He was the sort of man that wouldn't ask for help, even if he needed it.
He was the sort of man that wouldn't ask for help, even if he needed it.
He was the sort of man that you would steer clear from, just for good measure.
He was the sort of man whom one vote for based on their gut impression of him, rather than any rational reason under the sun.
Just as well, earphone, because he was the sort of man you wouldn't p*ss on if he was on fire.He was the sort of man that wouldn't ask for help, even if he needed it.
Last edited by Olly Buckle; March 14th, 2011 at 12:31 PM.
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A whole swathe of entertainment, all sorts of lengths, all sorts of stories, all with that 'Olly' twist.
He was the sort of man who always view things in third-person.
He was the sort of man you knew was obsequious.
He was the sort of man who would jump in the middle of a bar fight to help the underdog, even at substantial risk to himself, but who drove past stranded motorists without a second thought to helping them.
He was the sort of man who wouldn't know his arse was on fire unless someone rang a bell.
He was the sort of man who sat down between three minuets past six and eighteen minutes past seven every evening and wrote, then he made a cup of tea.
Hidden Content
A whole swathe of entertainment, all sorts of lengths, all sorts of stories, all with that 'Olly' twist.
He was the sort of man who needed to wear Mr. Grumpy socks to maintain his equilibrium.
"I think a life is a plot. It's probably the elementary plot. I came across a quotation of Patrick White, the Australian writer, just about the time I needed it. He said he never bothers with plot. He just writes about life 'limping along toward death.' That made me feel much better, to keep this in my mind."
Carol Shields.
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