21 June 2011


~ heads up ~

KV, all you chaps who weekly entertain the cricket team and their trophy wives and send Jarvis to meet them in the jalopy.

Good pal who does just that, and when the banger isn't full of toffs it's driving down thru France crammed with bubbly: last week he was meeting some pals and was hauled over by the local fuzz and grilled to an inch over running a private taxi service.

I know what happened ~ local cabbies saw all these rich punters staggering out and getting into Chummy's van and thought,

"Fuck that, we could be creaming those xenoi within an inch of their pensions.

Oy, Spiro, mate - book 'im wiv some 2nd degree."

By the nymphetium of Nausicaa! Could've been me, begorrah.

In season, the Spitfire imports half of Benenden with whom to sashay the mean streets of Mandouki.

I can just see it: I'm piling in the nubility, outta the bushes leap the Filthopouloi.

"Hold it right there, buster. Book him, sarge. White slaver, red-handed."

Spitfire: "Daad! How he dare he? Not fair! Tell him it cost us $100 each down the Tacoma Tans-R-Us to get this brown. The only thing red on us is our Padua Rouge nail polish. Cheek!

Officer? No, not you, the cute younger guy in that totally hot uniform ... this is my dad and these are my buddies and where do you guys hang out? We've only got 2 weeks and ... omigahd, is that gun real? It's so BIG!"

Fuzz - "Sir, please, drive on. No parking here.

You can go, and no, Sergeant Manesi, you cannot block-book arrest all 12 young ladies and require a full body search."

(Chorus of: 'Me first me first!')

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