“msssmSm ssm MSmm” was the reply!
Or so shall it be from the 25th July.
Make your f”*^ing mind up!
I shall learn to sign, and like learning any language, you know precisely the words you always learn first. I could have had 5 months to hone my signing, but no, it’s like the Okey Cokey… In, out, in, out shake it all about!
Hancock has had his half hour.
Put a sock in it! It is like a rubber mask, a form of facial covering, like handcuffs, our hands tied behind our backs, like… you get my drift!
After being in suspended animation for months, never knowing what the safe word, Boris has got us tied up in Shibari.
All you can do is hop, when you have both hands and one leg tied behind your back. Time for a Diamond Futomomo, don’t ask me how I know!
Travelling on the tube is like a Schwarzenegger movie. The announcements could have been lifted from Total Recall or Bladerunner.
It is now a legal requirement to wear a facial covering whilst travelling on TFL, punishment for failure to comply, will mean expulsion to a colony beyond the Tannhauser Gate, or Tottenham Hale.” Well, it might be better run than here!
And Boris wants to move our mistress of all Parliaments to York. Piffle. Look how well that has gone in the past! Since this winter of our discontent, has been made glorious by this sun of York. No wonder as in Titulus Regius Richard Duke of York became the rightful heir… sound familiar? No sweat!
They’ve fought off the Vikings, the Romans and Lancastrians, yet worse is to come, next it will be ‘The SPADS’. With their middle-class estuary accents, they will further pollute the regional accents of the north, which are apparently becoming more and more intertwined and indistinguishable. No longer just red or white, but every shade of pink in between.
A little levity…
Can someone help Perseus?
No, I am serious. He has lost his Bull Whip. Yes, I know, who’d have guessed?
He asked me if he’d left it here! What kind of establishment do you think this is?
Think, Samson and his locks, Thor and his hammer, Rod Hull and Emu! He’ll hate me for this, but around him I have the effect of a truth serum, with a little Pluteus thrown in for good measure.
Which is probably why his memory is so poor.
I can but imagine him, a la Putin, naked to the waist cracking it like Indiana Jones. A skill he informs me he did not learn; by all accounts, by which I mean hearsay, he was a natural.
I asked him playfully it he’d left it in the Temple of Doom. He pursed his lips, tossed his head to one side and fixed me with a look that would crush a grape.
Camp? I have to remind him to stop putting his hand on his hip. Only because he asked me to, it was his suggestion, for anyone who think I might be being a little unkind!
I can feel the bile rising, he will be in tomorrow to dispense vitriol. Lockdown has been the vessel through which he channels himself.
So, it’s half empty is it?
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