I dig them up from the end of the 70s and wrap them in the daily mail before transforming into a 6-legged pantomime dromedary whereupon a malapropped oaf bangs his clavicle with a crucifix and it’s 3-2. after that you try and prise open the door with a boot scraper and an elfin twig basher rolls the boden catalogue into the road and we all drop to the floor like bruised monkeys at clacton where the high tide spills over the car park like black milk. is this something that has already been discussed? I had to mention it to eugene because he is the lord god of the known world and everything must be mangled through his immense brain portal immediately like so I’m just checking. you know. they do their own thing. we do ours. except we don’t go on and on and on and on and on and on and on about how wrong yours is and how right mine is and anyway I’ve looked at your own website and it’s rubbish right? we couldn’t do the other one because our internal organs were playing musical cavities and we’d lost the knob.