Spending the last four days finishing off what Useless Workshy Cunt of a Builder started, I have found myself in the embarrassing position of listening to commercial radio rather more that is healthy. They have been having orgasms, dear reader, over the fact we might get a bit of snow round these parts.
Let us put this in perspective - it hasn't snowed in Weymouth since King George was on the throne. King George the Third. This is because - and it's uncanny that it's a major plot device employed by one of my favourite authors - we sacrifice the carnival queen to the Gods to guarantee good weather and a throng of tourists every year. The only snow you get round here is of the grated polystyrene type.
This is much like the pagan cultures who select their king of fools each year at some huge feast, treat him like a real king for a day then hang him from a tree bleeding from vital parts to ensure the safety of the village and a bumper crop the following year. In our case it’s the Ocean Room at the Weymouth Pavilion, and assorted hairdressers, college students and some girl from Portland with only one eye.
What happens to the “winner” of this event in the aftermath of the Carnival is anybody’s guess. However, I am led to believe they are fired out of the cannon at Nothe Fort straight up the mayor’s arse, which explains why he walks funny, and all that nasty business they had in town the year they voted in a lady mayor. Needless to say, you don’t see two carnival queens in the same room together, do you?
Don’t look at us - we’re just a bunch of soft southerners.