Christine Banks, Christine Banks, Christine Banks and her flabby shanks, On every weekday morning, With stomach grumbling and moaning, Christine donned her slimming sexy spanks.
She came down to breakfast with glee, Slavering at the thought of what delights there’d be, But before she ate, she thought of her weight, And decided on two croissants, not three.
But it was on one hungry morning, As she shovelled down some sausages whilst snorting, There came a loud crack, She let out a quack, And fell straight through the flooring.
Russell was born in a public toilet addicted to heroin. His mother was an alcoholic, drug addict and prostitute who didn’t even know she was pregnant. The one saving grace was that he didn’t have HIV and may eventually grow up healthy. After the paramedics had fished him from the bowl and resuscitated him, he recovered well and was finally found foster parents who weren’t so proud to be put off by his mother’s shortcomings.
His new family were childless sheep farmers in the wet, grey depths of Lancashire. They were loving in so much as time allowed. As soon as he was able, Russell was set to work. That had been the main reason for his adoption, one which his parents conveniently failed to mention to the agency.
Russell knew no different. Never even knew he was adopted. His parents thought it better that way. He grafted on the farm, scraped through school until he was sixteen and continued on as he had done since childhood. The furthest he’d ever been was to Blackpool to see the lights, eat fish and chips and play in the amusement arcades. It was another world to him. The nearest town was fifteen miles away and he only went if there was no other choice. His only romantic encounter was a quick fondle and fumbled fuck with the school slapper in some rhododendrons.
Russell wasn’t interested. His passion was for his Lancashire countryside. The patch-worked fields, random windswept copses and the open far flung fells with low grey skies were his beauty and his pleasure. He took solace in it and even the bleakest, frostbite frozen day comforted and inspired him.
He painted. His paintings were bold, broad and unique. He had had little artistic influences and so developed a style of his own. A style like no other. Huge canvasses captured the open expanses, painted swiftly in thick impasto that was neither impressionistic, modern or other. But the art he created was beautiful and mesmerizing.
When the vet came on a routine visit Russell led him into the farmhouse to fill in some paperwork he was gobsmacked. Russell’s paintings hung proudly from every wall and he was visibly embarrassed answering the vet’s rushed question that he was the painter. Russell wasn’t keen to sell any despite the vet’s insistences, they were his treasures.
The vet returned early the next day. With a huge effort and coaxing Russell finally agreed to have an exhibition. It was a triumph. News spread throughout the art world and beyond. Collectors clambered, galleries begged. Eventually, just for peace and to get back to his normality, Russell conceded.
The rest, as they say, is history.
The leaf knew it was in for a rough day. The wind was in a huff and was puffing and blowing like a bull with a migraine. The leaf also knew it wasn’t alone. Millions of other leaves were in for it too. They all, like it, didn’t want to lose their grip on their master, the tree. They were both master and servant but also one in the same. It’s little known, the leaf mused, that once summer is over and leaves have made energy for the tree to grow that it’s master sucks the life out of every leaf back into the heart of itself. Leaves do not die even though they appear withered and dry but their life force is reabsorbed back into the vast trunk of the tree and their shells fall to the floor where the last vestiges of energy are drawn up by the patiently waiting roots. When spring returns the leaf magically reappears to recommence his duties. Summer wasn’t over so the leaf clung on, desperate to serve its master. It saw others close by torn from their master and it felt their pain and loss. It fought hard against the whistling wind. It’s and millions of other leaves’ efforts rose in a huge cacophony of rustling exertion. The crescendo growing with each gust, waxing with each wane of the wind.
The leaf was tough, it had endured worst. As the wind began to lose its anger and the sun cracked through gaps in the slowly disappearing clouds, the leaf smiled, opened its pores proudly and let the sunlight in. Energy began to pour from the leaf and its master was happy.
Mary had said she didn’t want anything today. She’d had a full English with all the trimming for breakfast and was full to bursting. Tony sat opposite her and smiled. “You sure luv?” he asked as dug into his chicken and leek pie. “I’m fine darling. I’ll save myself for tea.” Tony knew she really wanted a sweet but ever since they’d both retired she had started saying she was watching her weight. Tony had never watched his weight. It was something Mary said often but they didn’t even own a set of scales. “It’s very tasty. Sure you won’t try some?” he asked holding out a fork with some chicken dangling precariously from the end. Mary shook her head and smiled. Tony muttered an ‘Oh well’ and stuffed the chicken into his mouth. “I once ate a whole pie to myself after I came back from the pub drunk. Meat and potato...Felt as sick as a dog afterwards....Didn’t eat pie for ages after that...Just the sight of it...this one’s lovely although I’d prefer it with puff pastry.” Tony carried on chatting in between mouthfuls. Mary looked on in silence. When he’d finished the waiter came out and asked if everything was okay. Tony nodded vigorously, “Lovely! I told Mary she should have had some!” The waiter looked at the empty chair in front of Tony and smiled knowingly, “She doesn’t know what she’s missing does she sir?”
Good God Mike! I was having the most unfeasibly foul smelling defecation this morning and I thought to myself, ‘How’s my old Canuck mate in Nippon doing? I wonder if he’s still as chipper as a chipping thing, braving the foibles of life among the vertically challenged but ever so ever polite Japanese brethren?’ I’m sure by now your teeny weeny has taken to hibernation after severe overindulgence in the local delicacies. Me? I still bare a striking resemblance to an Adonis on sexiness steroids, albeit my hair only inhabits the borders of my bonce and my famously chiseled stomach, hewn from a granite washboard, is copying the form of a seven month preggers lass with cravings for tripled fried chips and lumps of chocolate covered lard. But I’m content. I can still see the five, sorry nine inch finger beaver and I’m solvent bar the mortgage, pay day loans and that tenner I borrowed from my lovely girlfriend to purchase her a bloody Valentines Day pressie. Are you going steady with something or someone or still seeing how many Love Hotels you can acquaint yourself with? I miss our fandangos in Kyoto. The culture, the people, the food. My God the food!! And yes the ladies. Fond mammories. Anyway my little muffle munching Mikey boy, I hope your diabetes is under control and you’ve not lost another eye, you’d really be up the creek without any goggles then! Catch you later and have some raw fish testicles for me. Love Dad.
