What's Your Favourite Kind of Linctus?

Having long since let my natural inclination to do bugger all take over my typing fingers, I find myself nearing Christ-time, with all the year-end list writing that entails, and I'm left with a handful of homeless phrases, best left unsaid, that were to be wilfully teased into full length bollocks.

But in a big purple one stylee:


(Charlie's Monkeys, 4th March)

Joy! I'm all full of the joys of ulcerated thpwing.

Here comes another: Lisping harpie, is that your identity?

She's sealed it!

(Sexy Sunday, 30th March)

A spot of chair-bogling to the abbreviated fellows; a boobly, but underwhelming start gives way to the brightly coloured ties & shuffling polka dots of our next guests. An ear-invasion is staged, no opposition is brought, except for the quiet 'aws' when the battle is won.

Next up: no eye-contact, mumbling cellos, floaty dresses, ginger, nice. The sexiest of them all appears to wow the senses, but the thought is left half finished as Mr. Express tuts and points to his watch in disgust.

(Hoxton Hoedown, 20th April)

Stiff paper is exchanged for folding paper with the nice, but dim aliens. Noisy & hot, oh yes.

The strange & old purple fellow, with his matching fedora & cumberbund, lurches to the front to greet his grandnephew with non-sexual hand-jiving. The men in white hotpants arrive to replace his stylish jacket with a more suitable, rear-fastening one.

The kids appear; it's 1986, only later.

There was to be a rather rubbish short story, involving a smidgen of Kylie, a snatch of Madonna, a brace of Mojitos & a bald cat, but now we'll never know.

Oh well.