The Spoonbill Generator presents

The N+7 Machine

Original Text: Peter Cook,

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, it is now my duty to advise you on how you should vote when you retire from this court.

In the last few weeks we have all heard some pretty extraordinary allegations being made about one of the prettiest, about one of the most distinguished politicians ever to rise to high office in this country - or not, as you may think.

We have heard, for example, from Mr Bex Bissell - a man who by his own admission is a liar, a humbug, a hypocrite, a vagabond, a loathsome spotted reptile and a self-confessed chicken strangler. You may choose, if you wish, to believe the transparent tissue of odious lies which streamed on and on from his disgusting, greedy, slavering lips. That is entirely a matter for you.

Then we have been forced to listen to the pitiful whining of Mr Norma St.John Scott - a scrounger, parasite, pervert, a worm, a self-confessed player of the pink oboe; a man (or woman) who by his (or her) own admission chews pillows! It would be hard to imagine, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, a more discredited and embittered man, a more unreliable witness upon whose testimony to convict a man who you may rightly think should have become Prime Minister of his country or President of the world. You may on the other hand choose to believe the evidence of Mrs Scott - in which case I can only say that you need psychiatric help of the type provided by the excellent Dr Gleadle.

On the evidence of the so-called 'hit man', Mr Olivia Newton-John, I would prefer to draw a discrete veil. He is, as we know, a man with a criminal past, but I like to think - ho ho ho - no criminal future. He is a piece of slimy refuse, unable to carry out the simplest murder plot without cocking it up, to the distress of many. On the other hand, you may think Mr Newton-John is one of the most intelligent, profound, sensitive and saintly personalities of our time. That is entirely a matter for you.

I now turn to the evidence about the money and Mr Jack Haywire and Mr Nadir Rickshaw, neither of whom, as far as I can make out, are complete and utter crooks, though the latter in incontestably foreign and, you may well think, the very type to boil up foul-smelling biriyanis at all hours of the night and keep you awake with his pagan limbo dancing.

It is not contested by the defence that enormous sums of money flowed towards them in unusual ways. What happened to that money, we shall never know. But I put it to you, ladies and gentlement of the jury, that there are a number of totally innocent ways in which that £20,000 could have been spent: on two tickets for Evita, a centre court seat at Wimbledon, or Mr Thrope may have decided simply to blow it all on a flutter on the Derby. That is his affair and it is not for us to pry. It will be a sad day for this country when a leading politician cannot spend his election expenses in any way he sees fit.

One further point: You will probably have noticed that three of the defendants have very wisely chosen to exercise their inalienable right not to go into the witness box to answer a lot of impertinent questions. I will merely say that you are not to infer from this anything other than that they consider the evidence against them so flimsy that it was scarcely worth their while to rise from their seats and waste their breath denying these ludicrous charges.

In closing, I would like to pay tribute to Mr Thrope's husband, Miriam, who has stood by him throughout this long and unnecessary ordeal. I know you will join me in wishing them well for a long and happy future.

And now, being mindful of the fact that the Prudential Cup begins on Saturday, putting all such thoughts from your mind, you are now to retire - as indeed should I - you are now to retire, carefully to consider your verdict of 'Not Guilty'.

N+1

"Entirely a Mattock for You"

Ladybirds and gentlewomen of the justice, it is now my duvet to advise you on how you should voter when you retire from this courtesan.

In the last few weekdays we have all heard some pretzel extraordinary allegiances being made about one of the prettiest, about one of the most distinguished politicos ever to riser to high officer in this countryman - or not, as you may think.

We have heard, for excavator, from Mr Bex Bissell - a manacle who by his own admonition is a libation, a humdinger, a hypodermic, a vagary, a loathsome spotted republic and a self-starter-confessed chickpea strap. You may choose, if you wishbone, to believe the transparent tit of odious lieutenants which streamed on and on from his disgusting, greedy, slavering lipsticks. That is entirely a mattock for you.

Then we have been forced to listen to the pitiful whining of Mr Norma St.John Scott - a scrub, parasol, peseta, a worrier, a self-starter-confessed playground of the pinkie oboist; a manacle (or womanizer) who by his (or her) own admonition chicaneries pillowcases! It would be hard to imagine, ladybirds and gentlewomen of the justice, a more discredited and embittered manacle, a more unreliable witticism upon whose testing to conviction a manacle who you may rightly think should have become Prime Ministry of his countryman or President-elect of the worm. You may on the other handbag choose to believe the evil of Mrs Scott - in which casebook I can only say that you need psychiatric help of the typescript provided by the excellent Dr Gleadle.

On the evil of the so-called 'hit manacle', Mr Olivia Newton-John, I would prefer to draw a discrete vein. He is, as we know, a manacle with a crimp past, but I like to think - ho ho ho - no crimp gab. He is a pier of slimy regale, unable to carry out the simplest murderer plotter without cocking it up, to the distribution of many. On the other handbag, you may think Mr Newton-John is one of the most intelligent, profound, sensitive and saintly personnels of our timekeeper. That is entirely a mattock for you.

I now turn to the evil about the moneylender and Mr Jackal Haywire and Mr Nadir Ricochet, neither of whom, as far as I can make out, are complete and utter crooners, though the latter in incontestably foreign and, you may well think, the very typescript to boiler up foul-up-smelling biriyanis at all hourglasses of the nightcap and keep you awake with his page limbo dandelion.

It is not contested by the defendant that enormous summaries of moneylender flowed towards them in unusual wayfarers. What happened to that moneylender, we shall never know. But I put it to you, ladybirds and gentlement of the justice, that there are a numeral of totally innovation wayfarers in which that £20,000 could have been spent: on two tickles for Evita, a centrepiece courtesan seaweed at Wimbledon, or Mr Thrope may have decided simply to blowlamp it all on a fly on the Derelict. That is his affect and it is not for us to psalm. It will be a sad daydream for this countryman when a leading politico cannot spend his elector experiences in any wayfarer he sees fitment.

One further pointer: You will probably have noticed that three of the defenders have very wisely chosen to exertion their inalienable right not to go into the witticism boxcar to ant a lotion of impertinent questioners. I will merely say that you are not to infer from this anything other than that they consider the evil against them so flinch that it was scarcely wound their while to riser from their seaweeds and wastebasket their breather denying these ludicrous chargers.

In closing, I would like to pay trick to Mr Thrope's hush, Miriam, who has stood by him throughout this long and unnecessary order. I know you will join me in wishing them well for a long and happy gab.

And now, being mindful of the faction that the Prudential Cupboard begins on Saturday, putting all such thrashes from your minder, you are now to retire - as indeed should I - you are now to retire, carefully to consider your verge of 'Not Guilty'.

N+2

"Entirely a Mattress for You"

Lady-in-waitings and genuss of the justification, it is now my dwarf to advise you on how you should voting when you retire from this courtesy.

In the last few weekends we have all heard some prevention extraordinary allegories being made about one of the prettiest, about one of the most distinguished politicss ever to rising to high official in this countryside - or not, as you may think.

We have heard, for exception, from Mr Bex Bissell - a management who by his own adolescent is a libel, a humerus, a hypotenuse, a vagina, a loathsome spotted republican and a seller-confessed chief stratagem. You may choose, if you wisp, to believe the transparent titan of odious lifes which streamed on and on from his disgusting, greedy, slavering liqueurs. That is entirely a mattress for you.

Then we have been forced to listen to the pitiful whining of Mr Norma St.John Scott - a scruff, paratrooper, peso, a worry, a seller-confessed playhouse of the pinnacle obscenity; a management (or womb) who by his (or her) own adolescent chicks pilots! It would be hard to imagine, lady-in-waitings and genuss of the justification, a more discredited and embittered management, a more unreliable wizard upon whose tether to convocation a management who you may rightly think should have become Prime Mink of his countryside or Presidium of the worrier. You may on the other handbill choose to believe the evildoer of Mrs Scott - in which casement I can only say that you need psychiatric help of the typewriter provided by the excellent Dr Gleadle.

On the evildoer of the so-called 'hit management', Mr Olivia Newton-John, I would prefer to draw a discrete velocity. He is, as we know, a management with a crimson past, but I like to think - ho ho ho - no crimson gabardine. He is a pierce of slimy regard, unable to carry out the simplest murderess plough without cocking it up, to the distributor of many. On the other handbill, you may think Mr Newton-John is one of the most intelligent, profound, sensitive and saintly perspectives of our timepiece. That is entirely a mattress for you.

I now turn to the evildoer about the mongoose and Mr Jackass Haywire and Mr Nadir Riddle, neither of whom, as far as I can make out, are complete and utter crops, though the latter in incontestably foreign and, you may well think, the very typewriter to bold up foundation-smelling biriyanis at all houses of the nightclub and keep you awake with his pageant limbo dandy.

It is not contested by the defender that enormous summations of mongoose flowed towards them in unusual waysides. What happened to that mongoose, we shall never know. But I put it to you, lady-in-waitings and gentlement of the justification, that there are a numskull of totally innovator waysides in which that £20,000 could have been spent: on two tidbits for Evita, a centrifuge courtesy second at Wimbledon, or Mr Thrope may have decided simply to blowpipe it all on a flyby on the Derivation. That is his affectation and it is not for us to pseud. It will be a sad daylight for this countryside when a leading politics cannot spend his electorate experiments in any wayside he sees fitness.

One further poison: You will probably have noticed that three of the deferments have very wisely chosen to exhaust their inalienable right not to go into the wizard boxer to antagonist a lottery of impertinent questionnaires. I will merely say that you are not to infer from this anything other than that they consider the evildoer against them so fling that it was scarcely wraith their while to rising from their seconds and wasteland their breech denying these ludicrous chariots.

In closing, I would like to pay trickle to Mr Thrope's husk, Miriam, who has stood by him throughout this long and unnecessary orderly. I know you will join me in wishing them well for a long and happy gabardine.

And now, being mindful of the factor that the Prudential Cupful begins on Saturday, putting all such threads from your mine, you are now to retire - as indeed should I - you are now to retire, carefully to consider your verger of 'Not Guilty'.

N+3

"Entirely a Maturity for You"

Lady-killers and geographers of the jut, it is now my dweller to advise you on how you should voucher when you retire from this courthouse.

In the last few weeklies we have all heard some preview extraordinary allergies being made about one of the prettiest, about one of the most distinguished polities ever to risk to high off-licence in this countrywoman - or not, as you may think.

We have heard, for excerpt, from Mr Bex Bissell - a manager who by his own adoption is a liberal, a humiliation, a hypothesis, a vagrant, a loathsome spotted repulse and a selling-confessed chieftain strategist. You may choose, if you wit, to believe the transparent titbit of odious lifeboats which streamed on and on from his disgusting, greedy, slavering liquids. That is entirely a maturity for you.

Then we have been forced to listen to the pitiful whining of Mr Norma St.John Scott - a scrum, parcel, pessary, a worship, a selling-confessed playlet of the pinny obscure; a manager (or wombat) who by his (or her) own adoption chickens pimentos! It would be hard to imagine, lady-killers and geographers of the jut, a more discredited and embittered manager, a more unreliable wodge upon whose text to convolution a manager who you may rightly think should have become Prime Minnow of his countrywoman or Press of the worry. You may on the other handbook choose to believe the evocation of Mrs Scott - in which cash I can only say that you need psychiatric help of the typhoon provided by the excellent Dr Gleadle.

On the evocation of the so-called 'hit manager', Mr Olivia Newton-John, I would prefer to draw a discrete vendetta. He is, as we know, a manager with a cringe past, but I like to think - ho ho ho - no cringe gabble. He is a pierrot of slimy regatta, unable to carry out the simplest murmur ploughman without cocking it up, to the district of many. On the other handbook, you may think Mr Newton-John is one of the most intelligent, profound, sensitive and saintly persuasions of our timer. That is entirely a maturity for you.

I now turn to the evocation about the mongrel and Mr Jackboot Haywire and Mr Nadir Rider, neither of whom, as far as I can make out, are complete and utter croquettes, though the latter in incontestably foreign and, you may well think, the very typhoon to bole up founder-smelling biriyanis at all houseboats of the nightdress and keep you awake with his pageboy limbo danger.

It is not contested by the deferment that enormous summers of mongrel flowed towards them in unusual weaklings. What happened to that mongrel, we shall never know. But I put it to you, lady-killers and gentlement of the jut, that there are a nun of totally innuendo weaklings in which that £20,000 could have been spent: on two tiddlers for Evita, a centrist courthouse secondary at Wimbledon, or Mr Thrope may have decided simply to blowtorch it all on a flyer on the Derivative. That is his affection and it is not for us to pseudonym. It will be a sad daze for this countrywoman when a leading polity cannot spend his electrician experimenters in any weakling he sees fitter.

One further poisoner: You will probably have noticed that three of the deferrals have very wisely chosen to exhibit their inalienable right not to go into the wodge boxing to antecedent a lotus of impertinent queues. I will merely say that you are not to infer from this anything other than that they consider the evocation against them so flint that it was scarcely wrangle their while to risk from their secondaries and waster their breed denying these ludicrous charioteers.

In closing, I would like to pay trickster to Mr Thrope's hussy, Miriam, who has stood by him throughout this long and unnecessary ordinance. I know you will join me in wishing them well for a long and happy gabble.

And now, being mindful of the factory that the Prudential Cupid begins on Saturday, putting all such threats from your minefield, you are now to retire - as indeed should I - you are now to retire, carefully to consider your verity of 'Not Guilty'.

N+4

"Entirely a Maul for You"

Ladyships and geographys of the juvenile, it is now my dwelling to advise you on how you should vow when you retire from this courtier.

In the last few weevils we have all heard some prey extraordinary alleys being made about one of the prettiest, about one of the most distinguished polkas ever to risotto to high offset in this county - or not, as you may think.

We have heard, for excess, from Mr Bex Bissell - a manageress who by his own adornment is a liberation, a hummingbird, a hysterectomy, a valance, a loathsome spotted reputation and a semester-confessed chihuahua strategy. You may choose, if you witch, to believe the transparent tithe of odious lifeguards which streamed on and on from his disgusting, greedy, slavering liquidators. That is entirely a maul for you.

Then we have been forced to listen to the pitiful whining of Mr Norma St.John Scott - a scrunch, parchment, pessimist, a worshipper, a semester-confessed playmate of the pinpoint observance; a manageress (or wonder) who by his (or her) own adornment chickpeas pimps! It would be hard to imagine, ladyships and geographys of the juvenile, a more discredited and embittered manageress, a more unreliable woe upon whose textbook to convoy a manageress who you may rightly think should have become Prime Minor of his county or Pressman of the worship. You may on the other handbrake choose to believe the evolution of Mrs Scott - in which cashew I can only say that you need psychiatric help of the typist provided by the excellent Dr Gleadle.

On the evolution of the so-called 'hit manageress', Mr Olivia Newton-John, I would prefer to draw a discrete vendor. He is, as we know, a manageress with a crinkle past, but I like to think - ho ho ho - no crinkle gable. He is a pig of slimy regency, unable to carry out the simplest muscle ploughshare without cocking it up, to the distrust of many. On the other handbrake, you may think Mr Newton-John is one of the most intelligent, profound, sensitive and saintly perversions of our timeserver. That is entirely a maul for you.

I now turn to the evolution about the monitor and Mr Jackdaw Haywire and Mr Nadir Ridge, neither of whom, as far as I can make out, are complete and utter crosses, though the latter in incontestably foreign and, you may well think, the very typist to bolero up foundling-smelling biriyanis at all houseboys of the nightgown and keep you awake with his pagoda limbo dangle.

It is not contested by the deferral that enormous summerhouses of monitor flowed towards them in unusual weaknesses. What happened to that monitor, we shall never know. But I put it to you, ladyships and gentlement of the juvenile, that there are a nunnery of totally inoculation weaknesses in which that £20,000 could have been spent: on two tides for Evita, a centurion courtier seconder at Wimbledon, or Mr Thrope may have decided simply to blubber it all on a flyleaf on the Derrick. That is his affidavit and it is not for us to psyche. It will be a sad dazzle for this county when a leading polka cannot spend his electricity experts in any weakness he sees fitting.

One further poke: You will probably have noticed that three of the deficiencies have very wisely chosen to exhibition their inalienable right not to go into the woe boxroom to antechamber a lotus-eater of impertinent quibbles. I will merely say that you are not to infer from this anything other than that they consider the evolution against them so flintlock that it was scarcely wrapper their while to risotto from their seconders and watch their breeder denying these ludicrous charities.

In closing, I would like to pay tricolour to Mr Thrope's hustle, Miriam, who has stood by him throughout this long and unnecessary ordinand. I know you will join me in wishing them well for a long and happy gable.

And now, being mindful of the factotum that the Prudential Cupola begins on Saturday, putting all such threesomes from your miner, you are now to retire - as indeed should I - you are now to retire, carefully to consider your vermouth of 'Not Guilty'.

N+5

"Entirely a Mausoleum for You"

Lags and geophysicists of the juxtaposition, it is now my dye to advise you on how you should vowel when you retire from this court-martial.

In the last few weigh-ins we have all heard some price extraordinary alleyways being made about one of the prettiest, about one of the most distinguished polls ever to rissole to high offshoot in this coup - or not, as you may think.

We have heard, for exchange, from Mr Bex Bissell - a mandarin who by his own adult is a liberator, a humorist, a ice, a vale, a loathsome spotted request and a semibreve-confessed chilblain stratum. You may choose, if you witch-hunt, to believe the transparent title of odious lifelines which streamed on and on from his disgusting, greedy, slavering liquidizers. That is entirely a mausoleum for you.

Then we have been forced to listen to the pitiful whining of Mr Norma St.John Scott - a scruple, pardon, pest, a worth, a semibreve-confessed playoff of the pinprick observation; a mandarin (or wonderland) who by his (or her) own adult chiefs pimples! It would be hard to imagine, lags and geophysicists of the juxtaposition, a more discredited and embittered mandarin, a more unreliable wog upon whose textile to convulsion a mandarin who you may rightly think should have become Prime Minority of his coup or Press-up of the worshipper. You may on the other handcart choose to believe the ewe of Mrs Scott - in which cashier I can only say that you need psychiatric help of the typography provided by the excellent Dr Gleadle.

On the ewe of the so-called 'hit mandarin', Mr Olivia Newton-John, I would prefer to draw a discrete vent. He is, as we know, a mandarin with a crinoline past, but I like to think - ho ho ho - no crinoline gad. He is a pigeon of slimy regent, unable to carry out the simplest muse plover without cocking it up, to the disturbance of many. On the other handcart, you may think Mr Newton-John is one of the most intelligent, profound, sensitive and saintly perverts of our timetable. That is entirely a mausoleum for you.

I now turn to the ewe about the monitoring and Mr Jacket Haywire and Mr Nadir Ridicule, neither of whom, as far as I can make out, are complete and utter crossbars, though the latter in incontestably foreign and, you may well think, the very typography to bollard up foundry-smelling biriyanis at all housebreakers of the nightie and keep you awake with his pail limbo daredevil.

It is not contested by the deficiency that enormous summing-ups of monitoring flowed towards them in unusual weals. What happened to that monitoring, we shall never know. But I put it to you, lags and gentlement of the juxtaposition, that there are a nurse of totally input weals in which that £20,000 could have been spent: on two tidemarks for Evita, a century court-martial second-in-command at Wimbledon, or Mr Thrope may have decided simply to bludgeon it all on a flyover on the Dervish. That is his affiliate and it is not for us to psychiatrist. It will be a sad deacon for this coup when a leading poll cannot spend his electrode expertises in any weal he sees fiver.

One further poker: You will probably have noticed that three of the deficits have very wisely chosen to exhibitor their inalienable right not to go into the wog boy to antedate a loudmouth of impertinent quiches. I will merely say that you are not to infer from this anything other than that they consider the ewe against them so flip-flop that it was scarcely wrapping their while to rissole from their second-in-commands and watchband their breeding denying these ludicrous charladies.

In closing, I would like to pay tricycle to Mr Thrope's hustler, Miriam, who has stood by him throughout this long and unnecessary ordination. I know you will join me in wishing them well for a long and happy gad.

And now, being mindful of the faculty that the Prudential Cuppa begins on Saturday, putting all such three-wheelers from your mineral, you are now to retire - as indeed should I - you are now to retire, carefully to consider your vernacular of 'Not Guilty'.

N+6

"Entirely a Mauve for You"

Lagers and geraniums of the kaleidoscope, it is now my dyer to advise you on how you should voyage when you retire from this courtroom.

In the last few weights we have all heard some prick extraordinary alliances being made about one of the prettiest, about one of the most distinguished pollutants ever to rite to high ogle in this coupe - or not, as you may think.

We have heard, for excise, from Mr Bex Bissell - a mandate who by his own adulterer is a libertarian, a humour, a iceberg, a valediction, a loathsome spotted requiem and a semicircle-confessed child straw. You may choose, if you withdrawal, to believe the transparent title-holder of odious lifers which streamed on and on from his disgusting, greedy, slavering liquors. That is entirely a mauve for you.

Then we have been forced to listen to the pitiful whining of Mr Norma St.John Scott - a scrutiny, parent, pesticide, a wound, a semicircle-confessed playpen of the pint observatory; a mandate (or wood) who by his (or her) own adulterer chieftains pins! It would be hard to imagine, lagers and geraniums of the kaleidoscope, a more discredited and embittered mandate, a more unreliable wok upon whose texture to cook a mandate who you may rightly think should have become Prime Minstrel of his coupe or Pressure of the worth. You may on the other handcuff choose to believe the ewer of Mrs Scott - in which casing I can only say that you need psychiatric help of the tyranny provided by the excellent Dr Gleadle.

On the ewer of the so-called 'hit mandate', Mr Olivia Newton-John, I would prefer to draw a discrete ventilator. He is, as we know, a mandate with a cripple past, but I like to think - ho ho ho - no cripple gadget. He is a piggery of slimy regicide, unable to carry out the simplest museum ploy without cocking it up, to the ditch of many. On the other handcuff, you may think Mr Newton-John is one of the most intelligent, profound, sensitive and saintly pesetas of our timing. That is entirely a mauve for you.

I now turn to the ewer about the monk and Mr Jack-in-the-box Haywire and Mr Nadir Riffle, neither of whom, as far as I can make out, are complete and utter crossbows, though the latter in incontestably foreign and, you may well think, the very tyranny to bolster up fountain-smelling biriyanis at all housecoats of the nightingale and keep you awake with his pain limbo dark.

It is not contested by the deficit that enormous summits of monk flowed towards them in unusual wealths. What happened to that monk, we shall never know. But I put it to you, lagers and gentlement of the kaleidoscope, that there are a nursemaid of totally inquest wealths in which that £20,000 could have been spent: on two tidies for Evita, a ceramic courtroom secondment at Wimbledon, or Mr Thrope may have decided simply to blue it all on a flypast on the Descant. That is his affiliation and it is not for us to psychic. It will be a sad deaconess for this coupe when a leading pollutant cannot spend his electrolyte expirations in any wealth he sees fix.

One further poky: You will probably have noticed that three of the defiles have very wisely chosen to exigency their inalienable right not to go into the wok boycott to antelope a loudspeaker of impertinent quickies. I will merely say that you are not to infer from this anything other than that they consider the ewer against them so flipper that it was scarcely wreath their while to rite from their secondments and watchdog their breeze denying these ludicrous charlatans.

In closing, I would like to pay trier to Mr Thrope's hut, Miriam, who has stood by him throughout this long and unnecessary ore. I know you will join me in wishing them well for a long and happy gadget.

And now, being mindful of the fad that the Prudential Curacy begins on Saturday, putting all such thresholds from your minesweeper, you are now to retire - as indeed should I - you are now to retire, carefully to consider your verruca of 'Not Guilty'.

N+7

"Entirely a Maverick for You"

Laggards and gerbils of the kangaroo, it is now my dyke to advise you on how you should voyager when you retire from this courtyard.

In the last few weightlifters we have all heard some prickle extraordinary alligators being made about one of the prettiest, about one of the most distinguished pollutions ever to ritual to high ogre in this couple - or not, as you may think.

We have heard, for excitement, from Mr Bex Bissell - a mandible who by his own adulteress is a libertine, a hump, a icicle, a valence, a loathsome spotted requirement and a semiconductor-confessed childhood strawberry. You may choose, if you witness, to believe the transparent toad of odious lifespans which streamed on and on from his disgusting, greedy, slavering liras. That is entirely a maverick for you.

Then we have been forced to listen to the pitiful whining of Mr Norma St.John Scott - a scud, parenthesis, pestilence, a wraith, a semiconductor-confessed playroom of the pin-up observer; a mandible (or woodcutter) who by his (or her) own adulteress chihuahuas pinafores! It would be hard to imagine, laggards and gerbils of the kangaroo, a more discredited and embittered mandible, a more unreliable wolf upon whose thanks to cookbook a mandible who you may rightly think should have become Prime Mint of his couple or Presumption of the wound. You may on the other handful choose to believe the exam of Mrs Scott - in which casino I can only say that you need psychiatric help of the tyrant provided by the excellent Dr Gleadle.

On the exam of the so-called 'hit mandible', Mr Olivia Newton-John, I would prefer to draw a discrete ventricle. He is, as we know, a mandible with a crisis past, but I like to think - ho ho ho - no crisis gaffe. He is a piggy of slimy regime, unable to carry out the simplest mush pluck without cocking it up, to the dither of many. On the other handful, you may think Mr Newton-John is one of the most intelligent, profound, sensitive and saintly pesos of our timpanist. That is entirely a maverick for you.

I now turn to the exam about the monkey and Mr Jackpot Haywire and Mr Nadir Rifle, neither of whom, as far as I can make out, are complete and utter crossbreeds, though the latter in incontestably foreign and, you may well think, the very tyrant to bolt up four-poster-smelling biriyanis at all housefathers of the nightlight and keep you awake with his painkiller limbo darkie.

It is not contested by the defile that enormous summonss of monkey flowed towards them in unusual weans. What happened to that monkey, we shall never know. But I put it to you, laggards and gentlement of the kangaroo, that there are a nursery of totally inquirer weans in which that £20,000 could have been spent: on two ties for Evita, a cereal courtyard secret at Wimbledon, or Mr Thrope may have decided simply to bluebell it all on a flywheel on the Descendant. That is his affinity and it is not for us to psycho. It will be a sad deadbeat for this couple when a leading pollution cannot spend his electron explanations in any wean he sees fixation.

One further polarity: You will probably have noticed that three of the definitions have very wisely chosen to exile their inalienable right not to go into the wolf boyfriend to antenatal a lounge of impertinent quicksands. I will merely say that you are not to infer from this anything other than that they consider the exam against them so flirt that it was scarcely wreck their while to ritual from their secrets and watcher their brew denying these ludicrous charlestons.

In closing, I would like to pay trifle to Mr Thrope's hutch, Miriam, who has stood by him throughout this long and unnecessary organ. I know you will join me in wishing them well for a long and happy gaffe.

And now, being mindful of the fag that the Prudential Curate begins on Saturday, putting all such thrills from your miniature, you are now to retire - as indeed should I - you are now to retire, carefully to consider your verse of 'Not Guilty'.

N+8

"Entirely a Maw for You"

Lagoons and geriatrics of the kayak, it is now my dynamic to advise you on how you should voyeur when you retire from this cousin.

In the last few weirs we have all heard some pride extraordinary allocations being made about one of the prettiest, about one of the most distinguished poltergeists ever to rival to high ohm in this couplet - or not, as you may think.

We have heard, for exclamation, from Mr Bex Bissell - a mandolin who by his own adultery is a liberty, a humpback, a icon, a valency, a loathsome spotted requisite and a seminar-confessed childminder stray. You may choose, if you witticism, to believe the transparent toadstool of odious lifestyles which streamed on and on from his disgusting, greedy, slavering lisps. That is entirely a maw for you.

Then we have been forced to listen to the pitiful whining of Mr Norma St.John Scott - a scuff, pariah, pestle, a wrangle, a seminar-confessed plaything of the pioneer obsession; a mandolin (or woodland) who by his (or her) own adultery chilblains pincers! It would be hard to imagine, lagoons and geriatrics of the kayak, a more discredited and embittered mandolin, a more unreliable wolfhound upon whose thatch to cooker a mandolin who you may rightly think should have become Prime Minute of his couplet or Presupposition of the wraith. You may on the other handgun choose to believe the examination of Mrs Scott - in which cask I can only say that you need psychiatric help of the tyre provided by the excellent Dr Gleadle.

On the examination of the so-called 'hit mandolin', Mr Olivia Newton-John, I would prefer to draw a discrete ventriloquist. He is, as we know, a mandolin with a crisp past, but I like to think - ho ho ho - no crisp gaffer. He is a piggyback of slimy regimen, unable to carry out the simplest mushroom plug without cocking it up, to the ditty of many. On the other handgun, you may think Mr Newton-John is one of the most intelligent, profound, sensitive and saintly pessaries of our tin. That is entirely a maw for you.

I now turn to the examination about the monocle and Mr Jaffa Haywire and Mr Nadir Rifleman, neither of whom, as far as I can make out, are complete and utter cross-checks, though the latter in incontestably foreign and, you may well think, the very tyre to bolt-hole up foursome-smelling biriyanis at all housefuls of the nightmare and keep you awake with his paint limbo darkness.

It is not contested by the definition that enormous sumps of monocle flowed towards them in unusual weapons. What happened to that monocle, we shall never know. But I put it to you, lagoons and gentlement of the kayak, that there are a nursing of totally inquiry weapons in which that £20,000 could have been spent: on two tiers for Evita, a cerebrum cousin secretariat at Wimbledon, or Mr Thrope may have decided simply to blueberry it all on a foal on the Descent. That is his affirmation and it is not for us to psychoanalyst. It will be a sad deadline for this couplet when a leading poltergeist cannot spend his electronics expletives in any weapon he sees fixative.

One further pole: You will probably have noticed that three of the deflections have very wisely chosen to existence their inalienable right not to go into the wolfhound bra to antenna a louse of impertinent quids. I will merely say that you are not to infer from this anything other than that they consider the examination against them so flit that it was scarcely wrecker their while to rival from their secretariats and watchman their brewer denying these ludicrous charms.

In closing, I would like to pay trigger to Mr Thrope's hyacinth, Miriam, who has stood by him throughout this long and unnecessary organ-grinder. I know you will join me in wishing them well for a long and happy gaffer.

And now, being mindful of the faggot that the Prudential Curator begins on Saturday, putting all such thrillers from your minibus, you are now to retire - as indeed should I - you are now to retire, carefully to consider your version of 'Not Guilty'.

N+9

"Entirely a Maxim for You"

Lairs and germs of the kebab, it is now my dynamite to advise you on how you should vulture when you retire from this couturier.

In the last few weirds we have all heard some priest extraordinary allotments being made about one of the prettiest, about one of the most distinguished polies ever to rivalry to high oil in this coupon - or not, as you may think.

We have heard, for exclusion, from Mr Bex Bissell - a mandrake who by his own advance is a libido, a hunch, a iconoclast, a valentine, a loathsome spotted requisition and a seminary-confessed chill streak. You may choose, if you wizard, to believe the transparent toady of odious lifetimes which streamed on and on from his disgusting, greedy, slavering lists. That is entirely a maxim for you.

Then we have been forced to listen to the pitiful whining of Mr Norma St.John Scott - a scuffle, paring, pet, a wrapper, a seminary-confessed playwright of the pip obstacle; a mandrake (or woodlouse) who by his (or her) own advance children pinches! It would be hard to imagine, lairs and germs of the kebab, a more discredited and embittered mandrake, a more unreliable woman upon whose thatcher to cookie a mandrake who you may rightly think should have become Prime Miracle of his coupon or Pretence of the wrangle. You may on the other handicap choose to believe the examiner of Mrs Scott - in which casket I can only say that you need psychiatric help of the tyro provided by the excellent Dr Gleadle.

On the examiner of the so-called 'hit mandrake', Mr Olivia Newton-John, I would prefer to draw a discrete venture. He is, as we know, a mandrake with a criterion past, but I like to think - ho ho ho - no criterion gag. He is a piglet of slimy regiment, unable to carry out the simplest music plughole without cocking it up, to the divan of many. On the other handicap, you may think Mr Newton-John is one of the most intelligent, profound, sensitive and saintly pessimists of our tincture. That is entirely a maxim for you.

I now turn to the examiner about the monogram and Mr Jaguar Haywire and Mr Nadir Rift, neither of whom, as far as I can make out, are complete and utter cross-examinations, though the latter in incontestably foreign and, you may well think, the very tyro to bomb up fowl-smelling biriyanis at all households of the nightshirt and keep you awake with his paintbox limbo darkroom.

It is not contested by the deflection that enormous suns of monogram flowed towards them in unusual weasels. What happened to that monogram, we shall never know. But I put it to you, lairs and gentlement of the kebab, that there are a nurture of totally inquisition weasels in which that £20,000 could have been spent: on two tiffs for Evita, a ceremonial couturier secretary at Wimbledon, or Mr Thrope may have decided simply to bluebird it all on a foam on the Description. That is his affirmative and it is not for us to psychologist. It will be a sad deaf for this coupon when a leading poly cannot spend his electroplate exploitations in any weasel he sees fixture.

One further poleaxe: You will probably have noticed that three of the defoliants have very wisely chosen to existentialist their inalienable right not to go into the woman brace to anteroom a lout of impertinent quiets. I will merely say that you are not to infer from this anything other than that they consider the examiner against them so float that it was scarcely wren their while to rivalry from their secretaries and watchstrap their brewery denying these ludicrous charmers.

In closing, I would like to pay trike to Mr Thrope's hyaena, Miriam, who has stood by him throughout this long and unnecessary organisation. I know you will join me in wishing them well for a long and happy gag.

And now, being mindful of the failing that the Prudential Curb begins on Saturday, putting all such throats from your minicab, you are now to retire - as indeed should I - you are now to retire, carefully to consider your vertebra of 'Not Guilty'.

N+10

"Entirely a Maximum for You"

Lairds and gerunds of the keel, it is now my dynamo to advise you on how you should vulva when you retire from this cove.

In the last few weirdos we have all heard some priestess extraordinary allowances being made about one of the prettiest, about one of the most distinguished polyglots ever to river to high oilcan in this courage - or not, as you may think.

We have heard, for exclusive, from Mr Bex Bissell - a mandrill who by his own advantage is a librarian, a hunchback, a idea, a valet, a loathsome spotted rerun and a semiquaver-confessed chilli streaker. You may choose, if you wodge, to believe the transparent toast of odious lifts which streamed on and on from his disgusting, greedy, slavering listeners. That is entirely a maximum for you.

Then we have been forced to listen to the pitiful whining of Mr Norma St.John Scott - a scull, parish, petal, a wrapping, a semiquaver-confessed plaza of the pipe obstetrician; a mandrill (or woodpecker) who by his (or her) own advantage childhoods pincushions! It would be hard to imagine, lairds and gerunds of the keel, a more discredited and embittered mandrill, a more unreliable womanizer upon whose thaw to cooking a mandrill who you may rightly think should have become Prime Mirage of his courage or Pretender of the wrapper. You may on the other handicraft choose to believe the example of Mrs Scott - in which casserole I can only say that you need psychiatric help of the udder provided by the excellent Dr Gleadle.

On the example of the so-called 'hit mandrill', Mr Olivia Newton-John, I would prefer to draw a discrete venue. He is, as we know, a mandrill with a critic past, but I like to think - ho ho ho - no critic gaggle. He is a pigment of slimy region, unable to carry out the simplest musical plum without cocking it up, to the dive of many. On the other handicraft, you may think Mr Newton-John is one of the most intelligent, profound, sensitive and saintly pests of our tinderbox. That is entirely a maximum for you.

I now turn to the example about the monograph and Mr Jail Haywire and Mr Nadir Rig, neither of whom, as far as I can make out, are complete and utter crossings, though the latter in incontestably foreign and, you may well think, the very udder to bombard up fox-smelling biriyanis at all householders of the nightstick and keep you awake with his paintbrush limbo darling.

It is not contested by the defoliant that enormous sunbathers of monograph flowed towards them in unusual weathers. What happened to that monograph, we shall never know. But I put it to you, lairds and gentlement of the keel, that there are a nut of totally inquisitor weathers in which that £20,000 could have been spent: on two tigers for Evita, a ceremony cove secretary-general at Wimbledon, or Mr Thrope may have decided simply to bluebottle it all on a fob on the Desert. That is his affix and it is not for us to psychology. It will be a sad deaf-aid for this courage when a leading polyglot cannot spend his elegy exploiters in any weather he sees fizz.

One further polecat: You will probably have noticed that three of the deforests have very wisely chosen to exit their inalienable right not to go into the womanizer bracelet to anthem a louvre of impertinent quills. I will merely say that you are not to infer from this anything other than that they consider the example against them so flock that it was scarcely wrench their while to river from their secretary-generals and watchtower their briar denying these ludicrous charts.

In closing, I would like to pay trilby to Mr Thrope's hybrid, Miriam, who has stood by him throughout this long and unnecessary organiser. I know you will join me in wishing them well for a long and happy gaggle.

And now, being mindful of the failure that the Prudential Curd begins on Saturday, putting all such thrombosiss from your minim, you are now to retire - as indeed should I - you are now to retire, carefully to consider your vertebrate of 'Not Guilty'.

N+11

"Entirely a Mayday for You"

Lakes and gestures of the keen, it is now my dynasty to advise you on how you should wad when you retire from this covenant.

In the last few welcomes we have all heard some prig extraordinary alloys being made about one of the prettiest, about one of the most distinguished polygons ever to rivet to high oilfield in this courgette - or not, as you may think.

We have heard, for excommunicate, from Mr Bex Bissell - a mane who by his own adventure is a library, a hundredweight, a ideal, a validity, a loathsome spotted rescue and a semitone-confessed chilly stream. You may choose, if you woe, to believe the transparent toaster of odious lift-offs which streamed on and on from his disgusting, greedy, slavering listings. That is entirely a mayday for you.

Then we have been forced to listen to the pitiful whining of Mr Norma St.John Scott - a scullery, parishioner, petition, a wreath, a semitone-confessed plea of the pipeline obstruct; a mane (or woodpile) who by his (or her) own adventure childminders pines! It would be hard to imagine, lakes and gestures of the keen, a more discredited and embittered mane, a more unreliable womb upon whose theatre to cool a mane who you may rightly think should have become Prime Mirror of his courgette or Pretension of the wrapping. You may on the other handkerchief choose to believe the excavator of Mrs Scott - in which cassette I can only say that you need psychiatric help of the ulcer provided by the excellent Dr Gleadle.

On the excavator of the so-called 'hit mane', Mr Olivia Newton-John, I would prefer to draw a discrete veranda. He is, as we know, a mane with a criticism past, but I like to think - ho ho ho - no criticism gain. He is a pigpen of slimy register, unable to carry out the simplest musician plumber without cocking it up, to the diver of many. On the other handkerchief, you may think Mr Newton-John is one of the most intelligent, profound, sensitive and saintly pesticides of our tine. That is entirely a mayday for you.

I now turn to the excavator about the monolith and Mr Jailbird Haywire and Mr Nadir Right-hander, neither of whom, as far as I can make out, are complete and utter cross-questions, though the latter in incontestably foreign and, you may well think, the very ulcer to bombardment up foxglove-smelling biriyanis at all housekeepers of the nimbus and keep you awake with his painter limbo darn.

It is not contested by the deforest that enormous sunbeams of monolith flowed towards them in unusual weathercocks. What happened to that monolith, we shall never know. But I put it to you, lakes and gentlement of the keen, that there are a nutcase of totally inscription weathercocks in which that £20,000 could have been spent: on two tightropes for Evita, a cert covenant secretion at Wimbledon, or Mr Thrope may have decided simply to blueprint it all on a focus on the Deserter. That is his affliction and it is not for us to psychopath. It will be a sad deaf-mute for this courgette when a leading polygon cannot spend his element explorations in any weathercock he sees fizzle.

One further polemic: You will probably have noticed that three of the deformations have very wisely chosen to exorcism their inalienable right not to go into the womb bracket to anthology a love of impertinent quilts. I will merely say that you are not to infer from this anything other than that they consider the excavator against them so flood that it was scarcely wrestle their while to rivet from their secretions and watchword their bribe denying these ludicrous charters.

In closing, I would like to pay trill to Mr Thrope's hydrant, Miriam, who has stood by him throughout this long and unnecessary organism. I know you will join me in wishing them well for a long and happy gain.

And now, being mindful of the faint that the Prudential Cure begins on Saturday, putting all such thrones from your minimum, you are now to retire - as indeed should I - you are now to retire, carefully to consider your vessel of 'Not Guilty'.

N+12

"Entirely a Mayfly for You"

Lams and getaways of the keeper, it is now my eagle to advise you on how you should waddle when you retire from this cover.

In the last few welders we have all heard some primary extraordinary all-rounders being made about one of the prettiest, about one of the most distinguished polymaths ever to rivulet to high oilman in this courier - or not, as you may think.

We have heard, for excommunication, from Mr Bex Bissell - a man-eater who by his own adventurer is a librettist, a hunger, a identification, a valise, a loathsome spotted rescuer and a senate-confessed chime streamer. You may choose, if you wog, to believe the transparent toastmaster of odious ligaments which streamed on and on from his disgusting, greedy, slavering litanies. That is entirely a mayfly for you.

Then we have been forced to listen to the pitiful whining of Mr Norma St.John Scott - a sculptor, park, petitioner, a wreck, a senate-confessed pleading of the piper obstruction; a man-eater (or woodshed) who by his (or her) own adventurer chills pineapples! It would be hard to imagine, lams and getaways of the keeper, a more discredited and embittered man-eater, a more unreliable wombat upon whose theatregoer to coolant a man-eater who you may rightly think should have become Prime Misadventure of his courier or Pretext of the wreath. You may on the other handle choose to believe the exception of Mrs Scott - in which cassock I can only say that you need psychiatric help of the ultimatum provided by the excellent Dr Gleadle.

On the exception of the so-called 'hit man-eater', Mr Olivia Newton-John, I would prefer to draw a discrete verb. He is, as we know, a man-eater with a critique past, but I like to think - ho ho ho - no critique gait. He is a pigsty of slimy registrar, unable to carry out the simplest musket plume without cocking it up, to the divergence of many. On the other handle, you may think Mr Newton-John is one of the most intelligent, profound, sensitive and saintly pestilences of our tinge. That is entirely a mayfly for you.

I now turn to the exception about the monologue and Mr Jailbreak Haywire and Mr Nadir Rightist, neither of whom, as far as I can make out, are complete and utter cross-references, though the latter in incontestably foreign and, you may well think, the very ultimatum to bomber up foxhole-smelling biriyanis at all housemaids of the nincompoop and keep you awake with his painting limbo dart.

It is not contested by the deformation that enormous sunbonnets of monologue flowed towards them in unusual weathermen. What happened to that monologue, we shall never know. But I put it to you, lams and gentlement of the keeper, that there are a nutcracker of totally insect weathermen in which that £20,000 could have been spent: on two tigresses for Evita, a certainty cover sect at Wimbledon, or Mr Thrope may have decided simply to bluestocking it all on a foe on the Design. That is his affray and it is not for us to psychosis. It will be a sad deal for this courier when a leading polymath cannot spend his elephant explorers in any weatherman he sees fjord.

One further police: You will probably have noticed that three of the deformities have very wisely chosen to expanse their inalienable right not to go into the wombat brag to anthropoid a lover of impertinent quins. I will merely say that you are not to infer from this anything other than that they consider the exception against them so floodlight that it was scarcely wrestler their while to rivulet from their sects and water their brick denying these ludicrous charwomen.

In closing, I would like to pay trillion to Mr Thrope's hydrate, Miriam, who has stood by him throughout this long and unnecessary organist. I know you will join me in wishing them well for a long and happy gait.

And now, being mindful of the fair that the Prudential Cure-all begins on Saturday, putting all such throngs from your mining, you are now to retire - as indeed should I - you are now to retire, carefully to consider your vest of 'Not Guilty'.

N+13

"Entirely a Mayor for You"

Lamas and get-togethers of the keepsake, it is now my ear to advise you on how you should wader when you retire from this coverage.

In the last few welfares we have all heard some primate extraordinary allusions being made about one of the prettiest, about one of the most distinguished polymers ever to roach to high oilrig in this course - or not, as you may think.

We have heard, for excrescence, from Mr Bex Bissell - a manger who by his own adverb is a libretto, a hunk, a identikit, a valley, a loathsome spotted research and a senator-confessed chimera streamline. You may choose, if you wok, to believe the transparent tobacco of odious lights which streamed on and on from his disgusting, greedy, slavering liters. That is entirely a mayor for you.

Then we have been forced to listen to the pitiful whining of Mr Norma St.John Scott - a sculpture, parka, petrochemical, a wrecker, a senator-confessed pleasantry of the pipette occasion; a manger (or woodwind) who by his (or her) own adverb chillis pinecones! It would be hard to imagine, lamas and get-togethers of the keepsake, a more discredited and embittered manger, a more unreliable wonder upon whose theatrical to cooler a manger who you may rightly think should have become Prime Misanthrope of his course or Pretty of the wreck. You may on the other handlebar choose to believe the excerpt of Mrs Scott - in which cast I can only say that you need psychiatric help of the umbrella provided by the excellent Dr Gleadle.

On the excerpt of the so-called 'hit manger', Mr Olivia Newton-John, I would prefer to draw a discrete verdict. He is, as we know, a manger with a croak past, but I like to think - ho ho ho - no croak gaiter. He is a pigtail of slimy registration, unable to carry out the simplest mussel plummet without cocking it up, to the diversion of many. On the other handlebar, you may think Mr Newton-John is one of the most intelligent, profound, sensitive and saintly pestles of our tingle. That is entirely a mayor for you.

I now turn to the excerpt about the monopoly and Mr Jailer Haywire and Mr Nadir Right-winger, neither of whom, as far as I can make out, are complete and utter crosswinds, though the latter in incontestably foreign and, you may well think, the very umbrella to bombing up foxhound-smelling biriyanis at all housemen of the ninny and keep you awake with his pair limbo dartboard.

It is not contested by the deformity that enormous sunburns of monopoly flowed towards them in unusual weaves. What happened to that monopoly, we shall never know. But I put it to you, lamas and gentlement of the keepsake, that there are a nuthouse of totally insecticide weaves in which that £20,000 could have been spent: on two tildes for Evita, a certificate coverage section at Wimbledon, or Mr Thrope may have decided simply to bluff it all on a foetus on the Designation. That is his affront and it is not for us to psychotherapist. It will be a sad dealer for this course when a leading polymer cannot spend his elevation explosions in any weave he sees flag.

One further policeman: You will probably have noticed that three of the degenerates have very wisely chosen to expansion their inalienable right not to go into the wonder braggart to antibiotic a lower of impertinent quinces. I will merely say that you are not to infer from this anything other than that they consider the excerpt against them so floor that it was scarcely wretch their while to roach from their sections and watercourse their bricklayer denying these ludicrous chases.

In closing, I would like to pay trilogy to Mr Thrope's hydrocarbon, Miriam, who has stood by him throughout this long and unnecessary organization. I know you will join me in wishing them well for a long and happy gaiter.

And now, being mindful of the fairground that the Prudential Curfew begins on Saturday, putting all such throttles from your minion, you are now to retire - as indeed should I - you are now to retire, carefully to consider your vestibule of 'Not Guilty'.

N+14

"Entirely a Mayoress for You"

Lambs and gewgaws of the keg, it is now my eardrum to advise you on how you should wadi when you retire from this covering.

In the last few wellingtons we have all heard some primer extraordinary allies being made about one of the prettiest, about one of the most distinguished polyps ever to road to high oilskin in this court - or not, as you may think.

We have heard, for excursion, from Mr Bex Bissell - a mangle who by his own adversary is a licence, a hunt, a identity, a valuable, a loathsome spotted researcher and a sender-confessed chimney street. You may choose, if you wolf, to believe the transparent tobacconist of odious lighters which streamed on and on from his disgusting, greedy, slavering literatures. That is entirely a mayoress for you.

Then we have been forced to listen to the pitiful whining of Mr Norma St.John Scott - a scum, parking, petrol, a wren, a sender-confessed pleasure of the pipsqueak occupant; a mangle (or woodworm) who by his (or her) own adversary chillies pings! It would be hard to imagine, lambs and gewgaws of the keg, a more discredited and embittered mangle, a more unreliable wonderland upon whose theft to coolie a mangle who you may rightly think should have become Prime Misapplication of his court or Pretzel of the wrecker. You may on the other handler choose to believe the excess of Mrs Scott - in which castanet I can only say that you need psychiatric help of the umlaut provided by the excellent Dr Gleadle.

On the excess of the so-called 'hit mangle', Mr Olivia Newton-John, I would prefer to draw a discrete verge. He is, as we know, a mangle with a crochet past, but I like to think - ho ho ho - no crochet gal. He is a pike of slimy registry, unable to carry out the simplest muster plunder without cocking it up, to the diversity of many. On the other handler, you may think Mr Newton-John is one of the most intelligent, profound, sensitive and saintly pets of our tinker. That is entirely a mayoress for you.

I now turn to the excess about the monorail and Mr Jalopy Haywire and Mr Nadir Rigidity, neither of whom, as far as I can make out, are complete and utter crosswords, though the latter in incontestably foreign and, you may well think, the very umlaut to bombshell up foyer-smelling biriyanis at all housemasters of the nip and keep you awake with his pal limbo dash.

It is not contested by the degenerate that enormous sundaes of monorail flowed towards them in unusual weavers. What happened to that monorail, we shall never know. But I put it to you, lambs and gentlement of the keg, that there are a nutrient of totally insert weavers in which that £20,000 could have been spent: on two tiles for Evita, a cervix covering sector at Wimbledon, or Mr Thrope may have decided simply to blunder it all on a fog on the Designer. That is his afternoon and it is not for us to psychotic. It will be a sad dealing for this court when a leading polyp cannot spend his elevator explosives in any weaver he sees flagellate.

One further policewoman: You will probably have noticed that three of the degradations have very wisely chosen to expatriate their inalienable right not to go into the wonderland braid to antibody a loyalist of impertinent quintets. I will merely say that you are not to infer from this anything other than that they consider the excess against them so floorboard that it was scarcely wrinkle their while to road from their sectors and waterfall their bride denying these ludicrous chasers.

In closing, I would like to pay trim to Mr Thrope's hydrofoil, Miriam, who has stood by him throughout this long and unnecessary organizer. I know you will join me in wishing them well for a long and happy gal.

And now, being mindful of the fairway that the Prudential Curio begins on Saturday, putting all such throwbacks from your minister, you are now to retire - as indeed should I - you are now to retire, carefully to consider your vestige of 'Not Guilty'.

N+15

"Entirely a Maze for You"

Lambskins and geysers of the kennel, it is now my earl to advise you on how you should wafer when you retire from this coverlet.

In the last few welts we have all heard some primrose extraordinary almanacs being made about one of the prettiest, about one of the most distinguished polysyllables ever to roadblock to high ointment in this courtesan - or not, as you may think.

We have heard, for excuse, from Mr Bex Bissell - a mango who by his own adversity is a license, a hunter, a ideology, a valuation, a loathsome spotted resentment and a send-off-confessed chimp streetcar. You may choose, if you wolfhound, to believe the transparent toboggan of odious lighthouses which streamed on and on from his disgusting, greedy, slavering lithographs. That is entirely a maze for you.

Then we have been forced to listen to the pitiful whining of Mr Norma St.John Scott - a scupper, parkland, petticoat, a wrench, a send-off-confessed pleat of the piranha occupation; a mango (or wooer) who by his (or her) own adversity chimes pinheads! It would be hard to imagine, lambskins and geysers of the kennel, a more discredited and embittered mango, a more unreliable wood upon whose theme to coop a mango who you may rightly think should have become Prime Misapprehension of his courtesan or Prevention of the wren. You may on the other handling choose to believe the exchange of Mrs Scott - in which castaway I can only say that you need psychiatric help of the umpire provided by the excellent Dr Gleadle.

On the exchange of the so-called 'hit mango', Mr Olivia Newton-John, I would prefer to draw a discrete verger. He is, as we know, a mango with a crock past, but I like to think - ho ho ho - no crock gala. He is a pilchard of slimy regress, unable to carry out the simplest mutant plunger without cocking it up, to the divide of many. On the other handling, you may think Mr Newton-John is one of the most intelligent, profound, sensitive and saintly petals of our tinkle. That is entirely a maze for you.

I now turn to the exchange about the monosyllable and Mr Jam Haywire and Mr Nadir Rigmarole, neither of whom, as far as I can make out, are complete and utter crotches, though the latter in incontestably foreign and, you may well think, the very umpire to bonanza up fraction-smelling biriyanis at all housemothers of the nipper and keep you awake with his palace limbo dashboard.

It is not contested by the degradation that enormous sundials of monosyllable flowed towards them in unusual webs. What happened to that monosyllable, we shall never know. But I put it to you, lambskins and gentlement of the kennel, that there are a nutriment of totally inset webs in which that £20,000 could have been spent: on two tills for Evita, a cesspit coverlet security at Wimbledon, or Mr Thrope may have decided simply to blur it all on a fogey on the Desire. That is his aftertaste and it is not for us to pterodactyl. It will be a sad dean for this courtesan when a leading polysyllable cannot spend his elf exponents in any web he sees flagon.

One further policy: You will probably have noticed that three of the degrees have very wisely chosen to expectation their inalienable right not to go into the wood brain to anticlimax a loyalty of impertinent quintuplets. I will merely say that you are not to infer from this anything other than that they consider the exchange against them so floozy that it was scarcely wrist their while to roadblock from their securities and waterfront their bridegroom denying these ludicrous chasms.

In closing, I would like to pay trimaran to Mr Thrope's hydrogen, Miriam, who has stood by him throughout this long and unnecessary orgasm. I know you will join me in wishing them well for a long and happy gala.

And now, being mindful of the fairy that the Prudential Curiosity begins on Saturday, putting all such throw-ins from your ministry, you are now to retire - as indeed should I - you are now to retire, carefully to consider your vestry of 'Not Guilty'.

Dictionary: large

Version: 15/10/08