We have little to no idea what prompted this massively ambitious (check out the page numbers in the upper right hand corner of each sheet and marvel as we did) account of (alleged) darksided nautical-themed shenanigans, but someone took a break from their meds, bought all the staples and decided to fuck brevity right in the arse with an epic non-linear passive-aggressive public j'accuse, distinguished by both the breadth of its scope and the tenuousness of its literacy (yes, they go together down here too).
Abused boat builders, agendas, fathers, the Queen, cop brothers, embroidered heavyweight ratchet strops, shit on ute, world war two trucks, secret meetings... By pole three I was gagging for some sort of dense revelatory nexus but had to settle for roomers, air fairs and panicing. I almost paniced myself. And I was definitely getting a burning, bunched up sort of cheesy odour in my head.
Hell is other people. Exhibit A.
It also sounds like there's a national team. No surprises there.
And I was told that north end shed tagging stuff was about someone getting ripped off over drugs but whatever.
Okay, yes, while our baser instincts prevailed, we took pictures and nearly wet our pants over this shit, it's only funny until someone screams he's got a knife. So Portarians, if you know who spent their sunday morning venting Old Testament-styles up and down Wicky terrace, it might be time to intermediate. Just a suggestion.