Something about a nine litre bottle of Whispering Angel. Someone says, “calanques.” An endless coach ride. Irregular paving stones. A fountain chatters in the darkness. Waiting for the lift. Why is the carpet covered in Tyrells? There’s a nobility in drunkenness. Particularly in France. But… Read More
Like the Colossus of Rhodes he stands there. Legs spread, hands on hips, shoulders like landing strips. His Speedos are so tiny you can see what he’s had for breakfast. On every beach, there’s always one. The muscle man. The adonis. The alpha asshole. He… Read More
If there’s one clear failing with modern shirting it is that it does the job of covering the torso too well. No ambiguity, just comprehensive and complete concealment. Was it once decided by a global cabal of shirt makers that shirts must run uninterrupted from… Read More
Every day the same. Same people, same four walls, same back pain from working on the sofa, same boxset recommendations over and over. I don’t care what you say, I’m just not that interested in watching a schlock doc about a hilIbilly who wanks off… Read More
