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And this is Hughie on holidays. There’s a consistency in these dispatches, city-centre, forest-green, or windswept Atlantic seaboard. Nevertheless, he is funny, it seems to me, and makes some terrific hits on some worthy targets . . .

Letters to Lucy

Windrush House,
22nd July, 2013

I have spent the past week settling into my newly placid surroundings.  I am back in the countryside of my youth, which sounds very romantic, except that I hated my ‘youth’ and this countryside makes me think of rutting hogs trapped and copulating in a sewer.  How I detest the ‘idyllic’ noise of cows occasionally lowing.   And what’s worse, their moronic human peers, the frothing hicks with whom I went to school, with their stupid little toy JCBs now become even stupider life-size JCBs in which they happily bounce from field to barn and back to field again, smelling of silage, grimacing vacantly out at a bleak, familiar, world, to which however they haven’t the brain-power to think of any alternative.  The idiots.  Even those who haven’t seeped back into the life of their ‘ould fella’s farm’ haven’t been able to escape the stasis of…

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