There are no Elephants on the road...The busted bra of the large lady lies in a heep, her last notes from deep within have been caught in the depths of turkey stuffing, tangled between riotous amounts of some fire brimmed spirits unknown to man knid.
Her smacked arsed corset has crawled to the corner, it's last gasp raspy voice trails wailing, amongst the defunct crackers and empty tissue boxes...the wiff of orange peel coupled with stale spirits gives a new dimension to builders bum.
Infact Bob the Builder...is throwing up in the porcelain hallowed halls, caught in a sea of carrots that always seem to pour from ones eyes, even though the gremlins in carrot fashion have never passed ones lips. Betty the wood chopper is just about recovering from spiders hands wandering over her fishnets, her high heels trapped in the mass of bubble gum that generations have poured forth in an effort to stem the tide of false promises, empty hand bags, and blue rinse hair so frontily barnacled by the Kimono clad Maggie Thatcher that once was, fills all those sand filled fire buckets hanging from sadly painted walls in clubs that once rang with northern soul...there is no talcom powder on the floor and the tune " love on a mountain top " is frozen in a coffee machine that no longer takes the old copper penny.
For yet another year the festive season is over....So Goeth...