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Thursday, June 16, 2005 Ispired this between a whelks ass and a sniff of tobago this morning as i was trying to navigate something to say about Cosmopolitan's latest survey : Women WOULD RATHER go wthout knickers and keep the make up (if push came to shove, which i suppose it must if this survey has any meaningful relationship to a woman's real life (which I suppose it must ave). So I ad her here (nackers and all) wiv my own brass tacks shying in the wind of breeze a thought... pigin jumped in and said, yars, Clockwork Orange, yeah? He did write it. Joyce too. Was wiv dat? Anyhoo (jus sayin) where did that come from? that the oil legacy of it ere this morning is a bright stump of wood in a marshland somewhere south of Florida Keys. I digress. The old Cornish breeze was long gawn nah. I was upon the Ayr Perth Adelaide ship, westbound for Tobago, aforementioned, crossing the PAcific when it appened. Wot wiv all did crockin going on, I felt (anyway) sure as sure, when the toime was right I would, and I would connect x and y and see what happened. First I had to consult the old master of this, Joyce, before continuing fiurther.... a field! Woa! Brake. Foot. Jumpstart car. Mate. What the F***. Speed limits here are unregistered; we were Grampian mountains or bust, smoothing through it with JB whisky and cream. Plus a touch of the old Cuba Libre (but like the Speaker of the House) were we impaired?

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