Remote photo moments captured on figurative film that portray the possibility of liberated life external to the Isle of Wight.
My bountiful supply of letterbox litterings continues apace, occasionally the heap offers up enlightening alternatives to Isle of Wight oppression. From the pile I compile a compendium of heavily molested mail-based moments.
Even though I'm unable to witness the existence of life on the mainland, I'll start by assuming that it's plausible.
Even though I'm unable to witness the existence of life on the mainland, I'll start by assuming that it's plausible.
Here we see a glimpse of Billy Bragg and his young accomplice experiencing normal freedom, free from crushing imprisonment.
We see that the phone-free pair are at liberty to roam Britain, having made it to mythical Dover. They're not contained and confined on a rapidly receding island stuffed with shrinking mindsets.
To counteract the effects of the hostile prison isle, a conditioning technique is used during an island upbringing whereupon one repeats the instant brainwashing mantra 'our beautiful island and our beautiful beaches'.
We see that the phone-free pair are at liberty to roam Britain, having made it to mythical Dover. They're not contained and confined on a rapidly receding island stuffed with shrinking mindsets.
To counteract the effects of the hostile prison isle, a conditioning technique is used during an island upbringing whereupon one repeats the instant brainwashing mantra 'our beautiful island and our beautiful beaches'.
Spotted amidst a multi-faceted feature-filled holiday-home papyrus, I recognise a familiar female face.
A wailing folklore quirk, my favourite Icelandic - Björk. We witness her spritely attentive personality, we note that she is not bored, moaning or staring at a six inch screen.
Being from a frigid icy landmass, she appreciates the pampering provided by perfect Papa. There'll be no moaning, making claims of misery if it rains. She is clearly unconditioned with no need to complain.
The faultless family invested in a holiday home on the mainland, one that doesn't teeter on an unstable Isle of Wight cliff edge, propped up by tales of abundant fossils that are few and far between.
A wailing folklore quirk, my favourite Icelandic - Björk. We witness her spritely attentive personality, we note that she is not bored, moaning or staring at a six inch screen.
Being from a frigid icy landmass, she appreciates the pampering provided by perfect Papa. There'll be no moaning, making claims of misery if it rains. She is clearly unconditioned with no need to complain.
The faultless family invested in a holiday home on the mainland, one that doesn't teeter on an unstable Isle of Wight cliff edge, propped up by tales of abundant fossils that are few and far between.
We all love to see sprogs on scooters, the frivolity of foot-powered propulsion. Now there's the new marauding electric variety, faster than a responsible motorist, fuelled by rare elements from crumbled countries.
When on the Isle of Wight, if one can't afford the obligatory pimped-up re-sprayed VW Transporter, complete with wide wheels and built-in burger barbeque, one gets menacing on the junky's jalopy.
Jolly Beryl is clearly purity personified, but in a dubious locale the e-scooter is the new way to have your 'E's delivered with ease, favourably for the rascals there's a shortage of Police.
When on the Isle of Wight, if one can't afford the obligatory pimped-up re-sprayed VW Transporter, complete with wide wheels and built-in burger barbeque, one gets menacing on the junky's jalopy.
Jolly Beryl is clearly purity personified, but in a dubious locale the e-scooter is the new way to have your 'E's delivered with ease, favourably for the rascals there's a shortage of Police.
As we've learned, cannabis is legal on the 'special isle'. I've actually witnessed stoners approached by the rare island Police for toking dope in the open, the slurring wrecks escaped the limp arm of the law just by saying 'Och, don't gimme a hard time, we're from Scotland', it worked a treat.
I'm led to believe that the Isle of Wight is a drug importation hub for Britain, our ferry services unknowingly shipping suitcases of psychotropic shit.
The 'Wight' is perceived to be a quaint holiday destination. It's actually run by freemasons and satanists, time to reel off the protective 'beautiful beaches' mantra.
I'm led to believe that the Isle of Wight is a drug importation hub for Britain, our ferry services unknowingly shipping suitcases of psychotropic shit.
The 'Wight' is perceived to be a quaint holiday destination. It's actually run by freemasons and satanists, time to reel off the protective 'beautiful beaches' mantra.
I plowed through the proverbial pile of pamphlets and happened upon the ever-youthful Rick Moranis from Ghostbusters 2, in his new non-nerdy pharmaceutical Co-op career. He was snapped startled at the horror of having to deliver on the 'isle', fearful of stepping onto tribal territories, enduring the blank stares of conditioned types and dodging the dangerous dogs.
Bearing in mind that he became the Key-master of Gozer in the 1989 cult-classic sequel, it is concerning that he will deliver plain-packaged parcels of narcotics to vulnerable patient's portals.
If he can unlock the lust of the tempestuous Gate-keeping temptress and the doorway to the demonic lair, a fastened front entrance will be easy fodder for this sly fox.
I often peruse my window views and almost always witness pavement people guided by gadgets. I have personally proven the possibility of walking without gawping at a phone, but modern people have become dehumanised dunces that can't function without data input, even passing couples both stare at screens.
We see a moment when a senior couple can afford to escape the 'isle' on the exorbitant ferry, affordable to the final stragglers receiving lucrative state pensions.
Unless the directionless stone-spotter is locating the nearest boozer, the halfwit commits a decency offence at the Henge. His serene scenery fails to prevent the plonker poking his phone.
We see a moment when a senior couple can afford to escape the 'isle' on the exorbitant ferry, affordable to the final stragglers receiving lucrative state pensions.
Unless the directionless stone-spotter is locating the nearest boozer, the halfwit commits a decency offence at the Henge. His serene scenery fails to prevent the plonker poking his phone.
Here we feast upon a moment of intense intrusion that could be mistaken for Isle of Wight tribalism, but further analysis shows that they both look friendly. Mummy is not rough as hell with green tattoos ascending her neck, and the pair haven't instinctively fried themselves in the nuclear island Sunshine.
Mollycoddling Mummy not only provides fodder for the daughter, but has to note every nuance of its consumption.
This is just ridiculous. The bogged-out baby's burger is reminiscent of the spine chilling 'So emotional' by Whitney Houston lyric - 'When you talk, I just watch your mouth'.
Mollycoddling Mummy not only provides fodder for the daughter, but has to note every nuance of its consumption.
This is just ridiculous. The bogged-out baby's burger is reminiscent of the spine chilling 'So emotional' by Whitney Houston lyric - 'When you talk, I just watch your mouth'.
Finally, it's feasible to witness mainland mankind having a conducive cruise.
Isle of Wight man has stumpy legs in 'whatever the weather' shorts, a full head of badger-like bristles and eyeballs that are closer together than usual.
Isle of Wight woe-man is angry and tribal with trashy teal tattoos on the family tit and the hard shoulder. She might look tolerable, but if you're not funny or in her family - she'll hate you.
Both varieties love to fry their flesh in a thermal-dermal frenzy, piss around on a paddle-board and obsessively bang-on about family.
Akin to the function of an electronic 'AND logic gate', the indigenous folk see the searing sunshine, know it feels so right - then do the special island dance.
A prudent fellow learns to avoid folk with these initially visible characteristics, interaction will inevitably unleash the lairy island mentality.
Isle of Wight man has stumpy legs in 'whatever the weather' shorts, a full head of badger-like bristles and eyeballs that are closer together than usual.
Isle of Wight woe-man is angry and tribal with trashy teal tattoos on the family tit and the hard shoulder. She might look tolerable, but if you're not funny or in her family - she'll hate you.
Both varieties love to fry their flesh in a thermal-dermal frenzy, piss around on a paddle-board and obsessively bang-on about family.
Akin to the function of an electronic 'AND logic gate', the indigenous folk see the searing sunshine, know it feels so right - then do the special island dance.
A prudent fellow learns to avoid folk with these initially visible characteristics, interaction will inevitably unleash the lairy island mentality.