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Saturday, 27 May 2017

In which One melts...

The acrid stench of molten lard filled the air...

Yes. One sat in the sun yesterday, ackled up in a massive Sainsburys vest and some ghastly jogging bottoms melting like a giant stuck pig.

As the sun made it's way behind the gas works I fired up the disposable barbeque and flung on the Asda Smart Price snorkers and waited for them to char.

Twas an evening of song and sophistication with the Ancient Mariner hollering sea shanties and sucking a snorker or two.

After he'd been collected by his nurse and deposited back to the secure unit, I repaired to the galley to swab the decks.

Tell me, Dear Reader, how do persons of the male persuasion make such an unholy fecking mess merely during the undertaking of construction of a cup of tea.

A dribble of tea marked out the progress of the teabag to the bin, in the manner of the drips around the bog of the perambulation of the plonker to the pan.

To be fair, he had made an effort to wash up before departure, but in the manner of BFP, had simply dipped the used items in the washing up water and left them on the draining board to await a re-wash by the lady of the house.

Whilst penning today's missive I'm indulging in The Real Housewives of Cheshire and it's given me an idea...

'The Real Housewives of Wivey' We all sit around, smoking rollies, picking our feet and wishing that we'd got a cat instead.


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