International Man of Misery

Say what you will about the British: they take to the rain like a new intern takes to an empty news cubicle. Just ask Paul Martin, freelance photog and waterlogged friend of the blog. When not rounding up pictures for the telly, Sir Paul can be found handing out soggy crumpets to his drunken countrymen, frolicking on the still wet lawns of Hampshire, or simply cradling his very own electronics as the liquid sunshine of an English summer rolls down the crack of his ascot! Okay, so he mostly just stands around and glowers at tourists, but with a mug like that, he ain't exactly gonna edge out any Beckhams off the cover of a tabloid, eh? Eh? Anyway, I find strength in his lack of resolve, for it reminds me that dripping skivvies and fogged-up eyepieces are a drag no matter what side of the pond you call home. Besides, closer examination reveals my continental doppelganger uses the exact same facial muscles I employ at Independence Day parades, mythical flash-floods and most any story involving crime tape and lens condensation between the months of, oh, February and November. Yes, with universal truths like this being being bandied about, it is any wonder I wanna move the Lenslinger Institute to Fleet Street? I just might, too - once I wrap my brain around the mother tongue. Speaking of which, does anyone know of a derisive broadcast term that rhymes with 'wanker'?

I got nuthin'.