You must have enough meds there to put them under for long enough to change the clocks and whip the presents into place. Otherwise get an accomplice to take them downstairs under some pretext while you manoeuvre the presents to the feet of their beds while shouting “Quick, here he is, oh you missed him”.
VB
I’ve managed to find a café that does toast and jam for £3.50. Can you guess what it’s served on?
A Tennis racket?
A pair of Sodder’s dunghampers?
A bag of gravel?
High Court writ?
A pair of Kim Wilde’s leggings?
Worryingly specific.
Nothing, unless you stump up the optional £4.99 plate rental charge.
VB
A Thursday?
A trowel
Miniature scaffolding?
A plate?
The contents of the skip round the back of Tesco?
Boris Johnsons shaved tits?
My Auntie Beryl’s living room carpet?
A miasma of pretentious, ironic, sneeringly-fake working-class cultural appropriation, with a side-order of whiny, millenial entitlement?
A thesaurus?
It was a rectangular piece of wood. In fairness to them, it did have raised edges, so it fulfills one of the basic requirements of a plate. The tea that accompanied it was good, and my flat whites were great (no mince pies, so two coffees). I’ll forgive them the toast aberration and never order it again.
The company of my son after a good walk/scoot around the park is what makes it all worthwhile though.
A Drunk Tank coming to an area near you.
