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About London

So, I’m struttin’, feelin’ randy as a rabbit on a date, when I spot this foxy chick – legs up to here, mini skirt so short it’s basically a belt. “Groovy, baby!” I yell, but then – bam! – some plonker tries rippin’ me off. Charges me double, says she’s “exotic.” Exotic my arse! She’s from bloody Essex! Got me all steamed up, that did – I’m no mug, yeah? “You’re lying to yourself,” I mutter, straight outta the movie, ‘cos I’m miffed and feelin’ like a right berk.

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After that, I decide to hit up the Gerrards Cross Village Hall. They’ve got some art exhibit going on. I walk in, and it’s all abstract stuff. Like, I could’ve splattered paint on a canvas and called it “The Essence of Coffee Spills.” But hey, art is subjective, right?

Former sprinter falls for garden (but it’s just not big enough)