Jeremy and his incredible shrinking hernia bounced frantically to the nearest tube station – he had to get to the supermarket before six or his anus would explode… and nobody wants that, do we children? Urinating gently on an elderly female commuter’s shoulder, Jeremy stood shivering on one of London’s greatest escalators (although Jeremy told people of Arabic descent that they were called “magical camel stairs”) descending into the dark, smelly bowels of Tottenham Court Road. Having perused Oxford Street, he decided that the best place to buy a small vibrating ostrich wasn’t at HMV, although he did pick up a Sex Pistols CD for under five pounds which he intended to take out of the case and hurl at passing nuns, shouting “Sodomy!” at the top of his voice.
Jeremy, like most people without parents, was an orphan. He had been orphaned at the young and tender age of 58. Although he had been living in a semi-detached house in Surbiton, his wife – quite sick of the smell of onions – placed him in the nearest orphanage in Wimbledon. He soon fell foul of the evil Mr. Bumble who threatened to throw him down some long and winding stairway without any banister. He would have as well if Jeremy hadn’t threatened him with a solicitor and a herring on a pitchfork. The other children laughed and shouted encouragement to Jeremy – until he threatened them with a solicitor and a herring on a pitchfork.
Anyway, where was I? Oh yes… Jeremy was on a mad dash to the supermarket in order to buy an odorous, oscillating ostrich and also some of his favourite tortilla chips, which he called, ‘snack triangles’ and claimed to have invented. Often the arguments with the supermarket store managers would drag on for days until they quite frequently lost the will to live and let him go round the tortilla aisles, amending the packets of chips with a black marker pen so they read, “Jeremy’s Snack Triangles”. After that, no-one would buy them, so the supermarket would have to donate them to passing penguins, who would insist on getting free dip as well. Bloody freeloading penguins – they should go back to Antarctica, the lot of them.
So, once Jeremy exited the tube, having reprimanded all of the commuters for having the audacity to wear shoes, he waltzed into the nearest supermarket distributing electric shocks to passers by (using the method of wearing rubber soles whilst rubbing his trousers vigorously then asking old men to touch his crotch) and approached the Store Manager of Sainsbury’s, near Victoria station. The store manager, having seen Jeremy coming, took out his handgun and shot Jeremy through the head until he was quite dead. You see, I knew that Jeremy was going there and I warned the manager. Why? Well, I didn’t like Jeremy – he was slightly racist, totally anti-social, intellectually and hygienically challenged and, besides all that, once threatened me with a solicitor and a herring on a pitchfork. The wanker.