A happy half hour spent with Postman Patel this afternoon, listening to his plans to turn his teeny-tiny post office into a supermegamart.
Already stocked with ciggies and booze, he's going to be carrying a variety of household lines, including 'bathroom tissue', and was keen to learn which brand I use.
"You an effing bloody Andrex bloody man or something a bit bloody effing cheaper?" he chirped. "'Cos I'm only effing bloody going to stock a couple of effing brands." I assured him I was strictly Andrex, and that the prospect of applying Izal to the Eastcliff derrière made me wince.
Shooting off on a completely different tack, he then proceeded to explain how many prostitutes there are in the area. "They don't effing stay in one effing bloody place, they bloody move around."
Well, a Millionaire's Playground is bound to attract an underclass, I suppose, and at least it seems they're giving value for money.
4 comments:
An old friend of mine used to be a prostitute and often used to delight us with her tales of 'mishaps and little cock-ups'.
One of my favourites concerned a game she used to play with one of her clients called 'wiggley juicy fruit bum'. Apparently, as it turns out (no pun intended), lychees are not entirely suited to this game due to their abrasive and spikey outer husk.
I get the impression that she was relieved, after the ensuing pandemonium, never to see him again.
Should have stuck to a pineapple.
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