After a damaging session in Tucker’s Grave at Radstock, an impossibly good pub, and the stumble back, a wonderful man in The Bell in Bath (one pound off beer this week in celebration of the first anniversary) taught me the ballad of the Lambton Worm in Somerset dialect.
But that still leaves me considerably short of whatever these people are up to. Sometimes ignorance is bliss.
- The true story, never revealed, of the barrow organ
There’s more to this eggcorn than Somerset genius.
- Baroja joke about unread readers
And don’t give me any of that “rereading” shite, you illiterate swine.
- Some migration songs
With an introduction by St. Spike in the Moon.
- Anti-colonial cannibal propaganda, anyone?
I want to sing the Mau Mau verse in Allan Sherman’s Hungarian Goulash No. 5.
- Basta lágrimas de cocodrilo sobre el cierre de Bar Marsella
Si nos importa tanto, ¿por qué no lo compramos?