Being a natural recluse, I rarely go anywhere. The furthest afield I’ve been from London is to Spain, and that was many years ago. I will get to America before I die. I’ve always wanted to visit amongst other places, New York, Yellowstone National Park, The Grand Canyon, Fort McHenry, Casa Grande Ruins, Mount Rushmore and of course Las Vegas, where I expect I would lose my shirt. However since following Adam Richman’s show ‘Man v. Food,’ I am even more determined to get over to the USA, hire a Harley and following ‘The Richman Trail.’ The food served in his show is just not available in London, and if it was, one couldn’t afford it.
Can a chimpanzee be considered a legal person? Apparently, ‘not for now’ a judge ruled back in December 2013, in Niagara County, New York. The Nonhuman Rights Project, a group that supports legal rights for chimpanzees, was denied a writ of habeas corpus (produce the body, or governing against unlawful detention) for a 26-year-old chimp named Kiko. Had the writ been granted, Kiko’s owners would have been ordered to appear in court and justify his detainment, thus opening the door to consideration of something unprecedented in American history: the possibility of legal personhood for a non-human animal. I believe the ‘pro’ argument was based on the premise that chimps remain genetically similar in design to humans, which in itself goes a long way to explaining why the animal has been so badly treated by scientists claiming to be working on our behalf! Since human rights are denied to human beings every day, and everywhere, perhaps Kiko the chimpanzee might be better off retaining his animal rights, after all, some animal rights can only improve, whereas human rights can only deteriorate!
Cut to this week!
A New York judge has granted the legal right of habeas corpus to two chimpanzees, Hercules and Leo, currently being held in detention at a biomedical research facility at Stony Brook University, Long Island, where the animals have reportedly been used by scientists studying the evolution of human bipedalism. A final ruling will be given on 6th of May as to chimp status. If the two chimpanzees are indeed given legal person status, what is there to prevent Nonhuman Rights Project lawyers suing the university for compensation that may be used to better house Hercules and Leo?
What does the future hold for general animal kind? Despite the 21st century anarchy that prevails around the world, animal captivity…labs and zoos, must surely one day come to an end, after all, most right thinking individuals believe our domination over the animal kingdom is a heinous crime. Re-educating the wider public towards anything remains a slow and painful process. For instance, it wasn’t that long ago we were all led to believe the chimpanzee was to blame for AIDS!? Furthermore, what can be done about the millions of backward-thinking people who still cling to the belief that animal parts from endangered creatures can cure all ailments, when in fact their claim couldn’t be any further from the truth!
Images of Size zero models have reappeared on the catwalk, fashion chain websites and department store hoardings! People are grumbling. People are complaining these stick thin models are just not thin enough! Why, unless you’ve got a thigh gap you can drive a train through, well, you’re considered not thin enough! The public, particularly pre-pubescent girls and young women buy into this crap! Some boys too. For many, starving oneself to achieve the unachievable leads to mood swings, lethargy, migraines, depression, bad skin, a disruption of the menstrual cycle and terminal anorexia. You may well ‘briefly’ stare at the reflection of a doorstep chime, but you can’t maintain the image and live! Listen, unduly influenced by media images of how a handful of people think we should look, we all at times behave irrationally, so don’t beat yourselves up about it! Think about this for a moment, the skinny starving millions in Africa and Asia want to look like the majority of us in the affluent West, while many of the Western ‘chubbies’ would die to look like them! The ‘have nots’ want a full belly, whilst the ‘haves’ dream of protruding ribs! How weird? Body dysmorphia is spreading! Take my advice, unless you’re ready to spend your whole life in a gym, get used to who you really are, for your true shape is determined by inherited genes!
So, in order to do away with fat-blooded models, certain well-known fashion designers have resorted to claiming unclaimed cadavers from morgues. The dead are being taken to AREA 52 in the Nevada Desert, where maggots are left to eat the remainder of their flesh. After one month, the skeletons are pressure-washed, dried, made-up and readied for the catwalk. Dressed in the latest unwearable clothing, the skeletons will be wired up all the way to the ceiling, where skeleton controllers, or puppet-masters intend controlling their every move. Posing and turning have yet to be mastered!
Some catwalk models are so desperate to look thinner, they resort to having their back teeth removed to give them a narrower looking face, and often undergo an operation under general anaesthesia to have lower ribs removed in order to create a slimmer waist contour. Most commonly, the 12th, 11th, and occasionally the 10th ribs are removed. The 11th and 12th ribs are known as “floating” ribs, which means they only cover the organs from the back and not the front. The 10th rib covers both the front and back, which is why some surgeons who perform rib removal feel it’s unsafe to remove this rib. Boy, there’s something to be said for being a couch potato!
Paris authorities have banned super-skinny models from appearing on the catwalk. Now that organisers are forced to ‘underpin’ the runway, Paris Fashion Week will never be the same! Underweight models have been banned from the Madrid Fashion Week since 2006. Meanwhile, Spanish authorities in Catalonia are planning to ban the use of skinny models in advertising campaigns. All in all it looks like Asian child labourers in the garments industries will be forced to make garments to fit the ‘average’ size man and woman. A victory for common sense! Heat up the charcoal and bring out the chops!!
Looking for that perfect partner? Still searching for your soul mate? Berkeley International remains one of the most expensive dating agencies in Europe. So if you’re rich, successful and going places…and I’m not talking about to the toilet to snort coke…you may not think twice about handing over up to 60k to take the legwork out of your search! Founder of BI, Mairead Molloy says that the number of people on its books shot up by 35 per cent last year. Berkeley claims to have FTSE 100 company chief executives on its books, as well as financiers, global tycoon and even several celebrities, but definitely no rag & bone men! With offices in Cannes, Paris, Brussels, Melbourne, Geneva, Amsterdam, Copenhagen, Milan and New York as well as its headquarters in London, and with plans to open in Hong Kong and Los Angeles next year, Berkeley needs all the membership fees it can get hold of, for office space doesn’t come cheap!
Basic membership starts at £10,000 a year, and will get you as many dates in the UK as you want. £15,000-£20,000 will cover Europe, and £50,000 gives you your pick of partners across the world. For £60,000, you get the personal care and attention of Mairead herself, who will not only travel the world in search of your perfect match, but will point you in the right direction when it comes to working out what has been going wrong for you in the past…you mean like farting at the dinner table, picking my teeth between courses or stubbing out my cigarette in a sorbet? I can’t help being a sophisticated c**t. Shit, I forgot my underpants! Honestly? I think my perfect partner is waiting for me…at the cemetery gates!
FOR THOSE WOMEN WHO HAVE TIME TO BURN, AND MONEY TOO!
NIGHTINGALE EXCREMENT, collected from the Japanese island of Kyushu, is being hailed as the hottest beauty wonder product. Part of the Bird Poop Facial at New York’s Shizuka Spa/Geisha Facial at London’s, the unique ingredient is said to leave skin with a healthy shine as it acts as an exfoliant.
Dried under UV lights, the excrement is mixed with rice bran and water in the spa and applied as a face mask. Cost, £135 a treatment. Apparently A-listers David and Victoria Beckham swear by BIRD SHIT! Oh then it must be good for you! The bird crap facial works because of an enzyme that breaks down the dead skin on the upper layers of the face. Furthermore, it is believed that Nightingale crap contains GUANINE, which naturally occurs in pearls. Well then, a few spa treatments, and it might well be cheaper to invest in a string of pearls!
Then there a hair treatment touted as VIAGRA FOR HAIR. Wait for it! Aberdeen Angus BULL’S SEMEN, which mixed with other ingredients including the root of the protein-rich Katera plant, creates a rich, protein-packed hair mask that frizzies hair. The 45-minute treatment ranges in price from £55 to £85 ($90-$138 U.S.) The protein-enriched potion is massaged into the client’s hair after it has been shampooed. Then the client is put under heat so the treatment penetrates the hair. The final step is the blow out, which gives the hair great body and shine. So, fly-away hair is in!
And while you’re waiting for your BIRD SHIT FACIAL to harden and your SEMEN-ENRICHED hair to dry, you might as well go in for a PIRANHA PEDICURE! Toothless GARRA rufa carp can suck and nibble away at the dead-skin cells on your feet. Hey, since you’re stuck in the chair, have you considered injecting urine into your belly and thighs in order to shift those few extra pounds you put on over Christmas? It doesn’t even have to be your own piss!
Sometimes BEAUTY is only SKIN deep…and sometimes, not even that!
Wait, there is more! While you’re waiting for the bull semen in your hair to dry, the bird shit on your face to exfoliate you, and the fish to eat the last morsel of loose skin from your ugly feet, why don’t you treat yourself to a £50:00 a cup CIVET coffee, that is coffee beans that are ejected from the Asian Palm Civets ASSHOLE. (A civet is a cat-like animal native to Indonesia.) What, not for you? Perhaps your refined palate is more suited to a cup of Camocim JACU coffee farmed in Brazil from the coffee bean droppings of the Jacu bird. $3,250USD per 130lb bag.
Ladies, don’t complain when your husband demands a divorce because you are NEVER AT HOME!
Long lost rubies, sapphires and emeralds have been found in a metal box under ice, 10,000 feet up Mont Blanc, Europe’s highest peak. A 20-year-old French climber discovered the Indian gems in a small chest and handed it in to police. What an idiot! The treasure trove of precious stones, worth an estimated £200,000, is thought to have been lost by a passenger on one of two flights from India that crashed on the mountain in 1950 and 1966.
The jewels most likely originated from an Air India flight from Bombay to New York that crashed in fog and windy conditions on 24 January 1966. All 117 passengers and crew were killed when the Boeing 707 437 collided with the mountain at 12,000 feet. According to local legend this plane carried bag-loads of Indian gemstones in its belly. However 15 years earlier another Indian plane, named Malabar Princess, flying from Bombay to New York, via Geneva and London, crashed in a nearby spot on the mountain. The Costellation flight went down during a snowstorm in November 1950, killing 48 people on board including 40 Indian navy sailors returning to their ship.
New York firm RUSTY PRICK…sorry, that’s, RUSTY ‘BRICK,’ run by Jewish brothers Barrie and Ronnie Schwartz, have created a religious app for Google Glass called JewGlass. It has been designed to help Jewish users find nearby synagogues, get directions and menus for kosher restaurants as well as translate Hebrew text. The app also reminds wearers when to pray, tells them when their day of rest, Shabbat, begins and ends, plus has a Parsha, or biblical text, of the week. There is also a No Chametz app, designed to help Jews get rid of all their chametz, or leavened bread, before the Passover holiday.
Schwartz told The Jerusalem Post: ‘It’s not a way of bringing people closer to Judaism, but a way to help people who are already observing do it more efficiently. Sounds to me like an app for Jews who suffer from DEMENTIA!
Women across the U.S. are risking their lives for the sake of bigger BUTTOCKS by getting INDUSTRIAL SEALANT injected into them by people with no medical training.
Reasons given for this odd procedure are, to fill out a bikini or jeans or to work in music videos or the adult entertainment industry. Why even some men are opting for bigger buttocks. Meanwhile, deaths from black market buttocks injections have been reported in Alabama, Georgia, Florida, Pennsylvania, Nevada and New York. Some of the patients who survive must suffer limb amputations!
Yes, I’m aware that celebrities such as Jennifer Lopez, Beyonce and Kim Kardashian promote their big butts for financial gain, but what they’ve got is God-given. To copy them is taking hero-worshipping too far. Frankly you are being RIDICULOUS!
Of all the teenagers and women I’ve dated over the years, almost all of them, if asked, would have said that they worried that their bottoms weren’t too big! ‘Does my bottom look too big in this,’ is a commonly used praise.
You might say to me, well what’s the difference between getting silicon breast implants and silicon butt injections? Surely there is a difference! On the whole, most women who opt for breast enlargements/reshaping receive medical grade silicon in an elastomer silicone shell. The psychological/ aesthetic reasons for opting for breastwork are on the whole, legitimate. The reasons for opting for illegal silicon butt injections can only be for reasons of vanity, and its hardly worth risking your life for that, is it?
The ‘Cronut’ is coming!
A croissant-doughnut HYBRID that brought queues of hungry punters to shops in New York is being ROLLED-OUT in the UK. GREGGS the bakers, suppliers of sausage-rolls to the British Army abroad, has manufactured its own version of the CRONUT with summer berry and caramel varieties. BASTARDS! Honestly folks, I’m afraid to leave my house. In the words of the BORG COLLECTIVE…”Resistance is futile!” I f**king bet it is!
Dum Dum Doughnuts!
Paul Hurley, creator of Dum Dum Doughnuts, has started by cutting out the deep-fat frying altogether, choosing to bake his scrumptious morsels instead. What’s this…the ‘healthy’ option doughnut? This has got to be an abomination! Chef Hurley must be in league with the anti-Christ! By all that’s holy, someone should refer Paul Hurley to society’s ‘ethics committee’ before tar and feathering the bastard! Meanwhile The Dum Dum Donutterie will be open at Box Park, in Shoreditch, east London, from the 25 February. Flavours include;
The Zebra: Baked croissant doughnut with chocolate buttercream with a chocolate ganache.
Almond Cream & Pistachio: Almond-infused buttercream with pistachio on top.
Croissant Doughnut: Raspberry preserve with homemade buttercream and fresh raspberries.
Kroconut: Coconut cream and chocolate ganache.
Raspberry Doughnut: Raspberry preserve with subtle layer of caster sugar and neige décor.
Chocolate Doughnut: Chocolate ganache and hazelnut; Complete with almond glaze.
Crème brûlée: Crème brûlée with crunchy caramel and crème pâtissière.
Strawberry Doughnut: Complete with strawberry puree icing.
Banoffee Doughnut: Banoffee puree with custard and Dulce De Leche setting with digestive biscuit topping, and Pete’s Yum Yum Dum Dum: Croissant doughnut with buttercream and dulce de leche caramel with glaze. I for one will not be partaking. My kidneys couldn’t cope with the healthy option!
Researchers at St Bonaventure University, New York, have suggested that we can enjoy the ‘mood-boosting’ benefits of junk food without consuming the calories just by DRAWING IT! Their participating students, all of whom were drawing on an empty stomach, rated their hunger, mood and levels of interest and excitement before and after the five-minute drawing exercise. For example, sketching fatty pizzas improved the subject’s mood by a whopping 28%, sketching cupcakes and strawberries by 27%. Well I know what would improve their mood, level of interest and excitement to 50%. Draw the food on RICE paper, then eat it!
Durex Australia have developed Fundawear: vibrating bra, and his and hers electric pants, and an app to control them. Its creators claim it could be the “future of foreplay”, enabling long-distance lovers to touch and tease each other from halfway across the planet. Similar to the technology used to make mobile phones vibrate, there are five miniature actuators in each bra cup, and six more in the pants, with corresponding buttons on the smartphone app. Okay I guess if a couple remain simpatico, but what if one party is furious at another? Might not she in New York activate his pants in London, causing him to have an unscheduled erection and possible ejaculation during a legal discovery hearing? I might allow a woman to get inside my head, but I’m not so sure I would trust her to get inside my underpants from 5000 miles away! Anyway, if I need stimulation that badly, I’d be better off switching my smartphone to vibrate and shoving it up my own ass. I understand the Samsung Galaxy G4 offers the longest battery life!
Seriously though, when all is said and done, there is no substitute for the human touch!
Apparently, one of Britain’s most famous rock stars is embroiled in a desperate battle to prevent his wife learning that he has fathered a daughter during a one-night stand. It is alleged that the girl’s mother is demanding £2million plus child support to keep schtum. Of course that sum will be dwarfed by any divorce settlement if the truth comes out.
I don’t know what all the fuss is about? One would think that all rock star wives expect their hubbies to have produced several bastards. None of our revered rock musicians are known for their celibacy! They behave as if they’re handling a fireman’s hose that is seldom turned off! Since the above case could involve any one of a hundred men, don’t bother even trying to guess right!
By now you must all be aware the rock star is Noel Gallagher, formerly of ‘Oasis’.
Two men in New York built a portable x-ray gun to kill Barack Obama and Muslims claims the FBI. Apparently the device would shoot lethal doses of radiation at their targets.
Many years ago I read an unsubstantiated story concerning two consecutive American ambassadors to Russia, (1970s/80s). Each contracted the same type of rare cancer associated with radiation poisoning. It was suggested that Russian agents positioned a powerful x-ray machine in a room in an office building opposite the American ambassadors office. It too supposedly shot out lethal doses of radiation at its targets. I don’t know how much truth there is in this. The story could merely be the invention of someone’s fertile imagination, or disinformation. Indeed I cannot find anything relating to the story on the Internet, so take it with a pinch of salt or not!
Mandy began playing with my ‘meat & two veg.’ Not surprisingly, my sperm joined the wide-awake club. Never one to miss a meal, Mandy then slid my erect member into her mouth and ate heartily. One didn’t have to be a genius to work out she was on THE ATKINS DIET! Remarkably, Mandy was still able to converse. Despite having warned her not to talk with her mouth full, the woman split her infinitives as she closed her jaw on my shaft. I saw stars before my eyes. It was a constellation I didn’t recognise. “ Sorry, ” she said, biting down on the General again. A second glimpse at the stars left me none the wiser.
I met unnaturally thin, Eurasian improv actress Roberta Vickers at the bar of the Criterion Theatre. She claimed to have trained in New York at Lee Strasberg’s METHODIST School of Acting. Thirty-six and apparently well-known, she was staring in Bum Notes by Sebastian De La Croix. Having seen the production, I felt sure that the title of the play would feature heavily in the reviews.
“You’re very thin,” I said. “Tell me, have you ever been mistaken for a wind chime?” Boy, there’s nothing worse than a loud date! Mind you, with nothing to hold them up, I hoped Vickers knickers would come down on their own accord so that I might sample the delights of her Pacific Rim.
“David, you’re not a comedian by any chance?”
“Not by any chance,” I replied.
Glancing at her watch, Roberta blurted, “God, I really could do with a kid!” I snuck a peek. According to her biological clock, it was ten minutes past midnight. “Well David, have YOU ever thought about having children?”
“Roberta,” I said, “have you any idea how much it costs to raise one? And what about all the bail money I’d have to stump up, always assuming the little scrote’s offered bail? No, no, a couple would have to be head over heals in love to sink so low as to have children.”
Home and sex! Roberta’s bottom reminded me of two chicken nuggets. Her conference centre? Regrettably it was as dry as Dead Man’s Gulch in August 1876 when the Sioux Indians caught the 2nd brigade of the 7th Cavalry with their pants down and massacred the lot of them. Bulimic, why the woman couldn’t even keep her food down, so what chance was there in holding onto a f**king foetus?
I met Amy Lovely in Harvey Nichols. She was looking for a pair of bloodstone earrings to match the Bindis between her eyebrows. As far as I was concerned, Lord Siva’s source of knowledge and wisdom was to be found at an entirely different location, tee-hee! Mentioning she was an Art Graduate, we headed off to The National Gallery in Trafalgar Square. An Art Graduate MY FOOT, why Amy couldn’t tell the difference between ‘Pre‑Raphaelite’ and ‘Postnatal’ works of art.
5‑8, knock-kneed, skinny and with a page-boy haircut, apart from the fact she had a pulse, you might wonder what attracted me to her. Well, it was the collection of non‑ferrous metals that adorned the woman’s face. Captivated by my magnetic personality, we adjourned to a local brassiere brasserie. The so-called Art Major had a metal ring through one nostril, one eyebrow, loads in her ears and a stud through her tongue. Amy even wore braces, although I suspected these were worn for cosmetic reasons. Apart from slight ringing in her ears, she declared herself to be in good health. It was then that I told her I was a metallurgist.
Amy suddenly crossed her legs and I heard the sound of metal scrapping against flesh. “Err, you pierced anywhere else, “ I said.
“Yes David. My nipples are pierced, my belly button and my genitals too.” This was no shrinking violet.
“I must say Amy, I think you’re lovely. “
” Thank you David, ” she replied. “Actually, all my family are Lovelys. “ I got confused.
“ David, have you ever thought to get your mascot pierced? “
“ Darling Amy,” I replied. “The General has amassed quite enough campaign medals thank you very much! So, what does your mother think about your body-piercings?”
“David, she’s square. I ask for food parcels, but mummy keeps sending me tins of ‘Brasso’.”
I accompanied the Lovely woman to her digs in order to perform my manly duty. No word of a lie, she did have rings through her nipples, a stud through her belly button, labia majora and clit too. My new friend had literally gone to town customizing her body. This was no AMALGUM. Amy was strictly PRECIOUS METAL.
Information is gleaned from diaries and personal testimony.
On one of the rare occasions my father and mother met naked, nuclear scientist Jack tripped over Boxer puppy Ruby, and much to the chagrin of his wife, entered Doreen just below the pubic bone. As the two adults fell back onto the bed locked at the hips, one of Doreen’s eggs got fertilised. I dare say orgasms were involved although they might not have been reached at the same time, or for that matter even on the same day. They do say that women take a lot longer to arrive than men, but obviously not as long as it takes to pick out a dress and matching shoes.
Yours truly was born at four p.m. on November the twenty-forth 1970 after a mere seven-month incubation period. What caused my premature birth? Doreen had got over‑excited in a kosher butcher’s whilst arguing over cold cuts. Since not even her half-Jewish side keep a kosher table one might ask oneself what the devil the woman was doing in the shop in the first place? Arguing over cost, Doreen stamped her feet so hard that her waters broke ruining a pair of supposedly shower‑proof Russell & Bromley pumps. The shop flooded and a box of frankfurters rode the surf all the way into the street. I understand that afternoon the local canine fraternity ate al fresco.
An ambulance was summoned and the two of us were transported to St. Mark’s Hospital, a run down North London building protected by two toothless, weather beaten stone gargoyles.
Attended in the laundry room by a drunken, chain-smoking proctologist and a short-sighted trainee midwife with a stammer, Doreen was heard to scream, “Jack…you bastard! Look what you’ve done to me again. I’m being ripped apart by a goddamn shopping trolley!” Despite this appeal for separation, I was not to be rushed. Unborn, I must have sensed that life at its best was basically shit.
St. Mark’s laundry room quickly filled up with family members who would usually only appear in daylight for births, weddings, badly organised tea dances and funerals. Space at a premium, haphazardly parked electric wheelchairs and floodlit Zimmer frames made it extremely difficult to swing a cat, or for that matter deliver a baby. An assortment of twenty odd uncles, aunts and cousins stood around with green gills, in green gowns and masks waiting for me to appear before the effects of their medication wore off. (A close family is an interbred family). Father by the way stood out like a sore thumb. Having arrived straight from the radiation chamber, his ensemble consisted of bright red and orange. I think Ozzie Clark had done him.
Although Doctor Procto finally suggested that Doreen open her legs, I dragged my birth out a further eighteen hours, five minutes and twenty‑seven seconds, during which time the conscious members of my new family rushed the bed in shifts to offer the expectant mother advice on how best to shift the blockage. “Oh do sit up Doreen,” incontinent Aunt Alice said, just before yelling out, “Commode!” Morris, her course bookmaker husband contradicted her. “No, no, belay that Doreen! Lie down and push,” he said unable to prevent himself vogueing like Madonna in an attempt at passing on betting odds. Blue rinse cousin Pearl shouted, “Doreen, don’t listen to Morris. Pull, then push!”
“Push, then pull? Mary Mother of God,” mother screamed in a fake Irish accent. “I’m not trying to load a blinkin’ torpedo, just give birth to some organic material!” With Jews to the left of her and Jews to the right of her, the midwife couldn’t get a word in edgewise. I’m sure the speech impediment didn’t help. Father’s younger brother Saul, a dishevelled looking wealthy dry cleaner told Doreen to sit up and push again, then promptly changed his mind as he dropped to his knees in order to retrieve a pickled gherkin that had slipped from his grasp.
Oops! Frail cousin Millicent dropped a second pickled gherkin. Apparently it shot out of her hand whilst she attempted to perform a U‑turn in her Zimmer frame. I guess her generation hadn’t learnt to multi-skill!
Skeletal, Millicent was the black sheep of the family. At a time when Pablo Picasso was still painting by numbers and protected sex meant using a goatskin condom, Millicent’s family had sent her to New York by boat to marry a Rabbi’s son. Unfortunately, her sea voyage was interrupted by a effing great iceberg. Finally reaching The Big Apple, she called off the wedding, abandoned Judaism, adopted Hedonism and followed the early jazz scene. From what I heard Millicent blew both men and their instruments before being introduced to the evils of heroin. Her last fix in the summer of 1958 had coincided with the collapse of the woman’s one remaining healthy vein.
Back to the pickled gherkin! The tongue-tied, short-sighted midwife scooped up the foodstuff believing it to be me, cupped it in both her hands and shouted, “Make way, it’s a ba…ba…baby!” Unhappy with its colour, the gherkin was placed in an incubator and treated to oxygen.
When I did finally make an appearance, apparently I shot out of Doreen so fast, it is said the umbilical cord cracked like a whip.
Balding cousin Heimi, a part‑time club crooner and a keen amateur sailor stepped forward, I might add without a formal invite and insisted on tying my umbilical cord into a sheepshank prior to the midwife cutting it.
Je-sus, don’t some births drag on! Once the proctologist had checked my oil, he crossed his palm with my buttocks. For goodness sake, I’d only just entered the world and my rear end was already plum worn out. So, there I was, mistreated even before I’d got a fixed address.
Placed in an incubator, the pickled gherkin and I were wheeled onto the baby ward. Oh what tricks life plays on one, for as it turned out the vegetable proved to be the closest thing to a brother I would ever have. Bo-hoo!