EXCLUSIVE: SMUGGLED OUT UNDER THE COVER OF DARKNESS IN A CADBURY'S CHOCOLATE BICCIE TIN, ROVING REPORTER BOB SPLASHER OF THE EAST FENWICK BELCHER BRINGS YOU THE BIRD'S THOUGHTS, DREAMS & INFLECTIONS FROM HIS HOSPITAL BED AS HE FIGHTS WITH THE DREADED SPASM IN THE LOWER PLACENTA...
Dear world!
Yes, it's me! I'm in the post-recoiled wing of St Just's Hospital, East Fenwick. I've just had me supper - a burnt kipper (that's a fish for all you dudes from the US of Eh?!) - and a mug of rabbit's P. Well, that's what it tastes like, anyhoo. There's been a lot of prodding going on today, and I've been twisted this way and that. And that's just by me mum! Look, I told her not to come but would she listen? Eh, A, Ay? She brought me a Mars bar and twelve packets of Marks & Spencer's sea salt and pepper crisps. But I really only wanted a Coke and the book that I was reading before this horrible thing happened to me whilst stretching meself in bed. The book, by the way, is the prequel to CONFESSIONS OF A POOP-SCOOPER & OTHER TALES OF EXCEPTIONAL LOBOTOMIES, which hasn't been written yet. The latter, I mean. And the former is kinda sketchy too, but hilarious. It's called THE SQUASHED GROPE IN THE PANTRY & THE ENEMA THAT REFUSED TO DIE. Nurse Schlapenbumfen has warned me that if I wet the bed one more time, she'll put me on a strict regime of sensory degradation, and take away my teddy bear and socks. But honestly, I think she just enjoys PRETENDING to be a Nazi stormtrooper with the tightest arse this side of the Revolving Curtain. I doubt that a bow anchor would make it up there, or anything else come to think of it, which I'd rather not, you know, think about, cos, well, I won't go on. So as I was saying, who could possibly know how tough it is to bump off an enema? At this juncture, I really have no idea how they're going to do it but I strongly suspect that it involves the following, but I may be wrong:
1) A pitch fork
2) A hose pipe
3) A CD player with Coldplay's last album on a loop
4) A piece of shipping rope
and 5) Sulphuric acid
Why does it hurt when I turn on my side? Because that's what grumbling placentas do. The throbbing badger... well, that's just to work up some sympathy innit. I wouldn't know what a throbbing badger in pantaloons looked like if it grabbed me by the Freddy, but naturally, I wouldn't want one neither. And when I'm cured, I want to go back to writing my memoirs and growing the perfect parsnip. Do I heck! Buff and me are in the middle of the Sherlock Holmes mysteries and a zillion other projects. Oops. Forgot. Wasn't supposed to tell anyone about that till National Lamb-Poo sorted out the contract. Doesn't matter, I guess, in the wider scheme of rings. As long as we get laid. I mean PAID.
Dammit! Schlapenbumfen is on the warpath again. I'd better wrap this baby up and smuggle it out. I'm feeling a bit wibbly but I think that's mainly due to my lack of Marmite sarnies. And I'm getting totally fed up with mashed potato and spinach but on the plus side, I'm warm, dry, well-tranked up and in full contention of my facilities.
As always, your humble recalcitrant,
Birdy
PS Can someone water me cammelia on the patio? Ta.
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