Moff Skellington Presents - Walkie Boot Episode 3

“………saw a byre advertised and pressed it under some gauze I’d prepared with wet paint and now, if it doesn’t dazzle. When my fresh cows is full I can sneak it in the back way and that way the fisheries and milk Ombud will shout my plaudits up the hamlet and wake up all the yokels on it’s palette. A country rhapsody then closes in from a room marked ” fleshy onions hang in the shortest rows and don’t do interviews, repeat DON’T climb up indigenous horses like me “. Whenever this scenario drains off the golf patch with the next downpour, I fancy the master has achieved a spiffy lotus crouch of Nice One; in fact many of my estranged relatives consolidated their roles and afforded a bubble car. They didn’t get far as I was the detergent supplier and also new the reason for a sudden City Break in Pripyat: that’s where migratory archetypes hit the buffers, loading spoil onto coprolite dollies. Some of them take a trumpet with its bacteria filter they can suck nice water from gullies ( that old golf course is Bing maximising his liver spot activity ). The very next day came a very spacious chicken. Of course, it was the Chicken Laureate with its ovipositor fogged with a scroll of state vapour signed by King Parker-Bowles. I had inklings that privilege of this magnitude would lay out my pyjamas on a circular bed and I was born. The calendar had stopped again in deference to my probation provider got it out of a skip near his processing kiosk. So. I had to guess and couldn’t have asked for fewer inconvenient luxuries. It was the last day of Belper and my personal hotline to the Soap Institute. Not on my Nelly, its bath week!”.