Sucking sock holes in the Outer Hebrides

I love the countryside; the aïr, the grëën.

My best ambiance is the humid fresh, and I like the wooden huts with slight aka subtle filigree, like the filigrees of frosting on a cake, or any kind of superfluous ornament, keeping yet its rustic nature.

When the Yellow Submarine was out of order, the Beatles took it towards Caledonia in a plane of British Caledonia.

Now it is there, the poor thing: accumulating rust on the verdant shores of the Outer Hebrides.

What what the fuck I'm what the fuck I'm telliiiing?!?!?

Look:

Paul McCartney, that is a dick; wanted to keep the submarine for himself for the eons of the eons: not satisfied with a transatlantic, 19 helichopters, 13 Learjets, and a flotilla of Scania Vavis, the glanshead wanted to own the Yellow Submarine, as well.

You know how the greed is: a sickness, a disease that possesses an' possesses the human soul.

It can even possess the human David Soul.

So McCartney, that cockface, went to Scotland in one of his Learjets, and concealed the sucmarine from any hüman and -even- animal eye.

His truant's mind planned to remove the rust with sandpaper and Coca-Cola, and transport it to his castle in Cucumberheat-les-Paul, and repair it for his personal use.

The situation and the external factors were on his side: George and John are dead; Julian Lennon, after "Valot", didn't dare to venture outdoors aymore; Sean Lennon converted to the Revolutionary-Messianic-Apocalyptic-Jewish-Islamism, and he's in reclusion in a monastery of Rarotonga since 2000, and Yoko Ono can't find her own butt, much less thinking about a sudmarine.

Finally McCartney decided to leave the submarine to be repaired there, in the Outer Hebrides, in a bizarre amphibious hangar that he ordered to build.

You see: a piece of history of the R&R, a common relic of the Beetles, and even their fans, who still deem McCartney a "saint", the "handsome" of the band: fuck off, you idiots.

Moral for this story: absolutely none.

Current submarine's status: awaiting repair, held by an old guy that McCartney left there, and that has to sleep covered only with a pile of socks full of holes, in the crude Outer Hebrides nights.

McCartney promised to build a hut, wooden and with delicate filigrees for this guy to dwell there in the frozen nights of January, but he never kept his word, and you kno' what? This guy that Paul left keeping the submarine, it's me; yeah: me: Ian Angus Mantecon-Clemas; and McCartney, a trillionaire rock star, left me alone here!

Mc Cartney, this SOB, this whoreson; this real babyface condomhead and his polite humour, all a fecal pile of laputamadrequeteremilparió.

Well.