Yer da sells tea towels that say As Northern As Pie, Peas and Gravy at the Makers Market.
Whilst the sweat of his toil is honourable, he has set back a cohesive northern identity a thousand years and so shall be reeducated in the East Lancashire Ego Death Zone.
After long days over the microscope conducting genealogical research, it is discovered.
My mother - a mitherer! My father - a mitherer too!
Be damned. I am composite of all their mithering and more.
Really into sitting on the curb and smoking a cigarette at the minute. Just watching the world go by. Being nice to the pigeons. Talking to some passing city slickers. They don’t get the curb at 3PM on a Thursday shtick. Their loss, I guess. Yeah, just me and the curb.
Pour into his vessel the milk of your ambition and hope for change. I will dance in the England beyond this one, wielding the shadow of his spine in triumph.
I would rather have my cock cut off and be beaten to death with it than vote for Labour under Keir Starmer. You will all be betrayed. That sweat bead skinned coward will sell you all out
In the days following my death, the discourse mostly revolved around the social connotations of me tweeting every AI creator I could find the words “die you stupid cunt”
This will lead to the interesting insane and good art never being made and the mediocre, banal, trash art continuing to rise. Your soul will burn for a hundred thousand stretches of eternity with what you hath wrought