Fantastic rejoinder! Touche! Or as they say in France, touche! With a sillier accent. I see I may have brushed against a raw nerve with all the aplomb of an Australian cultural attache. Since I had a few hours away from the daily grind of my booming multi-million Euro Astro-Physical Car Wash and Piss Powered Poodle Pamper Parlour (www.starcarpeepoopampar.co.ck), I have decided to topspin a lob in your general direction to see if your smash is up to scratch. I have little doubt we'll be picking the ball out of Row Z quite soon.
I arose, perhaps more orally hirsute thanks either to a higher than expected alcoholic imbibiositiness(?), or a hypothalamectomy(??) I was greeted by the mid-afternoon sunshine as it "poured in like butterscotch and stuck to all my senses." Took me an absolute age to get those stains off the curtains I can tell you, which reminds me I must take my colostomy bag to the launderette. I have to read a little of your episodic history before I go on too much though cos from the first few bits back in '05 it's clear that I may employ flippancy which could be regarded as just plain insensitive.
I say read. I'm actually clinically illiterate, and have to suffer daily several tedious hours of Brazilian mouth-to-toe remedial massage administered by retired Okapi trainers before the postman arrives. Now I know what you must be thinking. Wrong rainforest! That's part of the reason it's so rare. Africa to South America. Very tough commute. Lemme tell you though, them gals can tongue toes like it's going out of fashion, and at only £25/second(that's $6.2 million or 18.5 used car tyres. Hmm, do I need a new calculator?) it's a sodding bargain the salesman and I.M.F. still assures me I can't refuse. Still it beats hands down the old medication for such conditions used in the past. Leeches. Horrible! Unless of course marinaded in one of Slater's own ready made Cook'N'Vom Sucker-Sludges. An absolute life-saver about the kitchen, the employment of which effectively guarantees avoiding any number of hirudinous dinner party faux pas.
Unfortunately, in the early pre-diagnosis years of my affliction, desperation drove me to all manner of panic measures. I tried Chinese medicine. However, due either to my somewhat rudimentary command of Cantonese, a typo or an overworked and quite bizarre Oriental sense of the ridiculous, I was charged 500 smackeroos to have lychees placed on my energy points. It may just have worked if I'd kept them on for the full 28 days, but I'll never know now because I was unfortunate enough to leave the practice at the precise moment that the 'Eat the First Far Eastern Fruit You See' support group left the 'Malcolm X' centre on the opposite side of the alley. Some days despite ones utmost efforts, it seems one is the statue and not the pigeon, n'est ce pas?
"3 o'clock in the morning, and it looks as though it's gonna be another sleepless night"
"So on the button" Sleep, it's like an untimely punctuation for the would-be restless. Some say it has its uses but I've yet to see the full evidence. Most folk find sleep a normal everynight occurrence, apart from fighter/bomber pilots, whose targeting indiscretions as a result are either notorious or still an undisclosed secret. It's a surprise Los Angeles is still standing.
I was reading the other day that the 'City of Angels' is actually a unfortunate mistranslation. Seems somebody's handwriting left a little to be desired and it is actually the city on jellies, which makes so much sense of all those nasty old earthquakes. Put one simple letter down wrong and W.W.IV would break out. That's if any of us survive W.W.III currently being waged. Of course, it's easy to identify who may survive W.W.III because they started it in the first place. Well it must have been sooo dull in the White House after Bill and Hil checked out, and what with the Cold War ending without a bang in such a disappointing way, and as you pointed out, the women out shopping, what better way to attempt to reduce the unemployment queues than by gathering all the disinterested, potentially disenfranchised layabouts and freeloaders, flying them halfway around the world and giving them new trousers into which they can shit themselves for a variety of reasons they would never have thought possible back home.
SPARRAZ! DO BE BRIEF GUV, LEEV IT AHT!!
Sorry that's just my Cockney Tourettes playing up. My grandad was a real Cockney, born within the sound of Bow bells. Lamentably, there are proportionally less Cocknies per Londoner now due to a few factors.
Firstly London keeps getting bigger both in population and it's acreage, which seems to expand halfway across the country these days. Indeed some of it's postal areas are in fact in Brittany. Secondly, lots of hospitals get closed here and the N.H.S. budget has been cunningly re-deployed on double glazing, so hearing Bow bells is more of a problem, though the government claims this is propaganda put about by the Cockney Proliferation Front(C.P.F.) (See note later) Fourthly, traffic, new airport, and other general noise and air pollution has meant that the sound of Bow bells now only carries a short distance, maybe as little as 48 lunar feet.(6215.2 km, Tut! feckin' calculator again!*?!) This means that in order to be a true Cockney nowadays you'd have to be born halfway up the steeple steps, an unacceptable situation even for the aforementioned Draconian N.H.S. cuts. One or two acrophobic midwives also raised quite unprecedented objections. This lead to the audacious attempt by the C.P.F., in a rare collaboration with the Fahckin' Real Front for the Proliferation of Cocknies F.R.F.P.C. ( see even later note) borrowing Batman garb from the recently disbanded Fathers for Justice campaign, to scale St. Mary le Bow church steeple and install a kick-ass sound system hired from the Brixton Ganga Crew for the Promotion of Deafness Posse.(righteous yoot an' yoot, I most catagorically assure you. Due to mind opening substances and general demeaner, see downright tardy note) Part of the deal was that Mad Professor could do a live mix of the peal, which made for an interesting bootleg C.D. (Bing bong bing bong-ong-ong-ong chanka boomph tich wobba-wobba, gungbin pissshhh. Rise up Lieeeaaaan-aaan-aaan!!) Thirdly, there is no thirdly because down there within the stench exuding melting pot that is the East End, that number is considered bad fortune. "Free? Nah meeyol' china, das unlukkee, naa'a'meen?"
The C.P.F. was founded in 1964 after the increasingly famous Michael Caine had been cast as a toff in "Zulu". Outraged by this apparent turncoat, they plotted a "bommin' campaign" which meant they would invade "swimmin' barvz" en masse and terrify "li'aw saucepanz" wiv, sorry, with hideous close quarters diving and big splashes. Local papers such as "The Cheeky Sparra" screamed the headlines. "C.P.F. Aahtovvawda 'n' Wellaahta Depf, Awri' Darlin' Oy Oy" The initial terror caused was not insignificant, as lidos all over "the smoke" began loosing custom, causing unemployment queues to lengthen by several inches. When Caine's next blockbuster "Alfie" was released in 1965, many toned the movement down to become less radical, with lame media driven P.R. stunts such as "bargin'" into ice lolly queues or "shakin'" the hands of Pearly Kings and Queens in Trafalgar Square for the cameras.
Those who had left the movement went "unddagrahn'" to form the radical F.R.F.P.C. After a vicious few months of hell in the backstreets, locals became " Right ol' Logie Baird" of "Da Frun'" after repeated incidences of "pissin' in yer chips, ya twa'" and the excruciating "Neeka'in'" involving several of the nobbliest knees in Shoreditch being cruelly exposed to unsuspecting innocents down at the old rubbadub. The movement almost folded in 1966 when it was discovered that dangerous hitman and kerbside yodeller, Barry 'doous a fayva' Dobbins was actually Christened at Winchester Cathedral as Barton Hesketh Inbred Doris Bashstreet Charwoman-Duffer III, 17TH Earl of Qua-QuaWestchestynecester (pronounced Quenya ;-). Street kudos slumped to an astounding all time low until the St. Mary le Bow Steeple climb/mashup ting.
The B.G.C.P.D.P. were formed at a party in Coldharbour Lane and disbanded 55 minutes later by the Metropolitan Police because there was, as Chief Commissioner Gobsmack so eloquently put it, "No BASTARD way we're gonna let a bunch of f?++*£g n*^^%.@ organise a party without OUR say so on OUR manor, savvy?" A spokesman for the Crew stated "Dem 'erb was take, yoot an yoot downtrodden, but day come and dem rise up again and mashup de police!" The people of the capital, as one, were was right behind them. The system was returned along with significantly less 'erb, which meant that dozens of rozzers were seen binge eating themselves silly at burger AND doughnut stalls for several weeks.