Perfectly understandable old chap. It's enough to make the strongest man peer into the abyss, contemplating why one bothers.
Picture yourself, on a soft May morning at dawn, listening to the birdsong as you look up at the slope of Skiddaw, knowing that before long you will be looking down from the summit, the mighty mountain grovelling at your feet, defeated and cowed, rolling over to receive your mighty weapon; you take your just rewards, plunging ever more frantically into the fell's soft moistness, your shaft spearing your adversary deeper, ever deeper until! with a final frantic push you climax together, your seed pumping to the very depths of the earth, possibly causing earthquakes and a tsunami of semen in Cockermouth.
Better now?
Yes, some of us have only recently returned from lunch
"Plenty of strikers can score goals," he said, gesturing to the famous old stands casting shadows around us.
"But a lot have found it difficult wearing the number 9 shirt for The Arsenal."
Perfectly understandable old chap. It's enough to make the strongest man peer into the abyss, contemplating why one bothers.
Picture yourself, on a soft May morning at dawn, listening to the birdsong as you look up at the slope of Skiddaw, knowing that before long you will be looking down from the summit, the mighty mountain grovelling at your feet, defeated and cowed, rolling over to receive your mighty weapon; you take your just rewards, plunging ever more frantically into the fell's soft moistness, your shaft spearing your adversary deeper, ever deeper until! with a final frantic push you climax together, your seed pumping to the very depths of the earth, possibly causing earthquakes and a tsunami of semen in Cockermouth.
I do think of mountains (hills, really) as women, to be defeated and then firmly rogered, r. Doesn't everyone?
Not really. They are proud protuberances penetrating the sky, surely? Basically, by climbing them, you are taking the female part and worshipping the regenerative phallic principle.
It would add a certain something to bagging Wainwrights, wouldn't it? And it would certainly seperate the men from the boys. A chap capable of knocking one out at the top of Helvellyn in a howling gale in November would certainly gain my respect.
Not really. They are proud protuberances penetrating the sky, surely? Basically, by climbing them, you are taking the female part and worshipping the regenerative phallic principle.
Nonsense. I tell them on the way up, I say, 'I'm going to climb you and then I'm going to fúck you.' This causes the glw to mutter grim warnings about angering the mountain, but I haven't been beaten yet.
It would add a certain something to bagging Wainwrights, wouldn't it? And it would certainly seperate the men from the boys. A chap capable of knocking one out at the top of Helvellyn in a howling gale in November would certainly gain my respect.
Years ago I did suggest to R a Viz sketch by that name that would involve Wainwright forever climbing up mountains in search of a quiet one off the wrist, only to be constantly interrupted by hikers, dogs, picnickers and the like. It quite tickled me at the time.