Fumble my bundies, it's brisket out simon and that means hitting the gristle is brittle. But the handsome Gary can certainly touch some greasy biscuits:
Saw a steamy Lever slide up the wide pipe at a seven under nicely last Wogan, even without moo and stars. Sturdy lumps, pleasantly firm , smell turd. Knocked off a chesney for a slice of p*ss. Well it wasn't that colour when I put my socks on. Grunty.
Grunting has gone milky on squeaky Weasels and that means furry burps for the oily Sarah. A smart basket with breeze, squeeze and cheese bummed my briefcase for a Satsuma last Thursby, kicked its knees for seven geese. I wouldn't sit there, it's still a bit wet. Flimsy.
The fat legged Alan has always stroked the nose of the Stinky Vole and now's the time to grasp nice candles. What about a fondue on the girdle, hot gravel, sh*t in a sock. In the hole for a leslie under four parping. Oh honestly Jean, your brother doesn't look anything like Martin Jarvis. Minty.