Wednesday, September 16, 2009

On Floyd

Oh shit, I shout,
Floyd has died!
Pickled, no doubt,
Or stir and fried.

What a start!
This pommy cook
Was all heart.
He had what it took -

Wine in one hand,
The other a fish -
Had no plan -
Out came a dish

Fit for a king.
Cheeky as sauce,
Wit was his thing:
It was his main course.



When I get well, sigh, I must go back for a feed at Floyd's Brasserie in Phuket. By twenty skillions of miles the best feed and service to be had in Patong Beach.


p.s. Was trying to find references to Floyd's in my old blog, but couldn't. However I have had an entirely pleasant 90 minutes reading through some of my old posts. Fuck, I used to be REALLY funny.

I should put some of them together sometime, somewhere. Sell it. Make money - everyone knows writers are rich.


Dick Headley said...

You're still funny but in a more mature/seasoned/thoughtful way.

expat@large said...

There, readers, case in point: Dick Headley rich old bastard writer, cruising the Caribe or Puget Sound or the Virgins or somewhere...

Dick: in a mature/seasoned/thoughtful/post-sexual way.

rockstar69 said...

Well, look on the bright side old boy. You're doing better than Floyd!

Your description of what words can't describe reminded me vividly of the sensation one has with two ureteric stents in situ (touch wood)!!

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