I’m delighted the honourable gentleman
asked me that question. To clarify; the pig
didn’t have its throat slit so it could sexually
gratify me, but had been dead
some time when I placed my little
pink manhood in its stiff, cold jaws. Nor
was I arrested and fined fifty Pounds
for taking without paying for
three pairs of bright red knickers
from Tescos at Leamington Spa.
Nor did I pay good money, with
the Queen’s head on it, for the privilege
of laying half a pound of raw liver
across an elderly
prostitute’s belly. Nor was I any
part of the group who put yams
up Boris’s bottom for a lark.
These are just tales chums
concoct to make one look
excellenter even than one
already knows one is.