so I’m flagging down a peasant with last night’s evening news but he’s straight past and ducking into the Black Horse for a swift Adnams while Angelique nimbles her way onto the pavement and clatters her joss sticks all over the counter at Dave’s place. he’s got the arseache cos Andy’s meandering over the 3:50 at Ripon with a catflap full of bilge and an uncontrollable mare. while everyone’s having a butchers, he pokes the lip of charlotte rampling with a pencil and blarts out some diatribe or other about lost shoe factories collecting dust in the undercroft of the Honiton embassy club.
oi, oi, oi, get off the path. its people like you that make poeple like me that are like you wish you would run over my tractor so I can chase you with a pitchfork down the alley, wailing like edward woodward in the wickerman and stabbing your indulgent rear with all the pent up rage that can be squeezed through my wormhole of injustice. you can see how intolerable you are, right? look, there’s another, 26 years old and acting like a parrot on Right Charlie, except those parrots don’t hurt when they hit your head, they just squawk a bit and flop into the nissan micra. you, on the other hand, will strike the fish stall of inconvenience and will trip over the sponge of idiocy and knock the wing mirrors off the shoe shop of petulance and will by your actions be made to sing along to eurovision for eternity, snipping pictures of kerry catona out of Now magazine and selling clacton pier to the japanese.
by way of which, I went over to the bottle bank and slipped in a vole, which caused a bit of an overflow into the garden, so I coughed up a monkey and headed back to the office, where I woke up the next morning with ainsley harriot boiling my eggs in a tiny brown bucket.
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