The supermarkets warned: 'The safest way to avoid the risk of future fire, is to set fire to them now. You can't really dispose of something that is disposable, without fulfilling its basic function. You could keep it, to thwart the disposable bit, but then you're stuck with it. And given the unseasonably hot weather, it would be a shame not to throw a couple of burgers on top'.
The Lord's Day. Decided not to ride into into town, as the horse was all of a lather when I rode him home yestereve. The heat has persisted for days and it is damnable hot, even at night. Far too hot for congress with Elizabeth.
Did stroll to *MM*'s house to view his plans for the building of fine properties to the north of the City. He says he will deliver fresh water to each house and remove the waste to the Thames. Madness of course. Neither the Sovereign nor the Lord Mayor would commit funds to such a venture. He hopes to find a Speculator who will invest, perhaps Lord Southern who, it appears, has money in abundance. However, he is an avaricious rogue and would needs be kept under constant scrutiny
On my perambulation thence to the Crowne. I did espy many citizens were cooking their meats on braziers. The Lord Mayor has warned against this as many houses are huddled together in closes and they are tinder dry. I fear that London is primed for a Great Conflagration.
At the Crowne, spoke with the pamphleteers Littlejohn and Hitchens. They had much to say about the two persons hoping to replace the disgraced First Lord of the Treasury. They regard both as small beer and not suitable for public life. Indeed, many find their promises to protect the public purse as pie in the sky. I doubt that they could even lead geese to market.
Had a fine veal pie with Irish Stout and thence home. May it rain soon.
Image from Pixabay by ArtTower:
A man claims to have seen the arse of Boris Johnson in the liquefying tar of the A630 just outside Doncaster.
‘I was just coming back from Homebase, when the road became too sticky to drive on,’ bleated spam barista Martin Reckon. ‘I got out of the car ready to take evasive action - a sadface selfie and tweet to the Daily Mail’s “Readerswank” page - when I realised the shape of the puddle in the road looked eerily familiar. It was quite a shock - shows how quickly you adjust, even after two years of having them gleefully thrust in your face on a daily basis.’
Asked how he could be certain the asphalt-art was the oleaginous buttocks of currently absent PM and permanently absenting human being Johnson, Martin chuckled: ‘They’re as recognisable to me as the sunshine, or the smile on a newly ears-pierced toddler.
‘Who hasn’t seen those magnificent arse-mammaries squeezing through a straining zipwire harness, turning smartly away from an hypothermic pensioner, or lumping enthusiastically up and down on your girlfriend when you pop back upstairs to fetch your good glasses from the bedside table?
‘It was almost as if he was bidding me a very personal farewell, I’ll treasure it forever. It’s even better than the time I thought I saw his face in the margarine; though thinking back, I’m not entirely sure that wasn’t him simply hiding in my fridge.’
