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.
