Sit down in a standing sort of way. But only if you want to.
This is where totally incoherant mumblings/rants/cookookatchoo/dribble can be placed free of charge, and an alcoholic beverage can be served once the staff figure out how to open their trousers.
Anything can be said here, but it's preferable that it weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeesa be at least moderately doused in sh*t.
I am going to start off by conjegating the verb "to go". Then, following a bi-polar trek, I will continue where I left off boiling my potatoes in HP sauce with a dash of conker flesh.
Once these feats are completed, I intend to poo in a range of moderately priced designer-labelled socks, and then go canoing around the Arctic circle.
Once my lapels are reasonably sturdy again, I will reimburse the Government for the naughty apple-jack theft of three fortnights ago, save a Wednesday.
A sordid business involving revolving doors and a picnic hamper will ensue, and testosterone-addicted Pigmi's will lose their hair and start playing snooker.
Yellow paintings will fall from the sky, and a small note will reveal the secrets of the Universe.
Incessant pipe-smokers will invade Tazmania using their habit as a smoke-screen, and the White Cliffs of Dover will grow tired of their surroundings and opt for a mixture involving pink and black when redecorating.
Chewing gum will, despite the feeble rantings of world experts, grow an arm and a testicle and unsuccessfully try to conquer the confectionary empire currently ruled by Tsar
Mars Bar using Mintoes as kamikazi cannonballs.
Playing cards naked will become a hanging offence, while playing dominoes fully clothed earns you a week in a snake pit.
Anyway. Enjoy the bar as much as me, and we'll all be miserable together, still talking cak, and still no, no. It doesn't taste like candy at all Peter.
May I declare the bar truely not now Bernard, I'm trying to test-pilot this rubber muffin.
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