beer bellies. We’ve seen them all; personally I blame it squarely on the sun. It has brought them out en masse.
As I sit with my feet on this most shabby of shabby-chic footrests
I could almost pretend I was sat in a front row seat of the catwalk. Manly tums silhouetted against the sea strut their stuff before my very eyes. To say they are not a pretty sight is frankly the understatement!
Big ones, huge ones, wobbly ones... Oh alright, the odd six pack one. In the main the ones that should on no account be let out of the orange singlet that encases them. Better generate an air of mystic leaving the gagging punter guessing, than present it as if tripe on a butcher’s slab says I!
We have seen frying pans walk by, I kid you not! Skimpy tops on lassies that should know better.
The British at play are an interesting sight.
Their view on us sitting beside a nearly full hippo bag pretending to be members of the higher echelons of Hythe society is sadly unrecorded.
‘There’s nowt so queer as folk!’ as my grandad from Keighley used to say...
‘Cept me and thee and thou’s queer!’
is so true.