As I took to the perilous footways of The Crags of Cuntflipe just recently, I found myself awash with feelings of precise impunity.
For too too long I had sat at home with my pets, the bold cat, Jasper and the mirth fuelled dog, Argos, and contemplated my role in the fall of the pastime of stumbling over fen and hill. Perhaps, thought I, my extreme and militant views regarding the right to every Man and Woman to traverse o'er stile with style had brought some public mistrust to the pasttime.
Yet as I strolled among the thicket and bramble with my beard proud, my gait erect and my chaffer polished, I felt a wave of what could only be described as devine clarity.
The Anarchist Rambling movement must be steppped up!
It must be washed upon the shore of ignorance and disdain.
I must yank men in their motorcars and heavy haulage lorries and get them to acknowledge the beauty of a Wild Spunkflower at crimson dusk. I must march into every woman's typist school and etiquette and posture class, grab them by hair and tit and show them the unequalled delight of inhaling the victorious odour of the first sheep dip of Spring.
Yes. I must prevail.
Out of the ashes rises the phoenix of the militant rambling cause.
I marched down The Crags of Cuntflipe with a song in my heart and a salty taste of climax in my mouth.
We shall prevail, brothers and sisters in rambling.
Yes.
Yes.
Yes.
