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Brown Avensis. *Eyes down*


Jim Bell

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Father Dowling: What troubles you my child.

 

 

Me: Forgive me father, for I have shited.

It has been almost three months since my last collection.

I have lusted after and coveted many cars in this time and my resolve of abstinence from sale and purchase hath failed. I have looked upon a car of low financial outlay and have decided to put myself inside it. I fear I will put myself inside it many times and be satisfied each time.

It is brown.

What would Freud say?

 

Bless me father for tonight I lay down carless and cleansed, and in tomorrow there lies mild debauchery and small adventure.

 

 

Father Dowling: Give me two hail holy Marys and three hello Dollys.

 

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Now go in peace.

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Before retiring I consumed a meat pie that had been left in the sun at some length. It filled only some of the hole inside of me and churned as I slept.

 

Hours passed and I awoke with a start. I was sweating, I had pood the bed and before me was a shimmering vision of St Jude.

 

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St Jude:

I am St Jude. The patron saint of hopelessness and lost causes. You might recognise me from the internet. You will be going on a medium length journey. Be unafraid. You may have to pass into foreign land where money is slightly different. Do not worry. The sausages you encounter may be square, but be unafraid. What would Freud say? If you hear a noise that disturbs you, it may be the devil manifesting in a wheel bearing. Pay him no attention. Carry on your journey regardless.

 

Me: I dont feel well.

 

 

St Jude: Go back to Sleep.

 

Me: Ok. I like your big madalion.

 

St Jude: Thanks I got it at Argos. You can have a wear of it one day maybe.

 

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I am slightly concerned there is some sort of chemical reaction going on with that pie, because that’s not St Jude, that’s 1976 Kris Kristofferson. He definitely would get his medallions at Argos.

 

Hope you feel better in the morning, and be thankful 1976 Kris Kristofferson didn’t bring Streisand with him as they might have started a duet in your bedroom. Although the profuse vomiting would have cleared the pie out nicely

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'Sunday Bloody Sunday'. What a great song. It really encapsulates the frustration of a Sunday, doesn't it? You wake up in the morning, you've got to read all the Sunday papers, the kids are running round, you've got to mow the lawn, wash the car, and you think "Sunday, bloody Sunday!".

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Up and moving. The journey is underway. Still feel a bit clammy mind.

Crossing a bridge to catch a train I came across a man and boy.

 

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St Christopher: Good morro pilgrim. I am St Christopher and this is mine associate, Colin.

 

Me: Hiya.

 

Colin: Hiya Im Colin. Got this good conka. Its big an round like a wimmins bowb. Lol bowbs.

 

Me: lolbowbs.

 

 

St Christopher: Indeedbowbs. Now hurry on traveller for your train approaches, and I being the patron saint of travellers (but not those ones) must guide you on. Hurry for there is a long way to go and just a short time to get there. Like in that song.

 

Me: Ok thanks bye.

 

Colin: I hate you bye.

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That upskirt pic of Chris could get you into bother these days. Bit late now but it's worth hitting up St Anthony, he's the bomb at sniffing out chod, he'll knock on a random door and a half hour later he's dragging a delivery miles Solara from an asbestos garage while a nice old lady brings him tea, biccies and a fiver for his trouble.

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I still feel a bit funny. Not sure I should be eating.

 

I think theres a dog staring at me.

 

 

 

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St Bernard: Good morning. I am St Bernard. The patron saint of people who have gotten themselves into trouble.

 

Me: Hello. I still dont feel well.

 

St Bernard: Do not worry, if you feel the need to be ill out of either end, I will appear to you in a form descriprive of how you are feeling so that you may be soothed.

 

Me: OK. Where were you at 0400 o clock this morning?

 

St Bernard: I had a lie in.

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