is that one can’t tell baulk from stutter
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Can I pass you your coat? 
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It’s grand to be appreciated
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Ow!
ow ow ow ow ow ow ow!
I was eating…
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sorry
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Rice up mi nose
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Butter stool, utter balls, what does it matter as long as the boy loves his social secretary?
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S’not a leap year is it?
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And he’s married…
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He soon will be. Can his ticker tock it? Lillian’s filthy chuckle as she unzips him must make the arteries seize up at some point. (I knew someone who used to tell all and sundry that she’d give her OH an egg nog in the middle of the night to keep him going. They did have a large family, strange to relate.)
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Are you sure that wasn’t a euphemism? Definite shades of Susan’s chilli…
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stoppit the pair of you. Bleuaghhht.
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Slurpy slurpy, eaty talky, tickle tickle…
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joe, I have known [in posting terms, understood] you long and loved you well and so I hope you won’t take it too amiss when I say
stfu
yuk
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I couldn’t guarantee it wasn’t an ointment to be rubbed well in rather than a potion. It’s not as if they asked for my help (which wouldn’t have been forthcoming beyond passing the capsicums). This would explain why Neil and Susan have such lively nights. Maybe she had a dab before nets the other night. Chilli should really be a banned substance in village cricket, and definitely no Scotch bonnets at Easter.
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Could I pass you the pickled eggs, Gus?
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Only if Jill has finished with them,
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Pickled egg cake, tart, flan, custard… This all comes of Nigella putting chilli in Christmas cake whilst vamping the camera. Oh bugger, we’re back to Neil and peppery Susan.
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