naahaaahah. when you struck your spatula over the hind legs of my donkey you started an exodus from the left wing which left me cold for eight years and flipping teacakes into the channel I mulled over the crab sticks to find that inside its alright to be rubbish but when you have to spoon out cesar to mongrels in the shallow end you might as well be morris dancing on london street for all it matters. half a john bull please. that’s thirty pence. I know.
but somewhere in the gaping expanse of the eighties hugh cornwell left and we had a bottom shelf full of marzipan but little did we know it would still be on the telly when they counted down the hundred best marzipans while a wafer-thin paper boy put the guardian into 184 and knowing its the end simply makes his way to the malthouse to mash up the pavement with his little dayglo sack whereupon the pelicans begat puffins and we all strained our necks as the number 25 took out debenhams and the painted lady on the clarins counter neary blink’d an eye.