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.
