Waking up with Mr Frottage
Back in the day, when we had proper money and summer holidays in Blackpool, Clacton, Brighton and Scarborough, everybody had proper political opinions. If you wore a flat cap, fed whippets with scraps from the dinner table and skinned your knees falling out of trees, you were a socialist. If you wore a big coat and a tie, drove a motor out to the suburbs and discussed your plans for the garden with a man called Ted, you were a Tory. If you had died in 1918, you were a Liberal.
There were some others, as well; the sort that like to strut around in a black and white shirts whilst being filmed in black and white for the Empire News. Or something.
These fine and neatly coiffured chaps, strutting around the East End, chests puffed out whilst catching badly aimed bricks with their nappers don’t fit in with the general scheme. Some have whippets, others drive their motors out to the suburbs and some should have died in 1917*. So bib-bib, keep an eye out for them.
Enough of those sorts, let’s move on to Mr Frottage’s United Kingdom Insulation Company. It seems that everyone who isn’t anyone is jumping on to Mr Frottage’s Hay-Wagon. And, strangely enough, Mr Frottage’s Hay-Wagon is more than happy to accommodate any ol’ has been or indeed many ol’ not has been or even multiple ol’ shit-pans who shouldn’t be let out among farm animals. Among this motley crew of motley crewed type motles are any number of the sort that like to strut around in a black and white shirts whilst being filmed in black and white for the Empire News. And some who sell fags out of the back of an ice-cream van. And some who used to be something else but then thought I don’t want to be something else, I want to be something else.
Yes, confused. Sort it out you lemons.
And finally, a snowboarding chicken
*Note the change of time