the embarrassing life of a fly. Everybody has been guilty of perving at a fly on the wall… You may well say that it is not perving but it bloody is if you stare at something so intensely with thoughts of smacking it on the cheekies with a plastic pain bringer.

Flies are very sensitive about their business, that is why they face the wall and hope you’ll respect their privacy. I know I told you not to expose their secret life but well, that’s no fun and basically I’m going to risk it.

One day a bee called Smitus Squeakels was happily gathering yellow Lego bricks for his queen bee thinking that she would see them to be superior to pollen in every way. She actually hated Lego and erased Smitus from her mobile and ordered Smitus to redeem himself. Smitus knew that the bees always need spare bum socks because when they got sticky from nectar they had to be washed and the bees would have to wear an acorn over their bot bot if there was no spare butt socks. Of course the bees couldn’t go outside with an acorn over their money maker so productivity went down the pan. Concerned about productivity and hoping to restore his entry in the queen bee’s mobile, Smitus used his overwhelming brawn to find a solution.

Smitus started bullying flies into knitting him bum socks for the colony and presented the results to the queen. She loved the idea and decided to alert bees everywhere to the same trick. Soon flies in every walk of life were getting Chinese burns and feeling insult shame with their only relief coming upon delivery of a bright new bum sock.

So you see the flies have been owned by the bees and now they have to make them bum socks. Understandably they don’t want you to know that and this is why they face the wall to hide their secret shame.

If you stare at them they WILL fly at you and steal your hair to make wool for bum socks.

You will be harvested if you don't avert your eyes.

You’re all about the shoe z’s so you nestle down inside your favourite clog and begin your quest for REM. You’re snuggling like a pro, reeling about with intent trying to sink ever deeper into the shoe of soft pleasures. You’ve discovered kittens and faux furr along the way, so now only fromage fraise is evading you. Three geometrically pleasing thrusts into the padding away from the creamy bubbled snack stroking your face and something hits you like an errant baguette the wrong side of a Frenchman’s ‘lips’.

oohhhwww…

There’s two rams pulling at the laces and now you’re pinned into the sole and leaking important juice that you can’t be without for very long. They’re strong and possibly have no understanding of the consequences of their actions. Then you remember that these are Nike Air shoes. You eat your way down to the air bubble and hide away unaffected by the ever tightening laces above you. The handy window allows you to observe the rams break away and head for the ‘nearest motel’.

You’re left dazed and confused.

Time for some shoe z’s. mmm soft.

Catching some shoe z's and the bastard rams make a nightmarish attempt to tie you up. Motivation unknown.

Spread over time, with his genitalia located roughly 2000 years prior to now. Mary didn’t see it coming, but it did.

After taking her face off and ovulating effectively during a luxury sandbath, Mary mistakes God's ridiculous knob for a chair.

Procrastinating jobbies are totally off your face out of order, yet somehow endearing and woefully cutesy.

He’s in there dordelling about having a laugh, amusing himself with his own gags whilst you’re in shit town buzzing around the rim in expectation.

‘Yeah… I don’t feel like making the big journey to the light today, maybe tomorrow’

That’s just rude.

Does he realise the inconvenience? YES and doesn’t care.

What a shit. Awwwww…

Unwilling to shift and ashamed of the bad gag on his to do list.

and his glass of swine flu in my corneas.

Cornea pain ensued with french music accompaniment.

You’ve almost landed another perfect dismount since lifting your foot to edge forward another step and then something unusual happens. You’re elevated by a cabbage that has spontaneously grown about your shoe’s underbelly. Now your balance is off and because you failed to predict such a turn of events your other foot has already begun it’s journey to the unknown area lurking in front of you. The cabbage has sensed your fear and alerted it’s friends from the patch. Disorientated by the cabbage aided altitude you fall with force smashing every last cabbage awoken from the patch.

That night you enjoy a tasty salad that is more crispy and hearty than your average lettuce based dish.

The cabbage patch dieth not in vain.

Corporal Boatface brings the cabbage death.

Did you?

Was it?

These are splendid questions, almost a weapon. It’s like saying “You’re more boring than wet sellotape”.

They come in with “My cat has astounded large crowds with it’s seven knees, each boasting a super power related to painting and maintaining marine equipment”

You come back with “Has it?”

But you’re not looking for more information or a continuation. Your tone projects a deep resounding “Stop, I ate too much and now I need to have a small sleep in cotton wool. Your story is merely delaying this, plus it sounds unlikely to be true.”

You succeeded and now your annoying friend is crying and being consoled by his seven kneed cat who is giving you a stern look and secretly weeing on your shoes.

Sound familiar, I thought so.

Rumours that he won't work bank holidays are pure breeze. Dedication.

Now we’re all together, let me tell you the story of Old Bander Triple the lanko emu. This is actually the sequel, maybe I’ll post the original some day.

Old Bander Triple had just finished battering the ever ferocious bastard ostriches somehow, despite his lanko appearance and aching heart that struggled to feed his ever expanding concertina legs. He’d also wrapped a crab in cellotape and picked all the leaves off Mrs Tunbridge’s trees in a fit of anger. Remembering the killer circus that swept his tiny abode in previous centuries, Old Bandy knew that vengence was only two thirds his mistress and he wanted her shins and feet.

With a kind of crab bullying warmth in his chugging heart he humphed it on down to New Guinea where he’d heard that some guy called Enoch knew where he should go next. A local freak with balloons tied to his fingers told Old Bandy that Enoch was chilling in the tub. Enoch was in fact margarine and didn’t know where Old Bandy should go, but he did offer to lubricate his old creaking lanko legs and fill his belly with inferior spread motivation.

Old Bandy decided to stay here for 9 years and buy himself a tub so he could be a spread like Enoch. He eventually conceded that his ambitions were unachievable.

To be continued…

Old Bander Triple flies over Enoch in disappointment.

No, that is not a whimsically pleasant dessert served to compliment the stir fry you made because you’re overly excited by woks and hissing noises. That is a deceivingly lovely name for a jam catastrophe. The element of surprise denotes the painful effect of this phenomena upon it’s victims.

It’s Tuesday, about three minutes past four and Jeremy is about to bed his fancy. He’s getting all about it, he feels like he’s got 13 revolving hands and couldn’t be any more effective as a lover even if he was greased up. JAM SURPRISE! Completely uninvited, jam has entered the situation and Jeremy finds himself covered in it and is quickly pasting his half romped accomplice. The thick jam offering has awoken local wildlife and the village homeless who now seek to feast. As early arrivals lick at the victims, there is no way out of this situation.

Friday evening eight minutes past six, a smug looking dry cleaner from Barnstable is on her way to post her tax return. JAM SURPRISE! As her hand enters the post box the tight loving clasp of her completed master work is unsettled by a sugary foe. The tax return is stuck in the post box’s gaping jaws, and several other non related mail items are destined for entry failure. Dorothy will miss the deadline and be escorted to jail.

Always carry a suitable detergent capable of breaking down unexpected jam.

A blind panda stumbles upon a jam catastrophe and mistakes it for a relative.

Got your hands on somebodies brush? GOOD! Now run away and don’t let go. You now have a 1/12 chance of keeping that brush beyond tomorrows sun sinking. That’s not a good ratio, but you’re a determined blazer wearing snoot who’s got everything on their side, including a small mole that you met earlier.Trust nobody, except the mole. He has hands unable to grasp any brush below the broom threshold and above the photographic lens dusting point.

You have arrived at a time when brushes are more important than being cool or making sure that when you ride your bike, your buttocks never touch the saddle. Everyone needs that brush to feel complete and they won’t stop attempting to touch your brush and release it from your grasp anytime soon.

There are several methods of keeping a brush.

1. Conceal the brush about your person. (Hasn’t stopped brush detection in the past, but may prevent exploratory brush touching depending on your individual level of attractiveness)

2. Hide the brush outside of it’s natural habitat. (For example tied to the underside of an ornamental carp)

3. Attempt to conceal your brush’s purpose as an object. (For example placed in the larder with a label reading ”prune jam preserve 1976″)

4. Involve your self in suspect activities like vacuuming the sides of buildings and trying simultaneously to banish air from your neighbourhood. (Nobody will believe you clever enough to harbour a brush)

5. Get a parasitic disease that renders your brush repugnant. (Brush demand down 73%)

KEEP YOUR BRUSH.