maelwys

Curse, curse and thrice curse this god forsaken island, Hottest bloody summer since 1989. Why? Damn my parents for moving to Londinium, Caer bleeding Lundein, and subjecting me to this bloody heat. What the hell were they thinking? Oh yes lets move down to Lloegyr. Lost lands? Forsaken bloody lands, A pox on heat and fair weather. I need mist, clouds and peat flames. Kernow, YES, at least there's the atlantic wind, the moors, heather and a wild ruggedness, but NO, bloody London. No fewkin air, nae a hint a fewkin breeze. Choke on the heat O yeah lost one, outcast. Not even Camden is a consolation in this accursed weather, fuck, who wants to asphyxiate on car fumes and dust, no matter how good the tavern? Those lucky bastards in Scotland have got it good. I want to go home. I want to move to Iceland. Screw Bel. I want a big arse thunderstorm. And I was stupid enough to agree to go to Rhodes with my mates. Even remnents of the Knights Hostpitaller can no compensate. At least there will be a sea breeze there, Mannawyddans mercy,

Cuirim cumerih dhia umid sluagh dall tharrid do vho gach gabhadh sosgeul dhia na grais o mullach gu lar unid ga ghradhich na fire thu i na millidh na mhuaich thu.