Wednesday, January 13, 2010

On Licking A VAT Inspector In A Secluded Nightspot

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There are times when it all seems slightly too purple. Times when one’s turbo-badger and electro-weasel calibration devices seem unnecessarily temperamental. Times when the herds of semi-domesticated hairstylists seem reluctant to behave in a manner suited to their more usual placid natures, especially when there is no prospect of them ‘going clubbing with the girls*’ in the near future.

Still, as they say, you can’t lick a VAT Inspector in a secluded nightspot without VAT form 45.89b signed in triplicate. So onward we go and delve into today’s doings to see what instruction and possible edification I can bring forth to illuminate your rather dull and ordinary lives. That is not to say I make any claim for my own life to be anything other than the usual mix of routine, ennui and tedium that make up the usual run of existence for the vast majority of us. True, I probably indulge in more perversions, attend more all-village orgies and partake in more doings of a rude and moist nature than those of you who reside in more urban settings, but that is the nature of the rural life.

 

*A dark and mysterious ritual, which – I hope - one day I may have the courage to disclose in this forum.

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