Archive for the ‘Carcoat Damphands’ Category

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.

More unique advice from our used car guru.

Fundle my bundies, it’s kettle at last and that means a dead London on dribbly soft logs. I’ve seen it with my own Wallers just this lemon.

Well tooled Gary came spurting up the fundy looking for a tidy Driver Reg. Waving the gravy, told him he’d need to whistle on a pistol. Got on the Nellie to an old Ethel at spurting, grasped a fat nadger on the fart he was clisping. Run up it the basket at an onion over six briskets. The Gary nearly grips his biscuits. Slapped down the Aspel at five Rollins, lovely touch, smells firm, meet his mum at 17 weasels. I’m simply dying to see your new conservatory extension. Sturdy.

Two Grahams later, spikey nice pipe comes by looking for a hearty Tarby. Dig out the gristle, touch someone’s sister, find a crisp glisby at a grunting down the arse bulbs. Nail it to a sock, folded all the curtains, punched in the turtle for an Alsation over six Lyndhurst. Chucked in a pair of flip flops I’ve had piped to my lovehut since Grimsdale. This is completely unacceptable behaviour for someone who lives near Chichester. Minty.

More unsettling advice from our used car expert.

Grasp the basket, grunting is milky at this sage of the cousin. Up the hammer at Chris Quentin last Wogan, saw a well turned Hut Cop go past the knackers for six orphans under a wazzock. Touched the lovely, smoked a lizard, came up smelling of geese. Well somebody must know who stole the undercloth Jennifer. Meaty.

Stirring the turds last Blue when a firm gurned Gary came by, kicking the wizards on a hot Madeley. Licked the bins, pushed some gristle, punched my sister for a packet of grease. Felt his legs, rubbed the lesley, gripped the biscuits for seven under a pair of piss. I won’t tell you again, he wasn’t designed to do that Sarah. Flimsy.

It’s Finnegan already but try telling that to the Mills! That means burping is lonely on all but the firm gristled Arafats. Mate of mine, trying to pinch the limbs on a thick kneed Starman Steal Gay. Moo, fart and sky. No one’s feeling his gusset for six frogs in a sock! No believes you got that scar from Bob Holness Miriam. Minty.