I think one of the principal reasons that myself and Por share an empathetic bond with one another and are therefore able to appreciate the wavelength on which we function is due to the fact that we both fucking hate everybody.
Only the other day an uncle who is known to make sporadic forays to the farm and generally instigate all kinds of chaos due to his modified car stereo which rocks the foundations of the whole fucking village and prompts a tribe of pygmies in a backwater Indonesian cave into a spontaneous conga line, graced us with his quite frankly, repulsive presence. Why on Earth one would feel it necessary to install several hundred (and that is by no means an exaggeration) speakers in their fucking vehicle is beyond me. The only rationale I'm able to deduce is that the owners of such abhorrent automobiles are in fact in the possession of an extremely woeful collection of genitalia. But hey, if I stick loads of fucking speakers in my car and an amplifier which can be heard in the Orkney Island then perhaps the birds won't notice that I've got a really small cock and a pair of bollocks which make garden peas look like fucking beach balls.
Well with the undesired appearance of this gentleman and the subsequent cacophony of whoops and whistles coupled with an earth shuddering bass line belching with gusto from his pestilent pride and joy, I was rather happy to note that Por was staring at him with a look which suggested that should the fucking radio not be turned down or preferably off in the next five seconds that a particularly violent thrashing was imminent.
Needless to say Old Small Balls immediately reached into the car and shut down the system.
Por 1
Tiny Tackle 0
My admiration for Por was stepped up a notch or two this morning whilst I was busy clearing the cobwebs of a Ya-Dong induced Slumber. Sitting on the balcony drinking a cup of weak sugary tea and smoking a cigarette (a habit which has recently been given a serious appraisal - RIP Dirty Dog) I saw that Por had already started his usual early sweeping session and had amassed an impressive amount of debris into a collection of large piles.
One silly bastard of an Auntie who tends to treat my dwellings as her own and comes and goes as she pleases, often relieving me of the occasional DVD or two, made the fundamental error of walking over one of Por's laboriously created heaps, and good Lord did she suffer the consequences.
Por, who obviously hadn't imbibed his sufficient fix of meths this morning, raised his brand new broom (the fourth fucker this month) in a threatening fashion, and basically told the thoughtless twat of an Auntie to get the fuck away from my leaves before I beat you.
The poor old trout was an uncle's penis away from getting dead - right there under the mango tree.
And Por, well Por is of course a fucking ghetto superstar.