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Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 1420
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Friday, November 28, 2003 - 5:01 pm: | 
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Hi Natalie
I do like Oscar. I'd never send him to hell.
Hell is "Barbara Streisand sings Wagner".
Robert |
AP Wolf
Chief Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 598
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, November 29, 2003 - 9:16 am: |
|
Jack the Kipper
(An operatic farce in three episodic skips)
We join proceedings at a Whitechapel Fish Market where a small nondescript cockney chappie attempts to interest the passing crowd in some old cod he is selling.
Without stammer or stutter
He was heard to utter
The following out loud
With diction quite proud:
‘I am Joe the fishy porter
Bringing fish to slaughter
Bringing fish to slaughter
For I’m Joe the fishy porter.’
‘I slice ‘em up thick and thin
And at their tails do begin
And when I reach their head
I know it’s time for me bed.’
‘I’m like a fish out of water
For I’m Joe the fishy porter.’
(Rousing chorus follows)
‘I live with a miner’s daughter
For I’m Joe the fishy porter
For four hard pence I bought her
For I’m Joe the fishy porter
And it’s a fine lesson I’ve taught her
For I’m Joe the fishy porter.’
‘They say I’m quite meek
And paid three pound a week
To gut and dress cod
And that life is a sod
For all fish are caught on rod
That’s why… I’m Joe the fishy porter
Bringing fish to slaughter.’
‘I’m Joe the fishy porter
And truth is I fought her
And fish gave her to eat
To keep her off the street
And to stop selling herself
I gave her winkle and whelk
To keep her at home
I gave her cod off the bone
To keep her mine
I gave her eels soaked in wine
But she threw me the key
Said she’d rather have tea
She told me I was a bore
And showed me the door
But I snuck back in
And plied her with gin
In a chemise I bought her
Like a fish out of water
For I’m Joe the fishy porter.’
(Rousing chorus follows).
‘She said: ‘Joe you’re a lout
So I ripped her heart out
And then dressed her so neat
Skinned from her head to her feet
Then with fond kiss bid her farewell
And promised to see her in hell.
Now I know I’m not tall
But when I stand on my stall
And any old cod do call
Then they know I’m Joe the fishy porter
Bringing fish to the slaughter
And a good lesson I taught her
Cos I’m Joe the fishy porter.’
(Curtain falls to wild applause and not a few rotten tomatoes).
|
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 1423
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, November 29, 2003 - 11:43 am: |
|
Hi AP
That one and the one before: brilliant stuff!
Continuing the operatic theme:
She was a merry widow
But her tiny hand was frozen,
Lying there upon the bed
With hardly any clothes on.
A curse on her defiance!
A curse on all her clients!
'Twas like living in bordello!
Now with thanks to Leporello
I've found her little book.
Would you like a little look?
(READS)
Three thousand market porters
And two thousand artist Walters.
Ten pork butchers barmy,
And most of the British army.
One million Polish Jews
And twelve Royal Navy crews
Formed long and winding queues,
Plus twenty Walters Dews.
Five thousand black magicians
And ninety Queen's Physicians,
Three zillion necromancers,
And two gay ballet dancers.
Eighty princes of the blood,
Fifty men she called 'm'lud',
Police inspectors by the score,
Till I couldn't take no more.
I am like all fellas:
I get a wee bit jealous.
And just like fellas do,
I disembowelled the moo.
(CURTAIN FALLS. BOWYER COMES ONSTAGE AND PEEPS THROUGH THE CURTAIN, THEN STAGGERS BACK, HANDS CLAPPED OVER HIS EYES)
Robert
|
AP Wolf
Chief Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 599
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, November 29, 2003 - 1:16 pm: |
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Robert
bloody excellent reply!
I think we should write an entire operatic farce between us and stage it in Whitechapel when complete.
Linford & Wolf doesn't sound bad.
The sort of thing I have in mind is the Goons meet Jack the Kipper; and Freud and company get a right royal ripping as do smug authors like me good self.
Sadly I hear the jets of my flying machine warming as I type this note and the brandy bottle is almost empty so I must flee these shores for warmer climes, and even more sadly the climes I fly too are so remote that they believe the internet to be something you catch fish with.
So I suspect this mouse will not squeak for at least two week.
The next part was going to be a carousel ride around St Botolphs Church with all the whores and suspects on board whilst the good officers of the Met look on... much in the style of the short story I posted about Thomas with his bloody package.
'Evening your Royal Highness, just come to butcher a commoner have we?' asks the PC.'I quite fancy the bonnie lass in the black bonnet but perhaps His Royal Highness would like something else?'
Etc and etc into tedium.
Dwell on it Robert. |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 1425
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, November 29, 2003 - 2:19 pm: |
|
Hi AP
Yes, the carousel ride sounds a great idea. I'll leave you to do it, as it's your brainchild. But maybe you could have a passing reference to "The Tragic Roundabout" with Dougal as an incompetent bloodhound, and Tom as a Zebedee character, always arriving from nowhere with a boing (Spring-heeled Jack).
Enjoy your holiday! Look forward to your return.
Robert
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Natalie Severn
Sergeant
Username: Severn
Post Number: 23
Registered: 11-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, November 29, 2003 - 2:49 pm: |
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A.P.Very much enjoyed the first episode.And the idea of St Botolph"s carousel ride.Some of the characters private fantasies might also be allowed an airing perhaps?[thinking about Genet and "the Balcony" type of thing].There are a number of senior police officers being "replaced" or "replacing" one another too which could add to the feeling of farce.
Natalie |
Natalie Severn
Sergeant
Username: Severn
Post Number: 24
Registered: 11-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, November 29, 2003 - 3:02 pm: |
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Robert,enjoyed yours very much too-very novel.
-and I nearly forgot to say to A.P."have a wonderful time---try and send us a postcard!]
Natalie |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 1429
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, November 29, 2003 - 3:13 pm: |
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Hi Natalie
Thanks. Don't know whether or not AP sends postcards, but we might get a message in a brandy bottle!
Robert |
AP Wolf
Chief Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 601
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Tuesday, December 16, 2003 - 4:23 pm: |
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I don't know about a postcard, Robert, but I did write an entire operatic farce while I had five minutes to spare away from the bar serving that rum marinated for months with limes and lemons, and I was going to throw up the first act tonight but now find I am completely lifeless after a 12 hour flight where they continued serving the delightful muck right to the minute our wheels hit the tarmac of a Heathrow that once seemed a distance dream.
The 'Carousel' idea works well.
Here's the whore's chorus just to give you a taste of what is to come:
'We are drunken whores
rotten to our cores,
full of scabs and sores,
for we are drunken whores!' |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 1575
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Tuesday, December 16, 2003 - 4:32 pm: |
|
Hi AP
Welcome back! The chorus looks good. But I'm not sure what you meant by "throwing up" the first act!
I have written a reasonable length poem, will post it once I've got it in final form. I've also been working on a couple of Christmas ones.
Robert |
AP Wolf
Chief Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 602
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Tuesday, December 16, 2003 - 4:46 pm: |
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Thanks Robert
I suppose I meant that the whole thing was inspired by an over-indulgence in over-strong rum... end result: over-strung, over-hung one-time writer now delightfully ravished by the bitter sweet revenge of the sugar cane.
I hadn't thought of a christmas poem.
I must.
For I do wonder what Jack would have done with himself in the season of gooodwill to 'all men'.
|
AP Wolf
Chief Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 603
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Wednesday, December 17, 2003 - 4:23 am: |
|
St. Botolph’s Church Carousel
(act 1)
(curtains open to reveal a reluctant transvestite devil who is pushed onto stage to be illuminated by red spotlights. In trembling Kenneth Williams voice he announces):
‘With creak and spark does carousel start
With rip and roar, the carnival of whore
Does begin…
To spin.’
(carousel behind the devil is illuminated and slowly begins to revolve, and devil continues):
‘Round and round as engine pound
With steam and sound
Lit up bright in festival of light.’
(single white spotlight picks out young girl - Mary Kelly - on carousel who begins to sing as carousel gathers speed):
(MJK) ‘Hah! In celebration of night more like!
And then Oh! What a jolly sight
As these gentlemen do fight
For their manly right
To keep things nice and tight
To keep things nice and tight.
Well, not on your nelly
Or my name’s not Mary Kelly!’
(devil is dragged off stage as carousel gathers more speed. Various spotlights pick out the ten elderly whores dressed in rags on the carousel who sing the ‘whore’s chorus):
(whores) ‘We are drunken whores
Rotten to our cores
Full of scabs and sores
For we are drunken whores!’
(Scattered at random in the audience are the top nine suspects for the role of Jack the Ripper - in full period costume - and as an old cockney lag jumps up on the stage to address the audience, bright spotlights pick out these grim characters).
(old lag) ‘Come along then both boy and gent
For here your four pence is well spent.
‘Ere! What’s this? It looks a bit queer!
Sorry sir, no polished farthings here!
Now then you fine gents out there
Do none of you have a special care?
For we are here to feed that need
And a fine selection we have indeed!
And gentlemen, if you please
You mustn’t worry about disease
For we have a doctor who will cure all ills
With his potions and pills
And not a few surgical skills.
The Queen’s own physician
And a fine obstetrician.
Come along Dr. Gull, jump up on stage
I’m sure we can cater for that inner rage.’
(grim looking Dr. Gull leaves audience and takes up a place on the carousel).
(old lag) ‘Ah! I see you’ve taken horse behind Martha, a wise choice
For although a bit rough she’s still possessed of good voice.
Now Martha, tell the good doctor what makes you sick
For I’m sure for you the right cure he will pick.’
(Martha) ‘I’ve been stabbed 39 times right in me chest!’
(Dr) ‘Well for that I recommend a long period of rest.’
(Martha) ‘But he ripped me bits all down here!’
(Dr) ‘My recommendation is then a good jug of beer.’
(Martha) ’But doctor, I died a thousand terrible deaths!’
(Dr) ’Well then I suggest a good dose of meths…’
(old lag) ’Come then folks, who else shall I introduce
For one of me fine ladies to wickedly seduce?’
(roll of thunder, lightning illuminates the stage and then all is plunged into complete darkness for a full minute. A single blue spotlight picks out a cowled figure centre stage. It is Jack and he speaks like Darth Vada)
(Jack) ‘The Seven Sisters are my fate
And with those stars I play check-mate.
For I move the pieces here and there
And then kill each piece without a care.
Devil’s pawn and devil’s spawn
Devil’s steed and devil’s seed
Devil’s lust and devil’s thrust
Devil’s paw and devil’s whore.’
(Jack disappears into stage floor and the carousel is illuminated again).
(old lag) ‘Blimey! It’s gone awful quiet in here
Has everyone popped out for a quick beer?
Don’t worry gents, the bar will be open soon
So come on girls rouse ‘em with your tune!’
(whores) ‘We are drunken whores
Rotten to our cores
Full of scabs and sores
For we are drunken whores!’
(old lag about to speak again is suddenly interrupted by unexpected appearance of young lad - covered in muck and grime - who scampers across the stage clutching a red-stained parcel. The lad - with the agility of a monkey - scales the carousel, rushes about on the roof hither and thither, and then falls off the edge - dropping his parcel in the fall, before rushing off stage again. In the background the strains of ‘Dixon of Dock Green’ begin to play as a police constable wanders onto stage and trips over the parcel left by the lad).
(PC) ‘Ello, ello, what we got here?
Looks very suspicious and queer.’
(PC picks parcel up)
(PC) ‘Well it’s addressed to a certain Mr Lusk
So deliver it I suppose I must.
Hang on a minute, there’s a letter as well!
Addressed to Mr Lusk and coming from hell.
Blimey! There’s half a kidney in here
Been soaked in wine and not in beer.
Well I’m partial to a bit of fried kidney meself
The doc says it’s very good for me health.
So I best deliver this parcel with all possible speed
So that Mr Lusk on his half kidney can feed.’
(PC turns to audience. Touches brim of helmet).
(PC) ‘Evening all.’
(end of act 1. Bar open).
|
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 1579
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Wednesday, December 17, 2003 - 5:11 am: |
|
Brilliant! So energetic! Very funny and original.
I'm loving this, AP.
Robert |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 1605
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, December 20, 2003 - 12:28 pm: |
|
Hi AP
I AM JACK'S KNIFE
I am Jack's knife and we go for a stroll
When the sun slinks away to his bed.
The shadows creep upon Jack's soul
And we slink forth instead.
The crazy clattering dice are hurled
From the frowzy fuddled den.
The women bounce on the life-wheel twirled
To casino cries of the men.
And it is all a game of mischance,
A game that Jack must win.
But tomorrow they'll do the same old dance
To the same old deafening din.
And Jack must dance, as I prick and I pull
And goad and tickle and tease.
I make him drink his cup of gall
Right down to the clotty lees.
I jiggle in pocket at sight of a whore,
And I will not let him be
Until he a purple libation do pour
To the wicked night and to me.
I lead him on his murderous way
For I am Jacky's knife.
I've power to make him king for a day
And a slave for the rest of his life.
I have a thousand teeth that tempt,
Honed by a thousand ills.
Dreams that were smashed before they were dreamt
And the waking nightmare that kills.
Infant woe and grown-up hate,
The face that's turned to the wall.
Born too early, born too late,
And better not born at all.
Sheep that shelter in drowsy fold
By the glow of your shepherd's candle,
Pray it's not your fate to hold
My black and bony handle.
Robert
|
AP Wolf
Chief Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 615
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, December 20, 2003 - 4:41 pm: |
|
Robert
verses two and eight absolutely classic, the rest superb.
I much liked this and must read it again when sober of a morning.
Thank you Robert. |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 1608
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, December 20, 2003 - 4:51 pm: |
|
Thanks AP. But I fear it won't look so good when read sober!
Robert |
AP Wolf
Chief Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 618
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, December 21, 2003 - 7:36 am: |
|
Robert
you'll be pleased to hear that the poem holds up well in strong daylight, even when one has a blinding hangover.
Verses two and eight are still the best, but I'm getting fonder of the last verse also.
All in all, an excellent piece of poetic drama.
I'm afraid I seem to have dried up in this department since arriving back from warmer climes, but will see if a decent bottle of SSB can get the brain cells scattering for their very lives.
Looks like you'll be stuck with me over the winter now, as I've had to cancel my trip down under to the land of bold type and exclamation marks on the wicked advice of my good doctor, he feels that my poor old bones cannot survive such an alcoholic environment for such a lengthy period. Pure tosh really, as I was only planning to daily drink two cases of Tassy beer and three bottles of Bundy (that's a rum not a serial killer) for the three months. |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 1610
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, December 21, 2003 - 7:53 am: |
|
Hi AP
Thanks for your comments. This doctor of yours isn't called Brooks, is he? If he prescribes alcohol-free lager, threaten to shoot him.
I am trying to do a couple of Christmas ones now.
Robert |
AP Wolf
Chief Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 619
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, December 21, 2003 - 10:28 am: |
|
Dr Brooks of Westminster Bridge do you mean Robert?
Uncle Charles shot him already. |
AP Wolf
Chief Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 620
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, December 21, 2003 - 1:51 pm: |
|
Christmas dinner at Jack’s house
‘Would you like to carve the turkey this year, Jack?’ his mother asked.
‘Certainly, mother, it would be my intense pleasure to do so,’ Jack replied, standing up and taking the long carving knife and fork from his mother.
As the family looked on young Jack set about his business. Firstly he stabbed the turkey thirty nine times - quite violently, in fact a little too violently his mother felt - all over its lower body and breast.
‘But Jack!’ she implored, rising to her feet. ‘What do you do there?’
‘Worry not mother dear, it allows the juice to run freely and the meat to breath.’
With his mother sat down again with the rest of the family, Jack continued with the carving, now turning his attention to the legs of the bird, which he spread in what his mother felt was a mildly indecent posture, but as it was only a turkey and it was Christmas she let the moment pass. Taking one leg, Jack stripped it clean of meat from thigh to knee and piled the meat on Uncle Charles’ plate.
‘Why thank you, nephew, most kind for I do enjoy the meat from the thigh especially,’ his uncle thanked him, then asked:
‘Is the turkey a protestant bird, Jack?’
‘Surely, sir, you do not think that we would allow a Catholic turkey into this household do you?’
Uncle Charles patted his revolver and nodded his head.
After a few idle stabs at the breast region of the large bird Jack suddenly plunged his hands into the gaping innards and pulled out the giblets which he quickly wrapped in a napkin and shoved in his pocket.
‘Why Jack?’ called his aunt. ‘What do you do there with the giblets?’
‘Worry not dear aunt, they are for faithful old Shep, our dear and faithful sheepdog asleep in the yard.’
‘Oh Jack, you are so kind!’ she remarked, and the entire family smiled in agreement for Jack was a most agreeable figure.
Taking a small penknife from his other pocket Jack then began to stab and strip away the flesh from the wings of the bird which he placed lovingly on his own plate for he still carried the childish ambition that if one ate wings then one would fly.
‘Oh Jack!’ implored his aunt. ‘Can’t your mother and I share the breasts? The leg and wing meat is so indelicate.’
‘Surely Mam,’ smiled Jack, and then quick as a flash removed the entire left breast of the bird and deposited it on his auntie’s plate with a wry grin. Quite how the wry grin managed to get on the plate is a mystery that will probably never be solved.
With the other breast Jack took his time, nicking and picking at it like a man quite possessed of some demon, until quite some ten minutes had passed, and his uncle much vexed by the delay roared:
‘For pity’s sake Jack, will you cut that damned breast off for your mother so that I can eat me blasted leg or I shall be late for duty tonight!’
‘Sorry, uncle Charles, here we are mother, a nice bit of breast for you.’
‘Thank you Jack, don’t forget to save a small piece of meat for the servant girl, I promised her a small treat.’
‘Certainly mother,’ Jack replied, turned the turkey over and then taking a small pair of scissors from his pocket began abstractly poking the bird in its posterior.
‘What are you doing now, Jack?’ his mother asked with a forkful of turkey breast poised at her mouth.
‘Well mother,’ he explained. ‘There is hardly any meat left so I am doing the best I can with this end of the bird.’
The servant girl came in with a small curtsy and announced:
‘I have the cranberry sauce, sir.’
‘Good girl,’ said Jack. ‘Pass it to me and then you and your small curtsy may leave the room.’
They did so as Jack studied the cranberry sauce.
‘It is as red as blood,’ he finally announced and began pouring copious amounts of the red fluid onto the family’s plates.
When dinner was finished the men retired to the drawing room and began idly sketching scenes of the Thames and Tower Bridge whilst quaffing Safeway’s Spanish Brandy and puffing on fine Cuban cigars rolled on the large thighs of sweaty slaves from the far off Carib… but I digress too easily.
‘Doing anything after dinner, Jack?’ kindly asked uncle Charles.
‘I though I might pop out and slaughter a few whores, dear uncle,’ Jack replied.
‘Catholics I hope?’ enquired his uncle who was a stickler for form in such circumstances.
‘Of course, Uncle Charles!’ Jack assured him.
‘Splendid fellow!’ rejoiced his uncle. ‘Now pass me another one of those Quality Street chocolates, they are superbly delicious.’
|
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 1614
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, December 21, 2003 - 2:40 pm: |
|
Hilarious, AP. There were so many funny moments, like Uncle Charles patting his revolver, and Jack's beliefs about flying....well, this quite puts in the shade my intended Christmas Aphabet and Twelve Days of Christmas!
I will ponder for a couple of hours, and then endeavour to reply. But you're a hard act to follow, AP.
Robert |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 1615
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, December 21, 2003 - 4:35 pm: |
|
Suddenly Jack jumped up.
"I haven't checked the chimney to see if Santa's been!"
He ran over to the fireplace and found on the hearth a note which had obviously floated down from above:
"I've given up coming down chimneys since I heard about the Miller's Court business.
Yours truly,
Santa."
Jack's face fell – as did the servant girl's when he sliced it off in a fit of pique. But he soon recovered his good humour when his uncle said :
"Never mind, Jack. There are presents beneath the tree."
Jack hopped over his aunt, leapt over his mother, somersaulted over his uncle and pole-vaulted over the back of the sofa to reach the tree. After delightedly jobbing the fairy a few times, he grabbed a parcel, tore off the wrapping and opened the small cardboard box within.
"Oh! Thank-you, uncle! It’s a kidney!"
"Prasarved it for you", said uncle Charles.
"In SSB. Gosh, thanks again, uncle."
Meanwhile Jack's mother and aunt were unwrapping their gifts.
"Jack", said his mother. "These aprons don't seem to be intact. They're only pieces. And they seem rather soiled – all red and brown."
"Oh, it's always the same with women," moaned Jack. "Whatever you get them, it's the wrong colour."
"Silence!" called uncle Charles, standing to attention. "It's time for the Queen's Christmas message."
He took a telegram from his pocket and read it out loud :
"Have they searched the cattle-boats?"
"She says the same thing every year," said Jack's mother.
"Well," replied Jack, "she can't say anything controversial, like 'Kill the Catholics' ".
Uncle Charles grabbed his revolver and started putting on his scarf.
"No, no, uncle, I didn't mean that you were to – "
Fortunately there was a knock at the door.
"Now we all love a Christmas pudding,
Now we all love a Christmas pudding,
Now we all love a Christmas pudding,
So bring some out here."
"I'll give them bloody Christmas pudding," said Jack, darkly.
He seized the pudding from the table and opened the door, to be confronted by a group of scabby destitute carol singers.
"Here, take this, scabby destitute carol singers," said Jack warm-heartedly.
"Thank-you kindly young gentleman," was the grateful response.
Jack closed the door, with a look of peace and compassion on his face. Next minute, his mother rushed to the window:
"Why, Jack! I do believe those scabby destitute carol singers are choking!"
"Did you put any coins in that pudding, Jack?" asked uncle Charles.
"Yes, 4592 polished farthings," replied Jack.
"Ha, ha!" burst out his uncle. "A lad after my own heart."
"Not yet, uncle – but I will be, unless you let me have the paper deerstalker from the cracker."
"Look, I tell you every year that it's MY paper deerstalker!"
"No it's not, it's mine!"
"Damn it, sir! I wear the paper deerstalker in this house!..."
Jack's mother cast a glance at his aunt.
"Oh dear," she said. "It's the same every Christmas. All you get is repeats..."
|
AP Wolf
Chief Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 621
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, December 21, 2003 - 5:07 pm: |
|
You did it again, Robert, I must have laughed out loud at least twenty times during the reading of that.
An absolute gold-mine of humour.
You have my congratulations, sir.
You also robbed the idea of the Christmas crackers right out of my mind, for I was toying with the same circumstance.
Very very funny, Robert, the whole thing. |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 1617
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, December 21, 2003 - 5:16 pm: |
|
Thanks AP, and so was yours.
Well, we've done dinner and presents. What next?
Robert |
AP Wolf
Chief Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 622
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, December 21, 2003 - 5:43 pm: |
|
I'm going for the Christmas mass, complete with Uncle Charles, his hatred for Catholics and his trusty revolver. Should be fun.
'I shot the vicar'... Bob Marley meets Jack the Ripper. |
|
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