Yoffy lifts a finger, and a mouse is there. Google it, if you haven’t  listened in the past. He passed away yesterday and his folky songs and simple puppetry using folded paper and coloured gloves in my formative years was strangely memorable, its stayed with me, until now and I should imagine it will moving forward.

And so we came to the flatlands, through Eye and towards Crowland, alas the Porn megastore  stop off at Guyhirn has ceased to exist; the Porn shop, not Guyhirn regrettably. Every time I see the sign “Welcome to Fenland” I die a little inside, i’m sure its all very nice and all, but lets face it, its not. The Flatlands, that 20 mile stretch between Peterborough and Kings Lynn is bleak, fucking bleak indeed and in the dark with the only lights in front of you or hurtling towards you on this raised single carriageway above signs for the Bonsai Centre and tractors and other discarded farm machinery painted pink, why? to act as a mileage post I suspect, “you’re nearly there comrade, keep your windows closed and press on. It’s like middle earth here for fucks sake, even a morning rainbow couldn’t brighten up this awful place. For me anyway, I’m sure the “I love Guyhirn” bumper sticker community along with the stock car community in this waste land is thriving like a family of rabbits. And Good luck.

Sorry all Nor-folk, but I can’t stand the run-in to your county, through Eye past Crowland where the glossy black birds stand sentinel to prevent the mutants from escaping, which of course they never will, the flat lands were designed that way. Ely? I’m not so sure… 

Reaching the slightly more undulating North Norfolk home of Partridge, we spent time at the beach, not much, time at the bowling alley, again not much, and I think the bowling alley will be shutting down, just to force another nail into the coffin of Fakenham, the worlds most boring town with a plan to increase the mating population by building 1000 houses, a primary school and a couple of red brick old new character Berni inn style pubs. Welcome to Actual Hell newcomers, the charity shops are unsurprising and you’ve got to drive to get anywhere remotely exciting. The British Ideal of eating fish and chips out of a load of newspaper at the side of the road within sight of the sea, does not a holiday make for me friends. I’ll eat a kebab on the floor outside a sweaty club in Budapest but I draw the line at Fish and Chips sober on a pavement. 

And that, in a nutshell, is what i think of that.

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