Sunday, 1 November 2009

Blame it on Gothstock

Sunday morning at 12.52ish around my neck of the woods was

M E N T A L.

The police had got the word to G O. Sirens shrieked and what sounded like a fleet of the bleedin’ Sweeney screeched down my street stirring me from my dreams, which fortunately did not feature lame arse genwhinedoesgothandzombie and fleshy middle aged goth llladies commemorating All Hallows' Eve by the sportage of vavavavoom neckline ensembles and shadin’ theirselves and their treasure chests from the sun with lacey black parasols. Alas, I had truly ( sorry, verily) witnessed this gothicke grotesquerie 10 hours earlier when strolling down the main drag - 'keep yer mammaries to yerselves', i had hectored, in vain.

I was then well and truly woken by several reassuring bump, bump, bumps and a terrifying THUMP.

Adrenalin prickling and pumping, I scrambled out of my tangled bedclothes to race to the sitting room and stick my head out the window.

What a sight!!

Sweet NSRs by the look of these coppers they could never have passed for the Sweeney as they’d clearly never gone without dinner (let alone elevenses, and their trou pockets were no doubt crammed with snack packs and jam rolypolies). Bargearse/Bluey, more like. The great galoots had been in portly, sweaty pursuit of that object of the utmost importance, a stolen vehicle.

Oh the gaspillage of law'n'order funds (Surely the Cruel Sea wrote/sold a song about it?)

Sickmaking. Pass me that cream bun N O W!

Bargearse One not content with her car mounting the street's footpath had smashed its bonnet into the mansions' surrounding fence!! Bargearse Two tried to miss Bargey One and rammed his car's bonnet up the back of my neighbours’ motor.

Sirens continued to wail, porky pigs sweated and aimlessly waddled across the street, their guns in holsters jiggling against their jubblies, as they wondered “which way did he go?” and surveyed with surprise the enormous dish of crash, bang, smash ‘em up they’d served the residents of the mansions.

Goosey Goosey Gander

3 sniffer dogs, 2 smashed fuzz cars, 3 smashed civilian cars and 12 portly coppers later - ‘hot’ rod was smashed and abandoned and not one 'villain' nicked. Fortunately no one was injured in the debacle.


boy moritz said...

Dear Mistress, I just had a croissant.

Do you think the French eat them everyday? UGH.

Mistress Bel said...

No, the French generally wouldn't eat croissants everyday as they are generally a vain race and would not want to get fat; it would be a fate worse than cancer. Only the truly lost froggies binge on croissants. They then become fat and are consequently lynched every Wednesday afternoon for being grosse. This is why school kiddies generally have Wednesay off from school - lynch the fatty day which in French is known as Mercredi. It is a very succinct and cruel tongue.