wrapped like a bedoin
munching on blood sausage
they strolled along oblivious
of P*rtsmyth shrouded deceit
whilst the heavens opened
his head appeared shouting
: “That’s not my daughter!”
“Oh yes it is!!!”
shouted back the heathens
as they nailed her
PST Share Certificate to
The wall of the
local knocking shop by
Avram’s favourite Industrial Estate
A purple nail to
hammer home the reality
they were never getting
anywhere near Southampton again.
[Episode Eight]
Thankfully, no-one was looking…
when all of Sotonians
*** Latest Update ***
[Episode Seven] - Avram and the Purple Nail: Dealing with the side effects of catastrophic bellyflopping, and another celebratory Beverage.
Time for a new chapter. Perfect place, perfect timing… for another celebratory beverage. The addiction kicked in - and P*mpey lost again! But managed to win the affections of Penny, who wondered what the cheating bastards were up to, as she splashed the Brut all over her red swimsuit clad whale like proportioned body, her blowhole conspicuous by TCWTB putting his arm _and bell _firmly into the breach, and onward until he found Jonah - who was chatting shit on TSW with CBFry, a contrary username much maligned and widely mocked. Correctly so, some say and with good reason – as he is constantly espousing contrary views from his high horse, rocking out to Five Star acclaimed incendiary trolling techniques; those employed by Turkish, transparent, feeble in comparison to the innuendo laden, 90yo Queen.
Penny tried to deal with the side-effects that such catastrophic bellyflopping had on the flaps of passing aircraft, dangerously close to the tidal-wave above sinking ships which her loose lips were perfect for a designer of red fetish accessories that could be pulled for comic effect; therefore ensuring another tory failed to clean his or her ball sack – because it’s still funny. ( 
)
Meanwhile back on planet earth, Spurs bottled it, wheels falling off hilariously like drunks at a midnight choir. But nonetheless a naked Lineker would scare the female viewers – seeing that Walkers ‘condom’ – but so do all averse to pungent Cheese.
The Blue moon brigade and blue rinse brigade were playing Real Madrid. Fake Madrid were playing too, so naturally the crowd went wild but, ultimately, were bored until the half-time beheadings allowed the walking dead to stagger menacingly towards a conclusion no-one expected from the last series – played in parrallel with the new series, which was the same series but somewhat older.
Anyway, P*rtsmouth were still underachieving at their fat riddled hovel – Championshit Standard Floodlights illuminating Shite performances week after month. Clock still stopped, stuck in a timewarp, like the Elizabethan facade of P*mpey ‘Share Ownership’. Doomed to failure, it never even actually existed. Lies that tell me sweet FA, like Champagne Ian.
Not long now unti Fratton crumbles. The weight Champagne Ian used as plugging against hemorrhaging liquidity had failed, they plummeted, begging for new donations, but only mutant sperm could be stupid enough to penetrate fatty pipes. A pig party was borrowing PST’s un-ironed tablecloth, wrapped like a bedoin munching on blood sausage, they strolled along oblivious of P*rtsmyth shrouded deceit, whilst the heavens opened and his head appeared shouting: “That’s not my daughter!”
“Oh yes it is!!!” shouted back the heathens as they nailed her PST Share Certificate to the wall of the local knocking shop, by Avram’s favourite Industrial Estate. A purple nail to hammer home the reality: – they were never getting anywhere near Southampton again.
[Episode Eight]
Thankfully, no-one was looking; when all of Sotonians