Plans for the impending Grope nuptials have hit a major snag. The idea was that we'd get hitched Chez Grope but the Thought Police have stepped in and ruled that we would have to get a license under some Act or other. This would mean that any chav dressed like a meringue could get spliced here for ever more. Naturally, my old mum's put her foot down with a heavy hand so we're forced to do the dirty deed down at the local registry office. Now I have to say that this has put the kybosh on my idea to host a new television series When Celebrity Fat Clubs Go Wrong which I was going to hold in the grounds post knot-tying.
On a separate note, I see the old welsh windbag, Tom Jones, has asked his female fans to stop throwing their underwear on stage. Now he says that it's because they don't even take the price tags off anymore. I reckon that given the age of most of them, anything they throw at him is most likely to have his eye out. Last time anyone threw something at me on stage, I had the best crop of rhubarb for years.
2 comments:
lmao!
No one has actually thrown anything at me lately but I did get two tickets to the lounge at the dog track in my tip jar recently. WTF does that mean exactly? I was hoping for a token for a lap dance.
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