Cats of Skaboeuff

Published by: Mat on 29th Apr 2018 | View all blogs by Mat

Cats of Skaboeuff


95% polished toward sense, my 'play' for today - over on Drysailorboy - f f ref :) 


Union jack: hugely symbolic.

Top floors overhang the glistening cobbles.  Houses have names like Captain’s Rest, the Skipper’s Return; narrow dwellings toward a delightful harbour.

Our own rental is the narrowest of all the houses.  At  Boatswain’s Folly, and as is our rental privilege, we removed the rusting eighteenth century name-plate, retired the letters to our skip, and now gleaming and welcoming Seaview hangs over the entrance-way.  Much more appropriate and revealing of the property’s quality.

Although, as I alluded before, our house serves as Seagulls’ Toilet.  Windows are lacquered in sheets of shit, guano curtains the vista.  Other gulls live in cliffs to our left side under the castle walls.

The cats, constant companions, are resilient in the face of the bird menace.


Boris prowls the alleys, his todger scents every lamp post – and our kitchen – if he has broken and entered again.  I rush him with the broom handle when he ejaculates on my socks, my washing piled, [although advantages – see M&S patrol].  I am grateful for the social interaction with a real man, and for because Pepper, our own official cat is a dreadful guard cat and gay, probably, difficult to establish and not relevant.  I love gay cats, quite gay myself but not a gay cat.  STOP.  He lies bare-chested and alluring whilst Boris ravages teacups and our biscuits.  Boris completes the nap in my armchair and farts,  prowls for skank Shelby and her alley-cat attitudes.  Dirty Shelby is the white cat and very dirty, a smudge of black on her thigh.  Harlot of all the hours, she runs up into the centre of town with the folk, and is more of a rat cat, I believe.  Shocked to find her drinking at men’s feet outside the terrorist pub.

The town, home to this one [and only] Red Hand Commando, [& Rangers FC] outpost in the whole of England.  Exotic blue, white and red banners billow above windows proclaiming Britischer Velkommen [good], and where, on our special days, the 5th, the 12th,  and the 25th, our men in the bowler hats and the orange sausages, sasheses, and drums, the whole pot doggerel, bang past our windows.  A key in my door and I am unavailable for lynching.  Bloody marvellous in my estimation, bastion of Ulster pop music unheralded for one hundred miles. ’Take me home Shankhill Road’ blasts out the pub doors.

Enoch rushes to this hardest pub in England.  My boy is indestructible.

twits in Cov

Enoch & Companion Lyserger Acid

‘Hallo chappies,’ he says, ‘wonderful, your sectarian nonsense, and my father’s hobby, y’know?’ he says.

Surrounded by bullet heads he is flushed seven times according to the masonic ritual, and  throttled among drip trays.

‘Stop,’ cries the landlord, who finds him the amusing dandy souvenir, aside parrot and bullets.  And such is my quality in rearing eccentric history fanatics.

Enoch relays to them,  he shall be back to play guitar medley for Battle of the Boyne fireworks, but stumbles, a traitor across the cobbles, to the Happy Shamrock which dominates the left curb, and he consumes eight pints of their Guinness novelty.  Skaboeuff is like Lilliput.

As to my own outpost and flagpole – the hotel bar years might be upon one? Thinking to find the swishest hotel up in in town, don military blazer from the Oxfam, set me  barside as raconteur,  and poppy the size of my face.  Maybe some medals, my Blue Peter badges?  I’ll keep you all posted.

In reference to primary Olympian pursuits, the 4000 is jolly polished.  I think ten days until my deadlines [or get a job, prick].  I insert extra erotica, and find the erotica more stimulating than the boring story laid underneath her metaphor. Maybe I should cut to the chase, write a 4000 gang-shag, by god what stamina, BORING maybe I should smear some shit on our walls?

When I feel this way in my shit it is time for a swim.  It is like Reykjavik  in that North harbour, and I am certainly very brave with a total nude immersion and strokes in the steely waters, my hands are numb, and my head aches, my penis is a sturdy rudder, as ever.  I swim in full view, but to date none of the tourist buses have slowed, and none of the by-standers have cheered me on, although the black dog took my boots.  A fool stood in the off-licence, with my one boot and my two feet on my feet.  They would, finally they would take my card and the lady said – did I need a lift to my hospital?

Probably that’s what she said.  I have said how pipple talk the 18c English up here in the regional masterpiece, and I am learning fast, luvves.  Yes, I think another display swim @ 4pm.  Surf report says 10 foot for Tuesday.  Great anxiety for I shall die in the sea on Tuesday.  All the best, Alfred the Great exile, retired amateur-pro surfer, and blogger. x


See below – proper Brighton surf  @6 foot 2016

board n boat

shorts c/o Powerpaint, thank you



  • Barny
    by Barny 2 months ago
    Ha what a Shakespearian tale, how truly a sturdy rudder guided you!
  • Mat
    by Mat 2 months ago
    All best Barny :)
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