Brad perched loftily on the food-processor, carefully avoiding the fast-rotating blades. He was on the lookout for an ideal mate, for it was courting season in jolly old Scarborough and he had already exhausted his supply of sexy cousins, some of which had more than one eye. He salivated, thirstily, at the thought of his previous conquests, not all of which had been inflatable, that’s for sure. Just most of them. A passing policeman backtracked once he had checked Brad out and approached him, weaving from side to side in the manner of a Heron. “Excuse me, Sir”, spat the copper, “May I see the warranty for that Moulinex you’re standing on?”. “Moulinex?”, bellowed Brad, haughtily, “I’ll have you know, gentle sir, that this is a Morphy Richards! Moulinex, indeed!”. “My mistake, sir! Have a nice day!”, retorted the copper and he drifted away on a thermal updraft, grinning inanely.
Just then, it was Tuesday, which normally came after Monday, but in the outreaches of Yorkshire, anything could happen which, indeed, it did. Well, it started raining, anyway. Suddenly, reaching out to the world with emotion and Toilet Duck in his heart, Brad started weeping tears of vegetable gravy which, whilst perfectly palatable, could have done with a smidgen more pepper. Just as Brad was contemplating how to make his tears more peppery, he lost his balance, fell into the whirring blades of the food processor and was blended into a red mush called ‘Haggis’ which was spread widely around the lowlands of Doncaster throughout the second week of December. The locals rejoiced. Nobody liked Brad. Mainly because he pretended that his Moulinex was a Morphy Richards. The tosser.