Jump. Smack palm with back of hand.
Thursday
Today no macho bollocks, just good (slap), clean (clap) stories about local life (jump and slap palm).
Can’t stand it when you go round to yer bird’s house and she cooks complete shit for dinner. Most people would be polite but I say, ‘F**king heeell! The melon balls taste like goats’ balls and the lasagne looks like dog shit!’ The mother-in-law can't cook any better with her bully beef, dumplings and dripping. She's a right giggle, I always get her in a headlock and then put her over my head and smack her arse red.
So I ride my 7 foot stallion over to my f**k off Harley Davidson and ride at 200 miles an hour, cock out, to Billy the butcher’s for some f**king meat. Good (clap), locally sourced (jump) prime beef joints. I slap them for about ten minutes, beat up the butcher and slash the meat open with a Stanley knife. Then, knead it until it’s pulped beast, kick it into the oven and piss on the vicar just for a laugh.
Olive oiiiiiiiiil! Season! Excellent, the beef is bleeding like my bird when she’s on the blob. Yorkshire puddiiiiiiiing! (slap). Roast potatoes! Gravy!
Done! (jump)
See. Fast, (clap, smack) healthy food and no macho clichés.
Eat, for f**k’s sake!
Now f**k off out my diary!
Loved it Fred. *claps her hands in delight*