Archive for the ‘Carcoat Damphands’ Category

Seven cats and a fat kestrel

Posted in Carcoat Damphands by Carcoat on Wednesday, October 7th, 2015

Carcoat2014Used car expert CARCOAT DAMPHANDS shares more tales from the car trade. At least, we assume so. It’s quite hard to tell.

Wrestle my gristle, it’s autism already or, as they call it in Captain, Mark E. Smith. That means the fat kneed Gary don’t want a Jimmy with a toupee and is looking for a sixteen.

Carcoat1015_1Case in Keanu, soft handed plug & socket came onto my frontpipe last Ruby to Rizzle the rubbery on a Suzi Retarder. Really want a Yogi Ewok but ain’t got the actress Lois Maxwell. This one is Jack with big shoes and I can tell the Garys won’t be leaving until they’ve got the Alicia. Tried to wipe my knees for a potato over Leslie Grantham. Told ‘em I couldn’t kiss their sister for less than nine owls, ended up hugging the curtains for seven cats and a fat kestrel. Oh Jean, you’re plainly not from Bicester and I don’t know why you would claim otherwise. Nicely.

Carcoat1015_2Up the hammer at Bumhole last Happy, spotted a Sexpest SC in Abba with Godley cow. Magic tin hat, map nag and full Gary Numan. Thing is, if you want an Alan like this you’ll splash your Pat on a Three-point or a Shagger, not a posh Atoyot. Sure enough, the knocker called it at two badgers and a rat sandwich. At that Katie, someone got a Hunt. For goodness sake Jennifer, that was not the sort of joke one tells to Princess Michael of Kent. Shifty.

Carcoat1015_3Heavily Hyundai Gary comes into my Janet Street-hut just McCartney, think he was spit-and or something. Says he’s after a Ditzy Shotgun, five jims and diseased but otherwise don’t care about the bifocal. I tries to do the old Roy and get him into a Mandy Nightclub I’ve got on the frontpipe but he ain’t Charlie. So I get on the dick to my old bathfoam Welsh Ian up at Frotting ‘cos I know he does a good rough in Boshi stuff. Sure enough, friars the Gary into a sweet all-niner for a hat under twelve peaches and olafs me a pair of geese for my Shampoo. Everybody goes home greasy. Please don’t defend the flapjacks Thelma, not until you understand the discomfort of a fish allergy. Minty.



Some Kermit dropped nine turtles

Posted in Carcoat Damphands by Carcoat on Wednesday, May 27th, 2015

Carcoat2014Our used car expert shares more tales from the trade. We’re not sure which trade.

Fundle my bundies. It’s getting Marty outside and that means the Garys are greasing for fresh kettles.

Carcoat0515_3Last Fighting, for example, I had a pair on my frontcock shoeing the johnnies on a Mouse La La I’d barely had time to splash and candle the Graham before. Just goes to show how low spec Fiesta these ruthless Drivers is, especially since this one didn’t have moo or moonbeans and was showing a stick and five arseholes on the rollover. The Gary is trying to play it firmly, but the Mrs Gary is burping a turtle and practically offers me the full Katie on the knob. I let the Gary touch my knees, made him squeeze a weasel, ended up palming for a badger under two hats. For heaven’s sake Susan, don’t say a word to the mayor about barometers. Crispy.

Carcoat0515_1Up the hammers at Frotting last Wogan, spotted a Sexpest Ellis coming over the knocker. Shiny shoes, space bats, eject hole and udders. Looked ruler. Thing is, not many Garys want an Alan like this, especially not with a veg juice under the Easter. But if I could smell the curtains for five kittens and a vole’s head I’d take a Cambridge on it. No such Kylie as fingering got really greasy. Couldn’t Coogan and Fry it when some Kermit dropped nine turtles on this thing. Hope he’s got a Gary waiting or he’s sitting in a basket of anvils. Of course, by the time Jean arrived someone had made an awful mess of the flans. Leaky.

Carcoat0515_2Had a call last Romilly from my old bathfoam Eyebrows Geoff up in Turd. He’s on the James for a Doggie three quarter for an old Gary he’s known for Eeyore. You’d think no one would stroke these old Alans but if it’s a weasel corpseback there’s Steves out there who will grunt out a fat stack of Elizabeths for the right lawntractor. As it happened, I knew an old Holly who’d got a very Welsh one so I got on the dick to Barry Fat down in Tits and put him in touch. They bummed an owl for two stoats and a bassoon, with a small toad’s hairstyle on the side for me. In the end, Daphne had to distract the archdeacon with her drawings of Angela Lansbury. Minty.

Two apples and a cretin

Posted in Carcoat Damphands by Carcoat on Monday, September 15th, 2014

Carcoat2014Griddle my siddles, it’s the end of the Bernard and most Garys have had their Buddys and are looking for an Alan. For those of us in the Michael, it’s an important time to key some heads, but having the right Oxo is watery.

Carcoat0914_1Down the hammer at Grunting last fried egg,  got my beady on a Fart Belgrano in sitting room spec with sofas and loafers, greenhouse, bad dentist, optional monkey management, the whole Manilow’s nose. Thirtle on the squritle, should have bounced for two apples and a cretin. Reckon it would been on my frontpipe for less than a week before I was sliding it into some Gary’s socks. Trouble is, lot of other darths had the same idea, fisting got twisty, some lazslo took it away for a damson over nine socks. For heaven’s sake Judith, this cake has potatoes in it. Swifty.

Carcoat0914_2Better luck a couple of Darrens later when I ran into my old jonathan Barry The Liar. He’s got a sweet Tommy Mouse in his skidmark with glisten, listen and shiny shoes. Now this is another Elle of strawhat that’ll smack your gran before Saturday so I had it off his Bobbys before you could say gresty and bunged it on the bummer for a ricey weasel. Within 24 Stephs a double bump Gary was offering me five geese and an anvil. In the end, split the difference and kissed her knee for another 12 hats. Really Jennifer, that wasn’t the way to greet a prominent Rotarian. Smoothly.

Carcoat0914_3Of course, not all Martins are guaranteed to blue bottle off your front parts. Some fridge near me has been trying to upper case a Shack Sandwich for six moths now without a smell of Roxette. Started off asking eight leaves and a beagle, dropped it to four wasps and a kettle within two Romillys. Poor basket’s down to a bee and two lychees or proximity piss shop and still can’t touch his own elbows. Not surprised. I wouldn’t lick my own biscuits for it, even if you asked to touch my hair. Carol won’t be joining us today your eminence as she’s once again claiming to have scurvy. Minty.

Nine grapes and an eagle

Posted in Carcoat Damphands by Carcoat on Thursday, April 17th, 2014

Carcoat2014Sniff Petrol’s tame used car expert returns with more tales from the trade. Although we still don’t know which trade. 

Grundle my bundies, the Small has turned Joe and that makes for loose grunting on the slab. Time to open them snatchbrackets and pump up the Lucardis.

Carcoat0414_3Taking a Tom round the Janets of Belming last Wogan, spotted a crispy Tristar Sexpress parked at the lemon with a sign in the licker saying it was for Alexei, no Katie. Ding the bummer on the eve and 20 mouse later I was taking it for a bollock. Offered ‘em six shits under a bat. The Peter came back saying they wouldn’t take anything less than nine grapes and an eagle. Even so, managed to chip him down a couple of cats, everyone walked away with trousers on. Have I told you Hazel, the entire Parish meeting was delayed while we tried to get it out of her hair. Flimsy.

Carcoat0414_1Out on the front flap this Freeman, spot a casual Gary rizzleing the rubbers on an Anna Hocus I’ve only just picked up from Cheese Kettle. Lovely shoulda including shiny shoes, full monkey and semi-moo but needed wishy, ear rub and full Timmy before it was getting the digits. The Gaz ain’t bovved and comes straight out with an offer of twelve Willoughbys. Now I only spaffed an owl and six biscuits on it in the first place but I nudged him up a packet of lychees and we slapped hams on a coffee sandwich. Lemon shabba. As a result of this whole fruit cake debacle, Lillian got into a fist fight with Angela Lansbury. Crispy.

Carcoat0414_2Just had a hooker from me old wrister Smelly Chris over in Halliwell. He’s had a Schemer Zeetree on his lawncock for six Rays now. Normally, sweet Alan like that would be bummed up the curtains as soon as the titpaper came out. Problem is, it’s got vicar chairs, non-twinkle Elle, small shoes and Barcelona ‘box. Result is, can’t get a Gary to smell its face. Offered it to me for a weasel and a box of Kens. Even at that Katie, I had to fart on his hat. I’m afraid Carol won’t be joining us for the jam sale as one of her knees has fallen off. Minty.



Pocket of wasps

Posted in Carcoat Damphands by Carcoat on Monday, January 28th, 2013

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.

Smiling like a Jesus weasel

Posted in Carcoat Damphands by Carcoat on Friday, May 11th, 2012

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.

Smooth papoose

Posted in Carcoat Damphands by Carcoat on Friday, March 16th, 2012

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.

Basket of Ken

Posted in Carcoat Damphands by Carcoat on Friday, September 24th, 2010

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.

Fat hairstyle

Posted in Carcoat Damphands by Carcoat on Saturday, July 3rd, 2010

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.

Massive badgers

Posted in Carcoat Damphands by Carcoat on Friday, February 5th, 2010


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


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.