Don’t Do This, Ever

| June 5, 2019 | Reply

I really rather enjoyed Miles’s trip down memory lane on Wednesday looking at Roy Hodgson’s Euro 2016 squad.

Do give it a read if you haven’t yet. It’s probably better than whatever’s about to pour out of my quill.

But before even that, make sure you check out this revolutionary betting approach that needs your clothes, your boots and your motorcycle.

Did you get your vote on yesterday?

Did you stride down to the old polling station for a good old vote?

Did you vote your tits off?

There’s a piece of graffiti you see from the train coming out of Charing Cross station that says “DON’T VOTE TORY EVER.”

It’s like some weird public service announcement. I do wonder if anyone read it yesterday and thought “Phew, glad I saw the reminder.”

Perhaps they were thinking “It’s only the European elections, so maybe it’s ok to vote Tory just this once. If only so I can say I’ve tried it.”

“No! Don’t vote Tory ever!”

Maybe the message is for all those people who, sometimes, find they accidentally voted Tory.

“Ah, crap!”

“What is it love?”

“I went and voted Conservative.”

“You need to take more care at the ballot box darling.”

What I find most interesting about that graffiti is that someone, presumably from Network Rail, has painted through it.

Not painted over it, you understand. Just slashed a paintbrush through the words.

You can still see what the words say. But now you can also see they’ve been subedited.

DON’T VOTE TORY EVER

Not far from those words is another piece of graffiti. An artist using the tag Anus has daubed that word on a number of prominent surfaces.

These have not been struck through.

A few Anuses, yep, fine, but don’t mention voting Tory. There are kids on those trains.

Away from politics, it’s my shameful duty to report that I’ve been smoking cigars again.

I’m not sure I can call myself a non smoker – which I do consider myself to be – after buying two of them in the space of a week.

The first one was fair enough. I was going to a house party where the host has a roof terrace, so that’s ok.

But the following Saturday, my only excuse was that I fancied a cigar.

I was passing a cigar shop, and I thought I’d go in, buy one and smoke it in their sampling room.

I can’t remember how the bloke who served me described the cigar I bought, but he made it sound like a wine.

Notes of something with a hint of something and something.

The one phrase I do recall is “spicy in the final third”, which made it sound like a particularly aggressive centre forward.

Or what my bowels have to deal with the day after a curry.

The sampling room itself was interesting.

All blokes, obviously. There was one group of three chatting away, but every other table was a solo smoker, ageing hipsters with contented scowls practising their “I’m a loner and that’s how I like it” vibes.

The tragedy was, I felt right at home.

What’s happened to me?

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