Dutch spirit

Why are the Dutch so much better than us? Not only does their capital constantly stare death in the face with one quarter of it below sea level, and they have a barge completely devoted to stray cats in the form of the good ship Poezenboot, but today I discover they're light years ahead when it comes to 'care farming' too.
Julie White, of Growing Rural Enterprise, tells me: "The Dutch have been doing it for years, they're about ten years in front of us."
The mind boggles!

A text-ual analysis

James: are you ready?!
J: BUGGER ME!
Amy: a diving catch! i trashed my trifle in my excitement
J: i don't think i'm ready for the second half! shaking
J: what's with jucinta's teeth?
A: goosebumps!
J: b! eight! get in the cuba!
J: ahahaha "the cuba" :D
A: in my hysteria i deleted your last text before even reading it :P clueless!
J: concentrate stocking! you'd never survive in the cuba!
J: nicola! ;D
A: what's with all the lumberjack shirts?!
J: they're all chopping wood - tapped!
J: national lottery!
A: rollover!
A: untouchable!
A: his lankyness is his greatest asset
J: like me!
J: so tense
J: "don't let it rattle you", wise words from the fox
J: "just that final leg!" omg, that punched me in the stomach
A: you keep quoting just as i'm in the middle of typing the same quote! fwoo trace is getting tight chested
J: tell her to take a deep breath. i've had to remove my knitwear
J: the tower's laughing at him!
A: brought him to his knees, steady on schofield!
J: did you see the body was played by... the body! :D

THE CUBE

Need a leg up?

Can you feel it? That's the sound of the underground; it trembles. The balls of your feet touch the ground as it shakes, your ankles twist as your legs break. The noise isn't broadcast. It's pissing in the wind of broadcast, like a sozzled dog tied to the stilts of a beach house. Tune in, zone out, but just don't take your eye off the leash - else a stampede of Beethoven's will invade Amsterdam and not even the good ship Poezenboot can save you then.


Leggykic

You know it makes sense.

Sacrébleu!

Recently I seem to have been listening to a lot of foreign music. All tracks have been found through decidedly British avenues, such as TV programmes like Skins, but they originate from foreign lands. I think it's the fact that I don't have a bloody clue what's being said. Without a form of lyrical meaning to latch on to, the words just become yet another instrument and layer of sound that you can interpret as you see fit. Or something.
Amy Stocking quipped that Mapaputsi's Kleva was "ghetto bhangra", a combination that is sure to intrigue, whilst Royan by the wonderfully titled Francois and the Atlas Mountains is either a fragile ode to love or the hurt it can cause; again, I'm not sure it really matters which one it is.
I don't intend to Google either of them for their literal meaning - I'd rather be lost in translation.