The Sun Dips Below the Orkney Hills

A  message arrived from Blip Central, admiring my continuing ability to produce such mind numbing pap.  It takes practice.  Thank you to every single one of you (and big Aggie in Grangemouth) who come along and visit; it’s exquisite.  I shouldn’t be encouraged, eat borage.  Don’t forget the kettle is always on, I’m not sure what it’s on.  Appliances can be fickle, kettles can trickle, in a pressure cooker pickle.  Adopt a frigid air; dead pan.  Home on the range, an all-day blender.  St Bruno – there’s the rub, twin tub. Wok around the clock.   Sensibility, or any ability, in news embargo, one armed pundits in pop up shop farrago, vacant shops, empty eyes, this’ll come as no surprise, we’re all awash in dumming down, in every street, in every town.  Politicians miming, atrocious timing, ferocious rhyming.  Strewth, it’s stranger than friction, watch your diction.  Spot the solecism but not spot the dog.  I’m spending the day behind the settee, a non-ticketed event, sofa so good.  Oh my, golly, Cigs is off his trolly.  He ain’t no pest, he’s Braco’s best.  When in Toon look out for the Broon, smacking his lips, salt and vinegar his Blips. In front of the fire is avant guard, not Ava Gardner.  Knit one, pearl two.  Kinetic.  The alphabet’s frenetic.  Don’t press the shutter, this nonsense is utter.  Tautologies aren’t taught, no sherry in a port.  No port in a storm, it’s not the norm.  There should be checks on Lilyrex, you’ll no find Talpa in Belper.  Quartermile may make you smile.  It’s been a while.  Mind on, Blip on.   You may have to wait, I’m trying f8.  Thanks to all Blip backroom staff who keep pedaling hard to keep it going.
 
Blippers are treasures tethered by a thread.
 
We dream…………..