As Britons finally begin to slip the surly bonds of lockdown and once again venture into the pleasures of public intoxication, I ask myself: can Train Smashdom once again rear its wonderful… errr, head?
Apparently so. And I would be remiss if I didn’t show at least a few of them.
What I like almost as much is that Stout Bulldogs were not going to let a little thing like icy temperatures or freezing rain prevent them from taking the grandchildren out for some fish ‘n chips:
Bravo, all of you. Sadly, the restrictions were eased too late for us to enjoy the Train Smash Grand Prix — a.k.a. the Grand National at Aintree:
…but there’s always next year.
When I see the phrase “Train Smash” in your postings I want to break out the hazmat suit. (The picture of Hillary this morning gave me two reasons for the full containment class A gear). Fifty years ago as a young perpetually horny sailor I would have called those pictures good liberty. Today I don’t think that there are enough antibiotics to save a guy from just walking down those streets.
All with their post-lockdown bodies.
Yet still wearing their pre-lockdown party frocks.
I’ve never seen that much loose dough outside of a bakery.
Love looking at them but couldn’t/wouldn’t even try to keep up.