Gordon Nuttall, Let’s Hope You Are Soon Joined By Old ‘Mates.’


I had thoroughly got (the) jack of wasting time on executive criminal thieves and other George Street protected slime, that a harmless homily on socks makes way for Nuttall’s reiteration of cornered dogs fighting back after continual goading. His 12 year slotting parallels in many ways, my eight year battle of prejudice and vindictiveness by corrupt Woodridge based Housing oafs, jointly managed from what gen filters through, by Murray and an ingrained piece of pure malevolence, Schoutens, and ably assisted by sewer-spawned messengers, all of whom should answer allegations of their dealings.

Doesn’t it make you spew when you exit a warm bed to make tea and the ordinary everyday street-socks you’ve donned as winter bed-wear have unknowingly inched off enough to trip you? The end result being like getting both feet in a tie loop with the resultant heavy landing. The sniggerer will immediately think,”Beauty, you old bastard, hope ya broke something,” but over the years in various work-places, I’ve seen it happen to all age groups.

In my egotistical youth, when an ounce of my blubber was worth much more than the price of gold, my thinking was such that a commodity so precious needed space heating in winter, that the entire place of abode should cosset that which was put upon this earth to so enlighten and save. At life’s snotty end, even the electric blanket has made way for socks in bed, more than one set if necessary. In small talk to a hostile pack of relatives and ‘friends,’ including the up-him-self Beamish-White, mentioned how oldies keep comfortable in winter, who sneeringly replied that those ill-prepared for old age should just confront death. Some people!

The revolting baby-eating thunder-thighed clone, the hideous Hidee snuck silently into compatriot, Mother Dale’s flat at 0655 this day, such discreetness most unusual but necessary, evidentially. The talk is she is in great despondency, having being unable to properly celebrate Mother’s Day with no baby available for roasting. Being Thursday, if she’s travelling, beware the nine o’clock Brisbane bus. I vowed her product had stretched its worth but a frequent bus traveller wants it known her fellow passengers, exhausted by her detestable egomaniacal shrill, are petitioning her disbarment from buses, the over-loud delivery beyond the pale. Love, Les.

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