Run. Flee. Fuck off. Vanish from my presence and take the foul stench of your sordid secret with you.
St John had always been a fan of the RS Turbo, mainly due to the colour coded rear spoiler and air vents in the bonnet, which distinguished it from the more common and less powerful XR3i.
Had the facial plumage been of a paler hue it would have looked like a pile of horse crap on a winter’s day.
Beetroot Cossins had moved to Kuala Lumpur where she had died of lethargy and pie.
Her protestations were drowned out by the sound of Gordon Honeycomb barfing up aftershock into the kitchenette sink.
I once went to one of his Virgin Vie parties and had a really good time watching Chas having a paddy whilst trying to put on Dave’s socks, before realising that he only had two feet, compared to Dave’s three.
There was Arctic John, a businessman from Salisbury who doesn’t hold water, Bruce Knott, a social worker from Cumberland who spends his lunch hour picking his bum, and Judith Glycerine, the reformation pig.
Private Benjamin lives next door but one to Bob Cryer from The Bill. I once saw him crouching down behind a sycamore tree and using his nose as an Allen Key to release a starving rat.
You little prick. It’s a whelk…it’s a…it’s a…dead whelk!
A huge meringue with polio who drives everywhere in a beautifully restored Hillman Imp.
The Macedonian Endeavour Channel was screening live coverage of the world series of the Who’s Got the Stupidest Name (WGSN) competition. First prize had already gone to Brian Burdock, a French Algerian with a penchant for Longchamp.