All I remember is, vaguely the morning star shone through the dew encrusted window at Okehampton. A few somnolent forms caressed their slugs as if in amorous contact with Shania Twain, a rumble of thunder exuded from Wiggintons pit, closely followed by a brilliant effervesence as he attempted to light his arse. This sudden aurora had two outcomes, one it saved Wig the cost of a haircut, and two the sudden clap (

), not dissimilar to a 36 going off, woke the crusty lump of woad coloured skin called Malone. He was still asleep, stumbling furtively for anyones towel to cover his morbid body when suddenly, from the area of his loins there erupted an ear piercing sneeze. In a fearful broad Yorkshire drawl, he muttered, don't worry it's old Joe Blake, the trouser snake. This Ophidian reference may have eluded many, but for those with a smattering of Oz slang there was a poignancy, hard to resist, or even avoid.
The only conclusion that we were able to arrive at referred to SARS, in a kindly way we assumed he had been infected enroute from his humble abode, at 'Snatch-cum-Quickly', and was now terrified it would drop off mid stride, hence his lurching gait, crutch in hands and towel dragging to the rear. Not a pretty sight at 0500.
I remain Sir your obediant deviant in reserve.
You should talk to somebody who gives a f**k.
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El Presidente