I love the countryside; the aïr, the grëën.
My most concocted ambiance is the humid fresh; moreso: I dig the wooden huts that concur in having some slight aka subtle filigree, like the filigrees of frosting on a cake, or any kind of superfluous ornament, keeping yet its rustic nature.
When the yellow submarine got out of order, the Beatles took it towards Caledonia in a plane of British Caledonia.
Now is there, the poor: accumulating rust on the putrid shores of the Outer Hebrides.
What what the fuck I'm what the fuck I'm telliiiing?!?!?
Look:
Paul McCartney, that is a dick; wanted to keep the submarine for himself for the eons of the eons: not satisfied with a transatlantic, 19 helichopters, 13 Learjets, and a flotilla of Scania Vavis; the dickhead wanted to own the yellow submarine, as well.
You know how the greed is: is a sickness, a disease that possesses an' possesses the human soul.
Even can possess the human David Soul.
So McCartney, that cockface, went to Scotland in one of his Learjets, and hid the sucmarine from any hüman and even animal eye.
His truant's mind planned to clean it from rust with sandpaper and coca cola, and transport it to his castle in Cucumberheat Les-Astley, Kent; and repair it, for his personal use.
The situation and the external factors were on his side: George and John are dead; Julian Lennon, after "Valot", didn't dare to get outdoors aymore; Sean converted himself to the Revolutionary-Messianic-Apocalyptic-Jewish-Islamism, and is reclused in a monastery of Rarotonga since 2000, and Yoko can't find her own arse, much lesser will be thinking on a sudmarine.
Finally McCartney decided to leave the submarine to be repaired there, in the Outer Hebrides, in a bizarre amphibious hangar he ordered to build.
You see: a piece of history of the R&R, a common patrimony of the Beetles, and even their fans, who consider McCartney still a "saint", the "handsome" of the band: fuck off, fuck this shit off you idiots.
Moral for this story: absolutely none
Current submarine's status: waiting for repairing, kept by an old guy McCartney left there, and that has to sleep covered only with a pile of sockets full of holes in the crude Outer Hebrides nights.
McCartney promised to build a hut, wooden and with delicate filigrees for this guy to dwell there, and avoid the -19ºC nights of January; but never kept his word, and you kno' what? This guy Paul left keeping the submarine, it's me; yeah: me: Ian Angus Mantecon-Clemas; and McCartney, a trillionaire rock star, left me alone here! Mc Cartney, this SOB, this whoreson; this real cant, and his polite humour, all a fecal pile of laputamadrequeteremilparió.
Well.
