When I was around eleven years-old, I and a few friends used to visit a group of young folk that were into 'train-spotting'.
These teenagers were the sort that never got into trouble and spent most of their free time waiting on a countryside railway bridge,
hoping a locomotive was pass them by with a number on its side that they hadn't collected yet.
In their specially-purchased books, they had hundreds of digits with strange symbols marked beside them, a secret code -if you
will, for their eyes only. The book came with a ballpoint pen and a small plastic ruler for underlining their diesel-coughing victories
and with a diligence unusual for kids, they sat and waited for the next train to come.
For me and my friends, it was a hobby that alluded us as we preferred to climb trees, steal from orchards and enjoy the youngest
of this unwashed gang (me) reciting from a different kind of hobby-bible from those dreaming of an new thundering 'iron-horse'
passing beneath that bridge.
As the older boys gorged themselves on unripe apples -whilst slumped in the trees that gave them the fruit or clambered a large elm
to feel the wind on their faces and ponder if the bedroom of a female classmate can be viewed, I tracked my finger along with the words
of Richard Allen's paperbacks that held titles such as 'Skinhead, Skinhead Escapes and Suedehead'.
A trio of delineated pubescent weltschmerz.... and yes, the chapters regarding sexual intercourse were well-thumbed.
![[Image: attachment.php?aid=5426]](http://rogue-nation3.com/attachment.php?aid=5426)
One day -for entertainment purposes and to bring a hint of culture to the passing commuters in the railed-vehicles that held such a
fascination for those above the bridge, we 'borrowed' a tin of out-of-date paint off a shelf in my father's dilapidated coal-house and
beneath that same viaduct, we endeavoured to be artists.
Oh it was large and standing back on the rough track ballast, we admired our work until the throbbing of the diesel engine warned us
to return to the area where 'graffiti-penises' were frowned upon and labelled puerile vandalism.
But how we giggled as we climbed back up that overgrown embankment.
............................
I turned 58 last year and when the weather was warm, I took a stroll along that country lane to where the bridge spans the now-electrified
main-line tracks. Many of those who I called friends are either dead or walk with a booze-fuelled gait and a mind where memories are only
categorised in order to give a listener the impression that seriousness was always a priority.
They suffer with a different oldness, a malady that tastes as bitter as those long-ago apples and smells like the damp pages of a forgotten
paperback.
But... If you carefully lean over the metal fencing and ignore the pressure of on your well-fed stomach, the daubed rendering of an erect
Johnson is still there. Still there and time missed it.
............................
There's a posting about a Roman Centurion who scrawled a schlong on Hadrian's Wall and I giggled.
Now, I'm giggling again. You see, time missed the soldier's graffiti, it missed ours and now it seems, it did it again!
............................
These teenagers were the sort that never got into trouble and spent most of their free time waiting on a countryside railway bridge,
hoping a locomotive was pass them by with a number on its side that they hadn't collected yet.
In their specially-purchased books, they had hundreds of digits with strange symbols marked beside them, a secret code -if you
will, for their eyes only. The book came with a ballpoint pen and a small plastic ruler for underlining their diesel-coughing victories
and with a diligence unusual for kids, they sat and waited for the next train to come.
For me and my friends, it was a hobby that alluded us as we preferred to climb trees, steal from orchards and enjoy the youngest
of this unwashed gang (me) reciting from a different kind of hobby-bible from those dreaming of an new thundering 'iron-horse'
passing beneath that bridge.
As the older boys gorged themselves on unripe apples -whilst slumped in the trees that gave them the fruit or clambered a large elm
to feel the wind on their faces and ponder if the bedroom of a female classmate can be viewed, I tracked my finger along with the words
of Richard Allen's paperbacks that held titles such as 'Skinhead, Skinhead Escapes and Suedehead'.
A trio of delineated pubescent weltschmerz.... and yes, the chapters regarding sexual intercourse were well-thumbed.
One day -for entertainment purposes and to bring a hint of culture to the passing commuters in the railed-vehicles that held such a
fascination for those above the bridge, we 'borrowed' a tin of out-of-date paint off a shelf in my father's dilapidated coal-house and
beneath that same viaduct, we endeavoured to be artists.
Oh it was large and standing back on the rough track ballast, we admired our work until the throbbing of the diesel engine warned us
to return to the area where 'graffiti-penises' were frowned upon and labelled puerile vandalism.
But how we giggled as we climbed back up that overgrown embankment.
............................
I turned 58 last year and when the weather was warm, I took a stroll along that country lane to where the bridge spans the now-electrified
main-line tracks. Many of those who I called friends are either dead or walk with a booze-fuelled gait and a mind where memories are only
categorised in order to give a listener the impression that seriousness was always a priority.
They suffer with a different oldness, a malady that tastes as bitter as those long-ago apples and smells like the damp pages of a forgotten
paperback.
But... If you carefully lean over the metal fencing and ignore the pressure of on your well-fed stomach, the daubed rendering of an erect
Johnson is still there. Still there and time missed it.
............................
There's a posting about a Roman Centurion who scrawled a schlong on Hadrian's Wall and I giggled.
Now, I'm giggling again. You see, time missed the soldier's graffiti, it missed ours and now it seems, it did it again!
............................
Quote:BUCKINGHAM PHALLUSSOURCE:
Storm blows off board and reveals glue in the shape of a willy on retirement flats in Prince Charles’ village
'A bawdy secret is exposed at retirement flats in Prince Charles’ designer village.
A fascia board blew off Bowes Lyon Court -named after the Queen Mother and modelled on Buckingham Palace -to reveal glue had
been applied in the shape of a willy in Poundbury, Dorset.
The complex, built in 2016 by builders McCarthy & Stone is alongside the Duchess of Cornwall pub which is named after Camilla
Parker Bowles and close to a statue of the Queen Mother.
A spokesman for McCarthy & Stone apologised for the Crown Jewells stunt.
The fascia covering the phallus was dislodged when 70mph winds battered Dorset and the south coast of England.
A large section of moulding can still be seen lying on the pavement in front of the three-storey building.
Prince Charles created Poundbury as a mix of private and affordable housing mixed with boutique shops, places of work and
services such as a school and medical centre...'
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.
