Sir Reality and the Washpot Kingdom of Snoll

Snoll was, and still is as far as I’m probably concerned, a small fishing tackle on the outer isle of the Inner Hebrides. Its one true point to Mandeville was that it was not a herring (as so many of our forebears tend to be these days). Yet one day, into this court, rode sir Reality, who was chumping a rollmop, and he declared that Snoll should now be forevermore his kingdom. After he’d proclaimed this using the words “Yak”, he sent for Jonathan and his wife Patrick to cummerbund and set the place of the seaweed fish to rights to order – for that was his order.

After the first day of Wenceslas had excused his burst bladder and knoplered off round the back of the chippie for a quick slipper, Reality got caned and let out his boathouse to a whore who mended Sox, the Presidential cat, for a living. It was while in this drug-induced theatre that cheese was invented and Patrick was truly announced an oik – for his feet were too common to be those of Jeremy Beadle’s pet poodle’s beadle, Robert the Asquith senior, who had no toast and couldn’t bunny for betters anywho,(that’s what I said!).

Whoever said that window panes were a waste of time? When the kippers had parsnippery in their jello, Mr. Defumigate eat his cat, who had been having a noisome row till now in the heart of Robert the Asquith’s doze, however the kip had not been to no frolicking avail, and that avail was that it was not to have been to no avail – for what purpose could that possibly hold, I ask you?

Since the whore had finished deciphering the Alfa Romero Zed script it was peachy-peachy time and the fishing tackle was put to some good use at last. Though what that was we were always in seated debate thereon bylaws.

Pyjamas, bottom and left flank, and not too much of that in these days of pickled buses and my shoe. My shoe. Ooh… That precludes a pear!

Insteadily off and Ariston did haveny nay friends because she had a trademark implanted in her left temple that allowed her to recall the chorus from ‘Die Führenspiegel’ that her overweight hamoid had invented for its own good, and that of the people.

My nads hurt me that first day I met the nutter and they squirted hot beatles albumns, that had been hotlipped from an old recording contract, all over Dr Shipman’s deceased. But the legs were fine I tell you – and that is where the tale be-odes a mite strange, a superfluity odd, a rampaging telephone – they hadn’t got any knees on! Now this, as you will have tocked yourself into, is not only lewd, not even maquillage of the highest commoner, this, my trend, is a lack of interdependent puns. Imagine…No knees!

(Shocking, really)

But to plod back to the table; Snoll had fast become a trading town in the last few hours – owing mainly to its close Thais with Leamington’s Spar. And a cacophony of impersonators plied their trade to the seasonal population of milkmen (Hence the washpots, see). But one thang was misting: the eyes of old Sir Reality glued a funny tang whenever his missing daughter was raised at the conversation ladders. It were he wot had ordered Frangelica’s banishment in the Po dynasty and it could be an embarrassment to view her salted patellae whence Greenland – ‘spesh now that Ariston’s grip had taken grip and the Northern Irish’s sportsbag trade was diminishing to the wassails of drifting porcine sperm.

Now it seems the only one left to whom the hoi polloi grieved noncking trust was that very Jonathan who earlier had ascribed Yak and various noisettes of telephone – the seaweed having gone to the otters.

It was a sad day the day that night fell on Sir Reality and the Washpot Kingdom of Snoll, and its people rejoiced, for they were fickle (due to the bus system). Idle lawnspacers licked the feet of the clergy and children tried to speak like Mr Boom. But the moon wasn’y real, the moon was a song…

And that song failed at the marketing stage.

THE NEND.