Niall O'Sullivan

high brow, low brow, none of that stuff in the middle


Posted on | December 3, 2017 | No Comments

It’s a pissy drizzle out there, that’s for sure. Who enjoys walking in drizzle? Mist is great, sudden downpours even better, but drizzle? Drizzle offers nothing but its needling inoffensiveness. A death from a thousand “buts”. Sure, all those gallant celebs were able to absorb the sudden shock of a bucket of ice but would they have done the same if it meant someone repeatedly spraying the same amount from a small nozzle over a number of hours? The only poets that write positively about drizzle are those Irish pastoral types who teach creative writing in California. The ones whose lips tremble at the thought of the nobility of other peoples’ suffering. Imagine if some demon faery cursed you to suffer a sudden drop in urinary pressure and you had to spend the best part of an hour drizzling out your excess bodily fluid? You’d piss out your sanity and elan vital before the ordeal ended. Even the word’s sound is an analogue for disappointment, a wet squib when rhymed with the cocktail sparklers of “sizzle” and “fo’ shizzle”. Still, the cupboards are bare and the big shops close early on Sunday. Faithful trilby and winter coat, deliver me from precipi-hesitation. I may be some time.


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