Wednesday, May 12, 2010

Adjusting The Brakes On A Morris Marina

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Still as the helicopter of your desire hovers over the rooftops of all the small rural villages of our longing to place small bouquets of early spring freesias into the exposed navels of all the community outreach officers of our souls, our thoughts – quite naturally – turn to our mutual need to watch the national weather forecast whilst clutching Belgian buns close to our fully benuded throbbing parts.

Now, it is not often said - especially by those whose first language is not total bollocks – that you can’t adjust the brakes on a Morris Marina without first donning the patterned tank top and flowery shirt of a true man of the 1970s. But I have seen the dawn as the sun rises above the satellite dishes of all we hold dear, and know that a small tin of anchovy fillets can often be substituted for the Morris Marina without causing any undue chafing of the inner thigh, or an unsightly rash on your social worker.

However, bearing this in mind and also being more than ready to make a frank appraisal of your full-frontal nudity now that my resolve has stiffened, let us go hand-in-hand and as naked as nature intended and explore the pet food isle of our very own local Tesco once more.

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