rs, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.”
I urge and emplore you to read Shakespeare, love Shakespeare, perform Shakespeare and defend Shakespeare and send the black-hearted devils back to hell before we are all buried beneath their mountains of shit.
Under the dark of a sky full of rain we walk into the mystic, you and I.
There is nothing above and nothing below, there is only the here, where we are.
You and I.
Watching the light disappear, watching the lonely souls walking, we are here, you and I.
The sea and the sky meet out on the ledge where the sun will fall and the light will die, we watch it all, you and I.
Look at the light that you can only just see, laugh at the sky and sing with the sea, just a kiss from the rain, just a kiss, just a kiss…
All the ships, all the birds, all the souls of the sea, songs that float above the wind and tumultuous waves, to the eternal turning of time, we leave, you and I.
A perpetual tragi-comedy in one act
Vladimir and Estragon are hanging around, having a chat…
Vlad-“If only my Mother could see me now”
Est – “Why?”
V-“Because the road to hell is paved with good intentions”
V-“Not really, it’s just because you’re an ill-educated oaf”
E-“Well, we don’t all have contacts in high places, mate”
V-“Hah! That’s typical of the working classes, never do anything but complain and wait for a handout”
E-“I saw your Mother the other day”
V-“No you didn’t”
E-“I fucking did mate, larger than life and just as ugly”
V-“It’s too much for one man”
V-“There’s nothing to be done”
E-“I think you need a lie down”
V-“One daren’t even laugh any more”
E-“What’s so funny?”
V-“Don’t you find humour in the agony of it all?
E-“What, you mean laughing at our meaningless existence and the miserable realisation that this is all there is?”
V-“No. I was talking about your boots being too small”
E-“You’re not helping”
V-“I’m glad you think so. I wonder where he is?”
E-“What do you expect? Anyway, it’s not the boots, it’s the feet”
V-“I don’t want to know the details. We might be here forever”
E-“That’s existentialism. Nothing lasts forever”
V-“Christ almighty, how much longer?”
E-“How’s your Mother?”
V-“There’s nothing to be done”
E-“I’m glad to hear it. All’s well that ends well”
V-“How about hanging ourselves?”
E-“Not now, wait until dark”
V-“Well, take it or leave it”
E-“It’s gone, we do it wrong, offering nought but violence”
V-“Must be getting late”
V-“Better late than never”
E-“There’s nothing to be done”
V-“Shall we go?”
E-“I saw this bloke the other day, charming sort of fella”
V-“Was it your Mother?”
E-“I don’t think so, I would have remembered that”
V-“What’s the time?”
E-“Later than you think”
V-“Better late than never”
E-“But it’s now or never”
E-“Do you realise that nothing has ever happened”
V-“And it has happened more than once”
E-“I can’t understand where it went”
E-“Well, you can’t have everything, where would you put it all?”
V-“I’d put it in the bank, it would be safer than keeping it under the bed”
E-“The bank? The bank, you say? I wouldn’t give the bank the time of day”
V-“They probably have their own clocks”
E-“How can you trust a place that has it’s own clocks, for Christ’s sake! Never put your trust in someone else’s time”
V-“I see what you mean”
E-“What do I mean?”
V-“I’m sure I don’t know. Better safe than sorry”
E-“There you are, now you get it. You give ’em everything and the bastards lock it away in a safe and then you have to pay the fuckers to get it back again”
V-“It’s a good business model”
E-“Why didn’t we think of it?”
V-“Because you’re an ill-educated oaf”
E-“That may be true and many people would agree with you. What’s your excuse?”
V-“My Mother wanted me to learn a trade”
E-“I remember. Your mother was a hard bitch”
V-“Do you remember where we went wrong?”
E-“Probably not, that’s why I’m standing here with you in the middle of nowhere discussing it”
V-“It could be worse”
E-“It’s always worse than it was before. Remember when we had it all?”
V-“We should never have put it in that bank”
E-“They’ve probably spent it all by now, it was so long ago”
V-“No use worrying about it now. At least it wasn’t lost completely, that would have been a terrible waste”
E-“That’s very Christian of you”
V-“It’s the least I can do in the circumstances”
E-“May God forgive you”
The ancient City of Londinium, founded before the Romans ever sailed up the Thames. The walled settlement became The City of London and developed into the most economically powerful city on earth, powered by trade and exploration. The old City was so powerful that the Monarch had to ask permission to enter, and still does today. Over the centuries many beautiful buildings were created. The streets were never set out in any kind of planned grid, it was a city that followed no man’s vision, it just followed its own path. When the ancient gothic cathedral of St Paul and a quarter of the city burnt down in 1666 plans were drawn up by Christopher Wren to build wide avenues and boulevards radiating out from his new cathedral, in imitation of Rome. But the city refused his outrageous ideas and so the new cathedral took its place among the narrow streets, lanes and alleys that still stood. The City was never in the habit of changing to suit the ideas of a mere upstart architect.
Look at the picture above. The City of London has allowed itself to be raped, buggered, sodomised and fucked by loathsome, parvenue architects. These odious onanists whose erections force themselves upon us, abusing our senses, despoiling our souls and ejaculating their disgusting jism of wealth into our faces, roaring and sneering at our discomfort and pain like a gang of aristocratic pederasts. Everywhere the glitter of tumescent glass cocks, like arrogant and priapic satyrs – you can almost hear them braying like the hellfire club, slobbering paraphilliacs egging each other on into ever-more depraved acts of concupiscence, defiling the ragged-arsed servants and sating their Dionysian thirst for perversion with the chamber maids. It is horror, it is horror…
St Paul’s Cathedral was, until 1963, the tallest building in London. Standing on the highest point of the city, Ludgate Hill, it towered above the rest of London, a magnificent baroque confection with a dome second only in size to St Peter’s in Rome. Imagine how fucking impressive it must have looked when it was finally completed in 1710…
Upon Ludgate Hill, 1710 – a crowd gathers to stare open-mouthed at the newly unveiled dome of St. Paul’s –
“Fuck me Lizzie, that’s impressive!” “I should say it is, Samuel. Very fucking impressive” “Why, I do believe Sir Christopher must have designed his dome in homage of your delightful bosom, my dear” “Oooh, Samuel Cockington, I do believe you are a rascal! You make me blush, sir!” “And you, my dear lady, make me proud. Come, let us away to the ale house where your cherry red lips may play a merry melody upon my pink oboe and fill your blushing cheeks with my pretty notes” “Oh, Mr Cockington, that’s fucking impressive.”
…but now it is barely noticeable, standing to the left of the Deo pecuniae phallae that despoil the skyline of London, an almost insignificant pimple among the thrusting clusters of finance and power. On the opposing side stands the nasty protuberance known as the Shard. Designed by the risible Italian scarecrow, Renzo Piano. What kind of name is that, for fuck’s sake? Imagine calling your kid Eric Trumpet or Florence Flute or Pink Oboe. I’m sure he loves to tickle his own ivories at every opportunity. This piece of glass just stands there, sharp and pointy, oblivious to its surroundings, blind to its brutality, ignorant of its utter lack of humanity. It has no civic function. It has nothing to offer, except a raspberry in the face of the bewildered public. It is a monument to Piano’s no doubt Trimalchian ego and deserves nothing but scorn, derision and mockery. Not only that, but it’s also on the wrong side of the river. Only on the north bank of the venerable Thames can one be a real Londoner. Those on the southern banks are merely rural Surrey peasants. The other carbuncles that block out the light have been mockingly titled by Londoners, who have always been scathing about those upstarts who think they are greater than the world’s most wonderful city. They are fiercely contemptuous of rotters, cunts and blowhards. The “Walkie-Talkie” in Fenchurch Street, the “Gherkin” in St Mary Axe, the “Cheese Grater” in Leadenhall Street, are a few of the derisive epithets by which these carbuncles are now known. The architects try to play down this mockery, preferring instead to believe that these risible names have been bestowed as a mark of affection by the grateful peasantry. Cunts. The other thing that escapes the wit of the architect is this: almost as soon as their brand new shiny cock is erected, it is out-of-date and old-fashioned. It is a flash in the pan, it comes and is quickly spent, like yesterday’s news it is soon forgotten. Its life span no more than a few decades, like the mayfly it will have an all-too brief moment in the sun and then expire, having done nothing of any use, unlike the mayfly – whose single reason to exist is to copulate before it expires. A totally miserable exercise in futility. But it probably amuses God, who likes a joke – after all he gave most of the oil to the Arabs and cars to the rest of us. Ho Ho.
However, much to the chagrin of the snivelling cunts whose dearest wish is for another great fire, or war, to raze the remaining ancient buildings (anything more than twenty years old) to the ground so they can then fill the space with forests of priapic glass penises, in another 300 years that seemingly insignificant pimple of baroque splendour that is St Paul’s Cathedral will still be there, beautiful and majestic, welcoming millions of visitors who will come to look in awe and admiration at the sheer magnificence of the building, perfect in its proportion, ratio and form, filled with light, embellished with paintings and carvings by master craftsmen, a-topped by that great dome at the City’s summit, bathed in the empyrean light, while the cocks of the money God will have long-since have become flaccid and limp, shrivelled husks that no amount of financial viagra will make rise again and down they will come.
After all, nobody wants a limp dick.
The sea is cold and green, the vast stretch of beach is deserted, save for a few early morning joggers, only the whispering sigh of the contented waves and the ethereal song of the seagulls swirling around the Fort National to break the silence…
Early morning by the sea. I like looking at the sea whilst eating croissants and drinking tea. Fuck that coffee nonsense. Tea is what one has with breakfast. Hence the name: Breakfast Tea. Nobody ever made Breakfast Coffee. And with good reason, tea is civilisation in a cup, delicate of scent, smooth of flavour and refreshing to the palette. Coffee is merely a cupful of bitter darkness, drunk only by the unrefined and those who inhabit the lower rungs of the evolutionary ladder.
But I digress.
Looking out from the empty breakfast room at the silent expanse of Le Grande Plage du Sillon (otherwise known as the beach) and the ever-heaving waves of the English Channel (not La Manche as the oft defeated Frenchies would have it – to the victor the spoils and the bragging rights I think!) fills one’s soul with peaceful thoughts and a small smile. Breakfast by the sea. This is how one should begin one’s day before girding one’s tattered loins and venturing out into the fresh breeze and salty air, whilst offering many a hearty bonjour! to the local peasants who wobble by on their creaking bicycles with freshly baked batons, strings of onions and a jaunty beret perched upon their greasy gallic tetes, leaving a trail of stinking Gauloise smoke and garlic fumes in their wake. Ah, vive la belle France!