notorious weasel canal

it’s a parody. you can take any number of the words and throw them in a bucket with an airwick. then it’s off down Skinnergate until a dad-faced boy squeals into a fish shop, mumbling something about a ‘press release’ and a bag of kittens lost on the lip of Yorkshire. Danny took the keys and blagged the monitor, putting tiny monkeys in the telly while a puny love child was rattling his fork in about 3 consecutive entries

anyway, cos it was late and I’d had enough of repackaging the future, I went to bed with a long face. I’m lobbing a partner over a crack tomorrow, but it’s gotta be by 11, or I’ll end up coughing over a bog-hopper and immediately sticking my wad on the 12:20 at Doncaster.


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