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"Outside" shouted Taylor as the horizon bowed and the set sat up over the
indicator. Scratching for the line, he turned took two deep strokes and pushed
into the heaviest set wave of his 21 years - digging a rail the wind got under
the 7' 6" and sent him over the falls, sucked back up the face and then slammed
against the reef. He lost the board and had a brief, vague notion that it must
have caught him in the head as a hot and nauseating sensation shot through his
brow and resonated to the tips of his spayed out hair. He promptly fell over
and passed out with a resounding thud on the soft golden sand of the beach. The
next thing he remembered was the dull lights that were dimmed by the cigar
smoke of twelve neurotic flamingos playing a game of craps. "Good grief" he
said to nobody in particular.
But then, Taylor had a habit of saying 'Good grief.' It must have started about three years ago; he was having a playful surf off the coast in St. Agnes, Cornwall, when this absolutely gi-normous mussel shell hit him on the head. The moment it happened he shouted "Good Grief" and he hadn't stopped saying it since. Especially when he realised he'd been interpolated via a tri-phasic vector out of Cornwall and was now floating outside of triple over-head Swami's - SoCal...Shaka Bra!
He gave his body to the ocean's undulations and allowed his senses to lull into a sensual doze. All was well until he realised that his balls had shrivelled up into twin dried apricots due to the sub-zero temperatures of the deep. He was further confused by the fact that at the exact same moment that this thought crept into his mind, his mind also shattered into a million small fragments and distributed themselves, evenly, across the surfboard.
BAD DREAM, MAN.
Anyway I was having a good look at the new range of socks in Tesco's. I rather liked the new furry animal designs they had on offer. But indecision gripped me- was it acceptable, in today's permissive and forgiving society, to wear a motifed sock in tandem with the slip-on brown leather brogue, or should I play safe and just opt for the uni-coloured foot insulators that I usually wore?
Why do Mk. III Cortina 'Void Bushes' always go, why is the 'MacPherson Strut' such a popular method of suspension and how come the Ford 'Zetec' is such a rubbish engine. These thoughts welled in his brain like an overwhelming desire to embrace the latrine after a night on Smirnoff blue label. "Why didn't I buy a bubble car? They seem to be so practical and everyone looks so happy driving them!" shouted Taylor as the horizon bowed and the set sat up over the indicator, scratching for the line, he picked up the socks, and pondered. "Socks........hmmm........socks......"
It was at this exact moment that God spoke to Taylor. "TAYLOR!" said God Taylor chose to ignore the intrusion and thus, unfortunately, never did discover the secrets of world peace, eternal life and inner tranquillity.
Bugger this pal I'm going to Torremalinos.
"Dig brother, so we meet again 'roll on roll.' We got tired of the experience man, we were blowin' our minds a little too much - you cats dig...huh?" It was at this point that Taylor vowed never again to partake in any of 'Sorted' Steve's purple headed skunk and to consider for the first time Theresa's invitation to the Church of Gonad. Ah, Theresa, his thoughts played hooky from the mixed cotton garments in his hand to the velvety down of her almost anorexic calves. He had heard of her before. They say she can suck the rust off a chrome bumper of a 57' Chevy. They can try as hard as they want - it just won't happen - it just won't happen - they can try as hard as they want - it just won.... t
happen
it just.... it happened. Taylor shat his pants and Theresa was not happy. In fact she was so upset she punched Taylor on the nose. Taylor wept. Blood flowed freely from his appendage. "Shit!" he exclaimed. What to do? How to stop this crimson tide? "Aha! The socks!"
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