The Electrical Spaniel Society are holding their biannual orgy in the bushes behind the Leisure Centre this morning. So don't let your donkey run amok among the azaleas until well after the Official Toad Misinformation Hour, unless you want to see her traumatized yet again. Remember, those Jungian Donkey Analysts are not cheap, and they do have the unfortunate tendency to smell too strongly of pickled onions.
Now, I have a tin of corned beef in my rucksack. So, are you ready to explore right to the very limits of its erotic possibilities with me? I do have an almost full jar of sweet pickle too, I hasten to add. So, therefore, you can never accuse me of not taking the issue of safe sex seriously.
Let us go then, you and I, now the banjos are spread out against the sky, and go down to watch the delightful antics of the small furry woodland creatures as they skip daintily about their joyful daily business of attempting to slaughter and then devour one another.
It is time, Daphne. It is time. Oil the walrus and I will mount the exercise bike.
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