Anyway, with my new teeth, I have decided to take up courting again
I don’t like to boast, but what better sign of wellbeing is there than a good portfolio of recently acquired underpants?
Imagine we were still in the EU, and they had presided over the death of Geronimo?
By now a crowd had grown, and he, deploying the rhetoric favoured by my father said, ‘oh, so my opinion doesn’t count. I’m not allowed to have an opinion am I?’
Stav Danaos was reading the weather today. Reading. Not telling. He’s a bit proprietorial about it all isn’t he? Perhaps he takes his job title, weather forecaster, a bit too liderally*. It doesn’t come from a magic well into which only he can see, you know. For my part I prefer the pagaillique* approach of the ITV-casters, with the exception, obviously, of that woman who rides the donkey as a route to fame – she who posits herself as a specialist forecaster of weather at horse racing venues. Her colleagues though, are good because the know that they’re common and act like the weather’s something that has just happened to them. Which, of course, it has. It may sound harsh to put it that way, but I’m allowed, I was once a trainee pig-iron trader.
I know that he isn’t him. He (the real he) is Nurse Ratched.
It makes them sound even thicker than the originals, speaking a more ignorant and lazy derivative, without rules of precedence, that will tolerate any extemporised rhyme with anything else.
For what is a house, but a static target with your name on it?
It’s time to split his portfolios up and give one to putative modern-day saint, Saint Greavsie of Television.
I am prepared to legislate to provide England with a system of 4-4-4.