Forgetting his manners (and his lunch money) the mystery man chose to perform a mystery dance, mysteriously – as befits a fellow at such a jubilous time of the calendar month. Many monkeys with mucky moustaches watched with their mealy mouths hanging open or slightly ajar, saliva dribbling down their scale models of The White House, devaluing the matchstick sculptures considerably. A marching rock band lay down blues of discernible taste, not stopping to eat poached eggs, much to the annoyance of the King and Queen of Sweden – who happen to be one and the same person, virtuoso guitarist Brian May, whose hens laid especially knowing, telepathetically, their fortunes and no mistake squire.
I ran down the purple, crepe-paper strewn street, squirting lemon juice at passing wallabies, not stopping to take the abuse or spare change of common labourers. There were priests having sexual intercourse on every street corner and, crikey, the local constabulary didn’t seem to mind – in fact they appeared to be enjoying it greatly judging by the look on P.C. Gonad’s smug fissog. I don’t condemn these people, no – not I, for I am but a poor field mouse attempting to forge a humble existence by licking mushrooms… and, in answer to your question m’lud, I plead not guilty to being in possession of hallucinogenic drugs and, if that clears things up, then Bob’s your uncle, Deirdre’s your aunt and I prefer being eaten alive by ferrets than having to sit through an episode of Eastenders, if it’s all the same to you, Cyril.
Say what you like about gannets, but they can’t half eat – that’s their third packet of Milk Chocolate Hobnobs and it’s not even Wednesday!