This enigmatic window display was one of many examples of Llandudno going pretty fuckadoodledoo on my last trip there.
Also of particular note was the public address system outside the amusement arcade pumping out a constant stream of 80s hits like 'I Want to Know What Love Is' by Foreigner. I don't know how to explain why that was trippy but it certainly was. Perhaps it was something to do with visual stuff like this making me feel like I'd been beamed into a Surrealist painting for the night.
Lyrics: ©Raymonde Toulouse, 2025
I do worry about Uncle Monty. Did a few mushrooms at his hunting lodge last year and now he thinks he's fakkin' Cernunnos, the Horned One, Lord of the Wild Things. Don't know how his bird puts up with it myself.
Really loving what these housing developments in Wakefield are doing to my head. Makes me want to become an estate agent.
Psychedelic jogging is certainly bracing and very good for the constitution, but the woodland spirits I keep passing seem such a solemn bunch. Wonder what's eating them.
Mike Oldfield endlessly multitracking his pleasant and inoffensive noodling may seem innocuous enough, but it's altering the very fabric of space-time.
Here's what Hubble's been picking up.
New levels of fucking fuckedness from the hunting, shooting and fishing crowd.
Bauble from a set of Noel Edmonds themed Christmas decorations. To know that these only exist in my mind at present may bring you a sense of relief, but to exist in a mind is to nevertheless exist. Bad trip hell personified.