It's May Day!
Up and down Britain we're hearing the tinkling of Morris Dancers.
We also hear the ringing of their bells as they shake a leg after emptying their bladders, afore handing them to prancing fools to put on a stout stick for the bopping of the bonce.
A day nubile young studenty strumpets in light summer see-through dresses dance around great phallic Maypoles spurting their symbolic brightly colored ribbon reproductive fluids.
The Maypoles, that is. Not the strumpets.Although who can say for certain?
A day to flambé heathen law enforcement types in the Beltane fire of the wicker basket so the Maurice Dancers have some apples to ferment into cider for their post stout stickery knockabout.
Me, I prefer to celebrate Maid Day. A day to worship all my pretty maidens (and wanton wenches!).I kneel before in obeisance, and pay homage to YOUR beauty (or inner beauty if you're a right munter). And while I'm down there...
Anyhoo My Lady, I virtually shower you with Breakfast in bed accompanied by flowers, wine and chocolates, a coastal countryside foresty walk, a cool beer in the beer garden and a well expensive meal, maybe a film, the theatre or the ballet before home for a lengthy indulgence of practical fertility ritery (if you know what I mean, and I'm sure that you do!).
In reality, I'm shortly off to get a flight to the Grimness of the North, but rest assured my Pretties, I carry you in my heart and thinking of you, hoping your man is treating you as special as Romeo treated his Juliet on this Maid Day. Only without the fakeage of demise and the suicidal confusion.
I'm such a creep!
