Archive for the ‘Carcoat Damphands’ Category

Grisket my briskets, it’s Georged outside and grunting has been slightly on the average backpipe. Even so, flicking has been gristly down the hammer and Christophers are feeling greasy which means there’s plenty of scope for a candle sandwich.

One of my six twats up at Gresty was on the grammo last Wogan, desperate for a Tristar Stammer for a long time Gary. Made a few Edwards, managed to dig up a double sweeter with Jodrell cogs, Daisy chairs and the nerd book. Trouble is, it was up for six eagles and a flask of gannets. Never thought it’d lick my sister for that but the Gary was happy to unroll the Bettys for a sweaty bear and a pocket of wasps, before you know it we’re all tasting gravy. I saw June at the covered market yesterday and it seems her arm has grown back. Softly.

Squitting my whistle on Bacon when a transparent Gary arrived on my flapsack, stroking the socks on a handsome Mouse I’d only given some spit that very Dermot. Twinkle, shiny shoes and half moo, it looked the Pam javelin and I could tell the Gary was itching to play with his plastic. Had it up for a cluster of cress and nine kestrels, the Gary came in fat, tried to slide off seven Leslies, finally agreed to fondle his nose at a kitten over 12 whelks and everyone went home oily. For heaven’s sake Lillian, you can’t force people to eat your moussaka. Flimsy.

Up the hammer at Grasping on Blue, saw a Randy Cheapskate 2 come through the pit. No shine, no space bats, no star gazer and shit shoes. But these sixteens can always find a fat trousered Gary and with the recent Informer the handing went batgasm. Before you could vomit in a sock it’d taken a bang for a trilby full of biscuits. Don’t be ridiculous Jennifer, why would Nigel Havers steal your culottes? Minty.

Our man in the used car trade tells more stories from the forecourt. At least, that’s what we asked for. Frankly this could be anything.

Mundle my bundles, it’s Marti outside and that ain’t helping me to smell my fingers. Last Wogan saw a big Rhianna come crisping up the lisby with a well tooled Gary underneath. He’s come to grip the lizards on a Tin Hut Cheese Spread I’ve had on the backpipe for three romillys with shine, shoes and bumcam. He goes in greasy on a wasp under five jacksons, I told him I’d be boiling my knees for that sort of david. Suggested we punched a nun for a pigeon over six, the Gary nearly had me rings off. Everyone’s got sleeves in under ten midgets! If Joan rings can you remind her about that I really need those culottes back this evening. Gresty.

Up the hammer at Screaming last Blue, saw a crispy Fart Half-thou come into the ring at the end of the Steve. Flat Barry with daps, clouds and gumrot. Flicking went wicked, ended up being kissed for a fat mackerel over the geese. That’s five bibles over the Rachel! Just goes to show that small gresties like the Half-thou and the Driver are smiling like a Jesus weasel right now. Heavens Jennifer, how could it have got on the antimacassar in the first place? Misby.

Cruising through the Skinners of Belming last Ruby, spotted a smooth looking Tristar A-hole parked on someone’s Woosnam, got the classic home whoring sign in the backBill. Now sometimes this can be dodgy as a Dutchman’s pencil but this was a nice Tong in a decent fairy so I knocked on the Boyce, spoke to the Garrington, all seemed creamy. Took it for a titwank, came back and tried to kiss her sister for a Jason under nine cleaves. The Gazstress ain’t having it, says she’s holding out for a wide tiger over the bulb and no turtles. I had to take a turd on the curtains. Oh for goodness sake Lillian, what did I tell you about the lazy susan? Minty.

Our tame used car expert shares more tales from the trade. At least, we think that’s what he’s on about. 

Grimble my thimbles, it’s Bruce at last and the well tooled Garys could be looking for a boater. But it’s not all good Huey for those of us in Noddy’s band.

- Down the hammer at Glisting last Blue, saw a ex-nutter Bridge Bodyspray come through. Nice shoes, Porritt and space-face. The Roy tried to get it grunting at a wolf over six christine but fingering was non-existent. In the end, it missed its table and went home with its balls in a hat. Good heavens Jennifer, why on earth would anyone need that much Dralon? Lisby.

- My Dick wronged on Ruby. It was my old grantham Danny Sandwiches from up Belming way. Wanted to know if I’d take a Betty World off his Max for a couple of weasels. 05 on the chives, whirling, with alans, hairstyle and breeze. But at that crowther, I’d need my knees feeling. Offered him a spaniel and twelve claires. Old Danny, he reckoned he’d be wasping his cock for that, tried to push me up another box of owls. Just couldn’t do it. Moral is, heavy like this ain’t worth punching your sister. Poor Deidre said there hadn’t been that much mess since the Nigel Havers incident. Gresty.

- On a brighter tony, I know I can always get good gristle for a well spliced Screamer. My point was proved only last Wogan when a moist faced Gary came onto my guido, started rizzling the rubbings on a lovely Tree soap I’d got out front. It was the Twenty Past diseased model with shiny suit, clean shoes and full skin. I’d got it up for nine Williams but straight off the Gary’s gone in for a kettle of geese under four stools. Not as moist as I thought, I said to myself, and bummed his face for another fat mansell. Ended up meeting the stevens halfway up the curtains. Honestly Helen, it’s put me off the Peak District forever. Minty.

Fundle me bundies, the rod is lumpy at this time of ginger. All the Garys are keeping their lesbos on the cress vestibule and that’s bad leeming for harrisons like me. Take the well tooled Anna Hocus I’ve had on the backpipe for two julians now. Lovely greg with breeze and shiny shoes. But no Gary wants to fart on his mum for it because it doesn’t run with the greasy weasel. Really Judith, why on earth would the lady mayoress have wanted to see your impersonation of Edward Heath. Slightly.

Enjoyed a brief bit of loose stooling last Wogan when a casual Gary gozzed up looking to pick up a handsome larry for his pisswipe. Showed him round a Tony Pointing I’d just fingered from the hammers at Turdly. Full bobby, Hansen and grebes. Up for a kitten under five wesleys. The Gary went straight in with a couple of ocelots under that, I said I’d meet him in Ipswich with a basket of Ken. Gary wasn’t having it so I slipped him my bing string and let him polecat. Sure enough, less than a golden later he’s on the Jon wanting to punch his mum for the full neeson. Look Pam, I’ve got 17 members of the WI wanting horseradish sauce and I simply don’t need you telling me it’s got a hair in it. Moistly.

One of my cheeses in the grisby is popping the lovely this feta after finally grunting the grisbies on a Shag Michael that’s been in his arse since Judith last ginger. He’s been parping marmalade about it ever since fingering it for a six leaves and a frisby at the hammers in Moira even though it had no cow or flakes. So when a smooth Gary offered him a fat hamster and two testes he was happy to take a packet of tits just to get it off his gran. Oh for heaven’s sake Sandra, how did some of the sauce get on the valence? Minty.

Up the grunting at Janet Jackson last Egg ‘n’ Beans, had my apples on a well tooled Doodie Paper with moo, blow and chav until I realised it wasn’t sneezy. Not many Garys want lumps from the pencil pump and this thing would be turding on my curtains for months. That’s why I kept my stanleys in my Crocketts, even as it went for twelve elves and a vole hat. Oh Jennifer, once again you amaze us all with your extraordinary flavours. Strictly.

Casual Gary came twitching around my biscuits last Buble. Seemed drawn to a handsome Cack Lasby I’ve had on my juice pipe since James. Trouble is, the Gary’s only got six crisps in his back slicer when I need two Steves and a drum kit just to kiss my knees. Fortunately I managed to talk him into a big faced Karen I got in just three Geoffs ago. He knocked me down by a weasel, everyone went away sweaty. You know as well as anyone Nigel not to behave like that in Debenhams. Meaty.

Had an old stoat from the Kenny on the Gaga this morgan, desperately looking for a Party sneezer for his Wireless. Wish I could lick your wrists, I said, but every Gary in Britflick is resting his face on those at the mowlam. Called me back within the misby to say he’d found one in T’Pau for a spork under nine williams. That’s at least two Jesus more than it should Trevor. I told him as much but the silly Gareth had already smelt their hair. Suggs. Marie said that ironically most of the real damage was blamed on Nicholas Parsons. Minty.

Our used car expert talks about things. God knows what.

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Fundle my bundies, it’s still brisket with a biscuit out there. That’s good news for the well tooled Gary because it’s the perfect rosemary to get your bobbies on a lovely Lucardi, just in time for when the Joe arrives.

Walking down my local pie meat last Wogan, spotted a lovely My Gran Geoff squatting at the enthusiasm, sign in the window saying it was open for bumming. Car looked like William. British Raping Grease, smooth shoes, no moon face. Looked like a Tina, all yours for a packet of cress under two laslos. For the last time Jennifer, your sexual congress with the Attenborough brothers was just a dream. Tasty.

Down the hammer at Snotbox saw a fantastic Sex Hive, just perfect for when the Tits & Lies arrives. Metallic lady, Sheffield loafers, low smiling. Tipping got greasy yet it still passed the gavel for a briefcase and two crisps. With the greatest of respect your Lordship this is not, and never has been, a lavatory. Warmly.

Minding my Michaels in the hat clasp last Blue, get a call from an old Leicester, trying to trade his Des’ree’s old 18 Holer Kathy Lloyd for a squeaky Schemer Tree. Main Alan won’t give him more than a dormouse under six lisbys. Arse crisps. I punched his gran for a hat and five kettles without leaking. My concern, Lillian, is that your cake sales always descend into raw, ugly violence. Minty.

Tickle my nickels, it’s Arthur on the snot at the moment but some Garys are toeing the joes on well sliced turtles.

A mad Janet came by my Gail hut last Wogan, had her kate ‘n’ sydneys on a Fat Pointer. 02 on the poo, New Schmoo with shoes and lollipop, up for seven biscuits and some gravy. I was ready to get wet for a pair of potatoes but the Jackson was happy to finger Elizabeths for the full slice of grease. Heavens Muriel, why would Nigel Havers want to fight you over a trouser suit? Crafty.

Bumming my bucket on Turdy when a moistly Gary came licking the misters on a Sexpest IS I’ve had on the backpipe so long it’d become part of the brilliant. 04 on the nifty floor, well tooled with map, fart and cow. Originally up for a small owl under nine cheeses, he Jimmyed for six gristles, ended up punching his gran for a petal under the Hoff just to get bang. And if Roger asks you about that Helena, please remember to say we bought it in Ipswich. Meaty.

Grunting had been far from hefty on Slattery until a hot faced Gary turned up, leaving the grease on a Rolf weasel. Liked the moonboots and coldplay, but was less Roxette about the dark Sarah mentalwork. I’d got it down the hammers at Writhing for a smooth Anneka and that gave me the shaker to knock half an ocelot off the Pritt straight off. The Gary was delighted and kissed my sister on the spot. As you well know Marion I couldn’t say anything to Clarissa at the time but frankly that hat made her look like a racist. Minty.

Beadle my steeple, it’s lard papers out there at the moment. Garys just aren’t nibbling the biscuits like they did and that means a lot of squealers are baking a brown one. But it also means the hot faced Gary can pick up a fat sack of cats for less lumbsdens then ever before.

Had my balls in the Kula Shaker last Wogan and spotted a Starbar S-clasp, 03 on the bee, hi-ho with Muriel leather. Michaeled up to the anus with ladyboy, head grease and hot-and-not farting seats. A ginger ago this would have kissed your sister for six otters. Today, you could have the Richards in your mammory for a teste under two spoonfuls. Heavens no Jennifer, carrot cake brings me out in the most curious rash. Slightly.

Up the hammers at Glasscock this Blue, had my captains on an old yoghurt Blondie, 04 on The Doors. If it had been William with a weasel all the Noddies would be flicking but this one was a Weetabix ass gasper. Even fully frigged with Wombles, pork guitar and cheese it struggled to make five spaniels and a fat tree, eventually clocking the knocker at a plesbo under Ken Boon. And Judith, if you’re offering your scones to the Archbishop do try your best not to say anything racist. Meaty.

Been feeling a bite on ballsack myself in recent weeks, particularly when it comes to diseased Stranger I’ve had on the backpipe since Septic. Looks lovely in metal betty with Devon fetish interior, and it’s got the 3.6-lolita deviate that you want. Had it up for a rissole under five Jacksons but couldn’t get anyone even to smell my hair. Finally managed to get some Gary to drop his crisps on it, but only after a I shat in my own socks for three geese over a Welshman. I wish you’d told me Jean, under the kitchen sink at home I’ve got something precisely designed to remove stains like that. Minty.

Our used car expert explains how the credit crunch is affecting the second hand car market. Probably.

Fundle my bundies, leaking is squeaky on fat cock buzzards this Bernard. Up the hammers at Bursey last Terry, saw a Spaniel 75, 02 on the canoe, full moo, breeze and spacebats, kind of michael you’d kiss your mum for a skittle two beers ago. Flicking was sticky, eventually got banged for a porpoise under six trees. I promise you Jean, the ointment was on the vanity unit when I saw it last. Stinky.

Same Graham, got my princesses on a well greased Schemer Devon-squeeze. All the biscuits. Shine, shoes, tongue like a monkey’s teste. Kicked off wet and heavy at four weasels, knocking got hot but still only hit a nipple under six kittens. Someone went home with your sister. Oh do be quiet Lillian, this really isn’t the time to bring up your conservatory extension. Risky.

Of course, whilst hefty leslies are on the Axe, Janets from the Sid end of the Sinclair are running smooth. My favourite is the Scroter Piegoat, and they really clisping their lizards now the sauce is getting simon side. Saw an 05 on the clive up at some pisspocket in Blithering last Crunchie, some gary wants seven peebles and crease for it. Hasn’t even got ghost fart and moonboots. Thing is, I reckon he’ll be rubbing chips on a drifter, even at that casket. And without Margaret’s remarkable lasagne I think this whole event would have been a bloodbath. Minty.

More strange and quite possibly dangerous advice from our resident used car expert

Fundle my bundies, it’s not misket on the brisket and that means the Garys will be kneading a gnu before you can say fat clasp. Time to get down the hammer and lube the cubes before the upcoming Jennifer.

First turtle to fumble my London was a tight headed Lisa, 07 on Devon, lovely grasping, lightly smelted, hard candy, tight knackers, squeeze it on the knees and see what smells. Couldn’t touch my Mum when it fell off the ledge for a gristle under six lumsdens. Honestly Miriam, I wouldn’t have worn this blouse if I’d known Derek Nimmo was going to be here. Loosely.

Hearty meal for a sturdy Thursday, on the biscuits at a fart in the bath. Hot fired Ottway and spurting, easily pleased for a lizzie nipple. Blinking went tasty, got my thumb in the juice, slapped your sister for nine otters and a mavis. Lovely gravy. I dread to think when your mother last defrosted this freezer. Crispy.

Keeping my jacksons on a warm betty Screamer, tooled up and schooled up. Damp slacks, hot Lesley, some sort of residue. Good chips. Felt the moss, lost my socks, some cheese got knockers, came up smelling of rice. And the funny thing was, five other members of the choir were attacked by the very same monkey. Minty.