Thought folks might like to read the story as it currently stands, conveniently in one post, with a bit of punctuation supplied...
It was one of those bits of cheese that always went hard and crumbly on the dinner plate, when you left the room to go away to check on the distillery out in the garage - which had mysteriously stopped making a bubbling noise last night.
However ... back at Bracknell Towers, a handbag was shaking violently. "A handbag?", exclaimed Lady Bracknell.
"What is SHE doing here? I thought she was dead," said Oscar to the actress, who lovingly caressed his large black Carradice cotton duck panniers, which were made of real duck.
He tapped out a message, "Distillery exploding, need help!" on the duck's beak, but the duck just quacked up the smell of moonshine whisky.
"Have you been drinking again?" said the actress to the mallard, gently stroking its magnificent bill. The duck stared into the bishop's magnificent crystal ball, as this thread headed inexorably into the realms of total vacuum, not to say complete lack of oxygen. Despite this, the duck managed to expand until he fitted neatly into a large green bouncy castle, which had been inflated due to inflation, and the high taxation on anything coloured green (apart from cucumbers, which enjoy a charmed existence, being so regally supported for special garden of His Eminence the Grand Mayor of Mortagne au Perche, who was completely out of his tiny little mind).
However, the handbag distillery was now in a state of genuine molecular instability, that could cause the end of life as we know it, or spontaneous implosion of the entire solar ... (he liked to ride a Brompton) ... plexus. Which would of course be hard to recover from - (As is Diapason's strange post. And also too many words).
Right now, anyway, moving on and on to the next thrilling installment of this epic Chronicle.
Sir Gawain was lurching with his two lurchers, named Charlotte and Liz, panting furiously, whilst the green knight was having a kip in the Monstrous Haunch of Venison, which was considered a great pub, but not as great as The Humungous Hunk Of Mutton. Sadly their underwear did not stay on for very long, but that was OK because who needs underwear, when you are covered with a layer of cheese as thick as two short planks, and a large pack of Cheezy Niblets?
I used to tell stories for a grope and a time, before the surgery which restored my attributes to grope and fumble-less proportions, resulting in equipment that would shame the Hunchback of Notre-Dame. Genital surgery behind me, I inched painfully off the bed, and straight into the waiting Press Corps - waiting outside the walk-in gender reassignment clinic (whose famous patients included the Rt Hon Ed (sans) Balls).
Coincidentally, at the very same time, another patient, known only by his boarding school nickname (bestowed following his discovery blowing kisses to the school nurse), declared in rounded Caledonian tones:
"O! My luve is, like, bursting through my underpants, and it's aimed at you."
Despite it being a Thursday afternoon, and stormy, windy & wet outside, I just couldn't resist taking a moment to show you just how useful my little bit of Blackpool rock can become: serving as a substitute and coming on at half-time. Just as my supply of triple A batteries were running my vibrator at full speed, someone knocked on the window with a gargantuan sweet potato.
"Ah! Hummers Junior! Just in time for dinner," he said, unpeeling his item with a sharpened tyre lever, which was handily concealed inside his father's secret supply of knock off marital aids and Brooks Proofhide left unused on the SLR ... as troupes of glamour models gently placed their hands upon his tumescent, oh so sensitive handlebar tape.
Meanwhile, twelve iridescent...
...to be continued [update on 7/6 14:40]
