Despite the fact that Mr Stipe wouldn't do apostrophes I like his thought. I am rambling along to what I feel is the best of the rapid eye-movers' music. I am indebted to my real musical correspondent for the memory of a cigarette butt, a pot plant and Mr Stipe and his anti-smoking prepostery. I am also minded of a superbly funny short story by Richard Russo: listening to REM and reading this tale on a beach somewhere on a Mediterranean island. Thanks to Mr C.
I know somewhere in the depths of my history there was fun.
Can any life be a pageant throughout? Let alone rich? I spend too much time in the past.
I'm still considering politics. Anyone got the bunce for a deposit in the safe seat of Witney? Witless? I am determined to sort something before I die and it seems the country is going to the dogs, again. In fact it seems the world is going to the dogs. That is why I am singing along to a set of songs from 1986, when the world was really going to the dogs. Err.....(as they say in Private Eye).
Oh! Another thought just whacked me in the face during reminiscence. Mr C could attest to this. No-one ever liked the Sex Pistols. Especially at full volume on a drowsy beach in the Med. Ho ho ho! The Beatles and the Pelvis may have stirred things up for a while but the Pistols have scared society for 35 years! And still do....why cannot a politician do the same? Oh...just thought of Thatcher. Schtum!
Plus ca change, plus c'est la meme chose. (Accents deleted and grammar buggered by M Stipe.)
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