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Pointless exchanges between she and I.


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Course, last night we had another pointless conversation. Yet another one to add to the mountain of sh.it thats been exchanged between she and I. If ever the art of talking rubbish ever becomes an Olympic event then we two will most definitely medal.

I mean there she is laid in bed scratching and sniffing at one of those girlie magazines that allow the sniffer to smell the odours of the latest fragrance gifted to the world by the bloody latest winner of Celebrity Big Brother, when she suddenly gets it into her head that the Council may kidnap me.

'Say you were fishing for Barbel on the Wye and the Council kidnapped you. What should I do. Should I negotiate with them'. I said, 'bloody hell! Where did that come from'. She said,'Oh come on. You never know it could happen. Should I open up a line of communication or completely ignore them'.

Course the sides of my pit of despair began to crumble didnt they. I got myself hauled into this pointless exchange didn't I. I said, 'don't bloody ignore them. That's the last thing you do when your dealing with hostage takers. Ask them what they want. If they want next to buggar all. We're in business because we've got buggar all. Pay the buggar all and get me back'.

Course, then it all gets worse doesnt it. She says, ' I'd need proof of life wouldn't I. I think I'd ask them to post me a leg'. I said. 'Not a bloody leg. A photograph of me with the Admag will do thank you very much'.

Mind. It then progressed to an area where I became highly concerned that she would actually communicate with them, say, 'yes I'll pay the fifty quid but before I do I demand you post me his right leg.' I said. 'Listen you rotten old bag. Whatever happens, as unlikely as it is, don't ask for me right leg or even the left leg. If they start suggesting severing my body parts then just ask for a finger. Not a bloody leg'.

But that wasn't the end of it was it. No! Not in our bed. She says, 'say I got you home. Say they did cut your leg off. What would you do to make a living'. I said, ' bloody hell! I don't bloody know do I. If I've got home without me bloody leg then planning a future career in the private or public sector would be the last thing on me mind'.

Course, then I got thinking about it didn't I. I mean losing a leg is a big thing. Popping out one day with two legs is one thing but hopping up the street is an entirely different proposition. I said, 'I'd becomea street beggar. Yes! That's what id do. I'd become a street begged. Folk would throw money at me because I'd only got one leg. It's a money spinner. I couldn't fail'.

Was that the end of this pointless shi.te? No! Not in our house. She said, 'say another beggar moved onto your patch and lets say he had no legs. You'd lose a lot of custom. Folk would pay him with no legs more than you with one leg. You'd have to lose another leg and an arm to get back on top of your chosen profession'.

I said. 'Right. Stop sniffing that bloody perfume. Im going to sleep. I refuse to continue on this journey that sees me getting cut up into tiny pieces simply because the Council chose to kidnap me.'

Bloody woman!

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But what if they don't want fifty quid, Bobby??


What if they want names, inside leg measurements and descriptions of the odd sort who frequent The Commercial??


What then??


Blimey Bobby - you may know too much.....we may have to kidnap you ourselves!!!!!


Good Grief! This situation is getting completely out of hand!!

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