Just the other fortnight, a number of chaps from these here parts were chatting about these ‘ere parts and those there parts. Chaps, so it were told, think about things of a frisky nature every ten seconds. Indeed, their minds drift off into thoughts of a both racy and saucy and frankly naughty bit of “Hello Matron” that frequently. Shocking, eh? Every time you’re in the bank or the greengrocers or Mr Anwar’s Convenience Store on the local precinct and there’s ten chaps in there at the same, there’s an orgy going on. What a thought and who’d have thought it? Every ten seconds. It’s a wonder that Britain became an industrial powerhouse with wool-mills and steel-mills and Mrs-mills and Sir John-mills and coal mines but not mills with all that uncontrolled lasciviousness going on all the time. And no cold showers. At all.
Maybe, just possibly and probably, that’s why the ball-juggling ball-jugglers on the slow train to There I or There II or all stations on the line juggle with their bits and parts and particulars. They’re getting their selection of ten seconds worth and enjoying every one in ten seconds worth. Let’s not go there. Ever. Ever. Please!
But what, and yes what, fills the other nine seconds? Albion Rovers, perchance, and setting the tappets on the car. Could even be the cost of haddock in Lowestoft. Who are we to speculate. Terry’s Chocolate Orange. The Missus’s Terry’s Chocolate Orange. Not that the Missus has a Cherry’s Tocolate Noranj or any kind of Chocolate: The Movie because, allegedly, all the Missus thinks about is diet food and diet dinner and Paul Hollywood sandwiches and Kevin, Francis and Richard McBacon. In a McBaconburger. With Fries and Salad to go-go. Are you going to a go-go? (Robinson, Smokey, research by Wendell)
Hang on, what’s this? Sexism in the principality of _Paul_And_Land_? Mais non, mon cher. Wendell would have no truck with that. Read on.
Yes, it seems that the ladies think a lot about the grubbins, which is, is it not, rather more life sustaining than that bloke over there juggling his downstairs and thinking about… Well yes. But in the same way that Mr Tickle-Tackle is thinking about something that’s not there whether it be some Page Three Beauty, some TV celebrity or some local lady of repute, disrepute or ill-repute so is the Missus as she flicks through the ready meals. Low-Fat, Low-Cal, Low-Salt, Low everything because she wants to be just like the Page Three Beauty, some TV celebrity or some local lady of repute, disrepute or ill-repute. That’s what they tell her to do. So she does. Heston and Ten Years Younger and Gok One take a bow. Gits. And dreams of pulling Kevin McBacon in Salford. Or Castleford. Or up-town Billericay. No. Not even in the Club Going For A Go-Go, Workington. Danny Dyer maybe. Stop!!!
But that is her dream. Low everything and thoughts of Kevin McBacon and thinking that she needs to look like some Page Three Beauty, some TV celebrity or some local lady of repute, disrepute or ill-repute. And she eats Low everything and drinks colonic irrigation to achieve that media loveliness. And her dinner dissolves to low-food, even no-food. Tissues and cotton-wool. And a cadaver. Was Danny Dyer or a McBacon or a ball-juggler worth so much? No.