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.
