The Word Cloud

I've put all the pics of Clouders who will be at York at the weekend on to an A4 page, plus the names of the other attendees with no pics. I'm hoping it will help in the recognition process. Trouble is you can't upload a Word page to the Cloud. So, if anyone wants a copy, you can access it in Googledocs, at this link:
https://docs.google.com/fileview?id=0B0BOimhKuoL5MWExYTQxZmItOGYzZi00NWE4LWJmOTktNzJhOWExMGM4ZmE4&hl=en_GB

You can print it out if you click on the blue 'print' immediately above the page and then select File/print as usual, in the new window that opens.
see you there, everyone.

I've got a bit of a break coming up. This day fortnight I'll be unpacking in Vegas, halfway up the Stratosphere. Not sure, though, if I'll risk the world's highest rolercoaster that overhangs the roof of said resort. I'll be taking in a few shows and a multitude of sights before flying on to San Antonio to pay hommage to Davy Crocket, Jim Bowey and all the lads who defended the famous Alamo for 30 days and held back Generalisimo Santa Anna long enough for the Texans to  get their act together and win independence for the lone-star state.

Then it's on by Greyhound all the way across to Houston where I'm booked to do the behind-the-scenes tour of the Space Centre including lunch in the astronauts' restaurant  - Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters for two, please.

Next, I catch the Amtrak and run all the rest of the way through Texas and on into Louisiana, destination New Orleans, for the run up to Mardi Gras. Then it's fly home again. Should be fun.

The point in saying all this is to ask if any of you nice Yankee Cloudsters hale from Las Vegas, San Antonio, Houston or New Orleans and would like to meet up and say Hi.

Maybe see you soon.

I start with two lines and everyone adds two lines, and only two, and we'll see where we end up.

A summers day in deep December
The blind man looks up at the moon
While his sight has already left him, many years before
He can sense the magical essence of it's presence   (Chandy)
And his senses are alive with expectation.
It's almost as if he could hear it.    (Edwina)
The sound of the stars,
Dancing around Mars.    (JAK)
As a wolf howling on the edge of a sparse grassland,
Warning, yearning, hungry for what he cannot have      (Tony)

But what brushes his cheek?
Should he turn, should he speak?    (SecretSpi)
Was it just a cobweb, a thread of filigree lace
Or human touch of softness, the hint of an embrace      (Mockingbird)
The chilled fur, a realisation,
The wolf's tail, a gentle sensation     (Barb)
A secret spin, hesitation
dwindling spirits, lost in recogonition     (CJ)

WARNING:  PLEASE DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE OF A NERVOUS DISPOSITION 

There cannot be many who have not at some point in their lives, pondered wistfully on the perfection of an Irishman’s legs.  Even the dullest imagination must have dreamed of those sturdy pins, new-waxed and lightly tanned, mincing down O’Connell Street or dancing light-heartedly across the Half-Penny Bridge.

Nor will the flight of fancy stop there.  Why, do we not sniff the delightful aroma of fresh-ground coffee, newly baked bread in the air?  Still the perfect pins march onwards, unimpeded by denim, corduroy or even a hint of wool-blend.  No, no!  The Irishman of fond imagination wears no trouser to shroud those lengthy magnificences, but instead the skimpiest of mini-skirts, his silk-encased legs melting into feet shod in the finest red-patent stilettos a diligent search of the web can provide.

 

It is difficult to picture an Englishman similarly attired.  His pasty, flabby limbs are without style or sense of purpose.  The legs of the Welshman likewise, leave little to be desired, hidden beneath rough jeans, a suspicion of bandiness never far away.  All those centuries struggling under the earth to win the black gold has done them no favours.  We will not dwell on Welshmen’s legs.

 

But what, I hear you cry, of the Scotsman?  Surely they are possessed of well-known legs, brawny and often on display!   That is true.  But there comes with this age-old flaunting, a certain weariness in the eye of the beholder.  These macho-appendages have about them a school-boy, knee-socked, brogue-wearing quality that renders them strangely asexual.  They are not so much legs as symbols of Scottish-ness.  Even when a pair of quaintly laced dancing pumps are donned, the great hairy legs hold no charm.

 

Similarly, across Europe, we find nothing but a wasteland of dreariness.  Who can imagine the swarthy Spaniard or the Italian making an appointment in the beauty salon for a quick wax?  The Spaniard too lazy to bother, the Italian in danger of fainting at the first pull by the practitioner on duty.  The Portuguese, Greeks and the French are also noted for slovenliness in this area; and although Frenchmen are sometimes revealed to have pretty light-brown legs, the effect is invariably spoiled by quantities of dark hair.

 

As we progress into Germany and Austria, the wearing of leather hot-pants should herald a change of attitude.  But no, again we are confronted with huge quantities of gross flesh, covered in frizzy fair hair that the owners refuse to part with.

In Sweden they may go without clothes under the mid-night sun, but rarely without leg-hair.  It is of little use them donning 10” stilettos and mankinis when the effect is spoiled by a refusal to wax.  The Finns commit exactly the same offence and are generally so obsessed with motor sport that their brains cannot take anything else on board;  it is also difficult to imagine the Dane giving up one second of guzzling lager or stuffing bacon in the interests of his appearance! 

Similarly, the Benelux countries are without shame when it comes to personal beautification.  The Dutch pass their time in a drug-hazed stupor while the Belgians are far too busy concocting rules for the rest of us to follow to pay any attention to the rules of beauty, even less the line of same.  The personal habits of the men of Luxembourg are better not spoken of at all in a place like the Word Cloud.

 

Moving on, we need not trouble ourselves with the newer EU countries, where leg-hair is seen almost as a badge of masculinity, or any other regions you may think I am unaware of.  I am perfectly aware of these ultra-macho enclaves, and the less said about them the better.

 

So let us return again to Ireland – or Eire to be more precise.  (The northern section has no great record on male-leg-loveliness, indeed they are probably best placed firmly within the dis-United Kingdom in this instance) 

 

But Eire, oh Eire!

 

Eire is the one land I know where men with splendid legs may show. 

And Dublin, or all Ireland, the place for men who Understand.  The boys there do all they ought, the men observe the Rules of Thought. 

They love stilettos, worship fishnet’s simple truth!  And when they get to feeling old, they switch to plastic boots, I’m told.

Ah, God to see the trannies stir across the bridge in lovely Eire!

To smell the thrilling sweet and hot, unforgettable, unforgot, fresh bread smell!  And hear the coffee cups all a-stir … let us go there, let us go there!

 

Alas, it is not given for everyone to be granted his wish.  But we can all secretly dream.  Dream of lovely Eire and it’s lovely-legged men.

 

There is no doubt in my mind that the men of Ireland are indeed possessed of the finest legs in all of the EU.  I shall be petitioning my MEP to see if something can’t be done to recognise this fact.  A Irish Male Leg Day would be most fitting.  If you agree, please lobby you own member and let’s get this thing on the road.