I thought I'd try another Arse! blog using my new organic, bio-degradable, puddle-based, Zola Budd carbon footprint, exclusive to Broadway Market - The 101% Astrology:Tourettes 2txt Killer-App! That was installed on my mobile yesterday, via satellite & wind-turbine Arse!Arse! I'm at this moment sitting on the low wall of All Saints Church Haggerston, with a bottle of Diamond White 101% organic cyder. Ever since the outrageous hike in the price of zyder since the budget, this nectar in retrospect arrives renewed afresh on one's palette like the Farmers Market fermented juice of the gods, pickling yr gullet.
But to be sure, top of the morning cunt! non of the cider made in Hereford or Taunton matches the Irish stuff! They are the undisputed Finnegans Rainbow of the alcoholic apple, served chilled whilst on the rocks! It's worth visiting the homepage of the by very far away stuffed emerald tigers of iced cider, Magners. 'There's Method In The Magners.' For, if you don't fill in a box stating where you live and your date of birth like any staggers credit card transaction, you're not even allowed in to see the contents of the website! Only a company absolutely convinced of the superiority of their glider would take such a high-risk approach to potential customers. It's a business lesson that hippy-go-lucky, Tribal Nation™ stallholders on Broadway Market would do well to learn, but with love, respect, organically craven & in a holistic, organic - get up, leave St Werbourghs city farm @ 6.66, be in E8 @ just gone 8! Onc.Then the big end goes on Gary Mabbutt the campervan.
I have yet to taste the Swedish cider Kopparberg, but by all accounts it is the Catherine the Great of ciders! Which she liberally imbibed as they lowered Horse down from the ceiling for their afternoon cuddle. Until tragically, the attendants lost their grip on the ropes suspending Horse after washing their hands with cheap boiled soap imported from London...manufactured unfortunately by my father shitslipshit also called Edmond fuck!
Fuck! It was of course not Henry V but Catherine who uttered the immortal lines:
Hoarse! Hearse! A Kingdom for my Horse! And find me that cheapskate bastard who sold me the bag of rat fat he called Cat & Mutton Soap-on-a-rope! Aaaaaghfuckshitarse!
So if ever you go down to Cork by the sea
Stay out of the ale house and take it from me
If you want to stay sane don't you dare take a sup
Of that devil drink cider called Johnny Jump Up
