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Page 1

After eleven yeArs of con-
struction, the world’s most talked
about public appendage is open-
ing. The Museum of Sea and
Oceanography’s Deep Sea Duct
is finally ready for inspection.

“It is essentially a two mile
long, hermetically sealed, steel
built, brick lined, saline filled,
twin-turbine powered, fish and
crustacean stocked, stair encased,
hole”, says Professor Soames
Gnomenclature, The Sea Muse-
um’s Superintendent and Direc-
tor of Operations.

“After the first week when
it will be opened by royalty
and privately viewed there will

be public access, thus giving the
whole city an insight into the mys-
teries of the deep. A 14,000 step
wrought iron, gas lamp illuminat-
ed staircase wraps itself around
the duct and one can observe
its denizens through especially
toughened glass portholes at 200
foot intervals.”

Though the world’s deepest
aquarium by far, the diame-
ter of the Deep Sea Duct
is only 25 feet, thus en-
suring inhabitants
will continually be
swimming into
view. The privi-
leged will also

fish and the humpback angler-
fish, this oceanic cross section
will be stocked by inhabitants of
all depths including fifteen differ-
ent species of eel. The museum is
keen to point out that the utmost
care has been taken to ensure that
all creatures will exist in what they
call ‘wild harmony’.

“Think of the Duct”, adds
Professor Gnomenclature, “as
an extraordinarily long test tube.
Although”, he laughs, “there is
nothing experimental about the
contents. Years of meticulous
planning by experts has ensured

this will be a happy and safe
environment for spectators
and inhabitants alike.”

be able to observe marine life from
the interior of a five man diving
bell called the Well Bucket which
is positioned over the duct and can
be lowered on chains to the very
bottom.

There will be no shortage of
things to see with over 250 species
making the duct their home. Salt
levels, water movement and filtra-
tion will be monitored constantly to
ensure a faultless, healthy, sea-like
environment.

Besides containing many deep
water fish including the lantern-

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uct d

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“Charles II”, murmured Fleur into her pillow, “was rather a dear”or The London Sinister Exaggera
to

r

no 1

Deep Sea Duct:
Cross Section

w
a

t
e

r

Ground
Level
Top bit
Bottom bit

Duct housed in West Wing

Page 2

the door (pictured
right) is definitely
still there (Shored-
itch) at the time of
going to press. All
the door’s colours
however, have faded
since this recent pic-
ture. Any graffiti not
shown (added since
it was photographed)
will also have faded.
As will, (due to the
body’s natural age-
ing process) our own
ability to perceive
the vibrancy of its
colour.

ar r i on

eed s

“this will finAlly open up
the west. In a few years time I
see The Oxen Ford as a gate-
way for many adventurous
pioneers who are itching to
explore the lands of the Du-
rotriges and beyond”. So says
Tar Stalinborg, the engineer
who has overseen construc-
tion of every inch of the new
fifty three mile Oxen Ford
highway.

Built mainly of stone, with
beech tracking through the
Chilterns, the road is certain-
ly strong and sturdy. But can
it take all the traffic it’s likely
to attract? “In some parts
nearer London two carts can
pass without stopping”, says
Tar.

However before anyone
starts planning their travels
it should not need us to point
out that beyond the Chilterns
the terrain is dangerous. And
when one does arrive at the
Ford, it becomes quickly ap-
parent the settlement is little
more than a few cottages, oc-
cupied by fur dealers who
eke out a living by trade with,
stray, friendly members of
tribes from the west.

the hAmmersmith prisoner push is
back on – despite no-one surviving last
year’s festivities. Notwithstanding the
grim mortality rate, 450 prisoners from
the city’s five main gaols have volun-
teered. Children from the local St Moses
primary will do the honours this time,
pushing in batches of 50 then rushing
down to stone from the bank.

Not everyone is celebrating though.
Nadia Nine of ‘NO!!!!!!!!’ a local pres-
sure group who want the push stopped
is sickened that the council have allowed
it. When asked earlier today for her reac-
tion to the go ahead she replied, “This is
crazy – absolute madness. I’ve said all along
this should be moved to the summer. The
chances of any of the children inflicting
lethal blows are severely restricted when
the coldness of the water will cull almost im-

mediately. It’s just not
fair on the kids.”

The last known
survivor from two
years ago is Ted Bad
who swam upriver

to Henley
where he
sought sanc-
tuary. He
now lives in
a cell in the
convent of
The Little
Sisters of
the Law.

mAny more iron things are being
made than ever before. From tiny
things to very big things we lead
the world in manufacture, with
foundries working night and day to
produce increasing amounts.

“Pig, cast or wrought, not to
mention the big one: steel. We
make stuff from the lot”, said an
anonymous, industry insider.

fter bidding my favourite belle adieu
it’s down the sticky stairs from Tartfordshire and
into the bleached, blond afternoon of Lisle Street.
Straight down Leicester Place – where the silly,
young starlets queue for their premières – and right
into Leicester Square towards The Hay Market.

Outside the Swiss Centre the formidable Mr
Lowen Coxhill busks. I’m keen to stride but I
stay awhile. He has that special gift - playing the
saxophone sans schmaltz. (A mercurial instrument
- plainly demonstrated by the fact its plangent riff
on Gerald Rafferty’s ‘Baker Street’ shares the song
with what is almost certainly one of the worst solos
the instrument has been forced to produce).

At Picadilly I aim to walk up Regent Street but
then I see the middle, oval window right at the top
above Swan and Edgar, staring insolently. I was
going to promenade up Regent Street but that quite
puts me off. So I swing into Shaftesbury Avenue then
take a left into Great Windmill Street.

Soho, Soho. So many tales, so many stories.
Where young and frantic, lusty woodlice crawl over
slower, older, drunker woodlice all looking for what
the cognoscenti call ‘the shit’. So many missed
mornings from misplaced nights. So many lovers
lost and found over cheap chianti and expended
coffee grounds. So many – actually, to be honest, I
don’t know it that well.

Well that was Soho – we’re in Tottenham Court
Road now. We came up Dean Street, right down The
Oxen Ford Road and left through Hanway Street if
you’re interested. Up past where the porn book-
shop used to be. And up past the electronics shops
where bored salesman compete to not sell anything.
Up into the quartier mobilier. Heals on the right –
used to be a dairy farm y’know.

I’m walking past lots of interesting nooks and
crannies overflowing with historical stuff when I
become aware of walking behind an odd arguing
couple. She with curious, pudding bowl haircut,
sporting jodhpurs and scowl; he with crazy mop-
top, shabby suit and backpack, spitting venom. I’m
no trick cyclist but it looks like a good shag might
sort them out...

Right at the top into Euston Road, once plodded
by herds of doomed cattle and soldiers but now used
by station comers and goers. I press east with the
traffic. To my right Travelcardcongestionzoneone, to
my left across the road the eponymous station – one
of four which lap the Marylebone/Euston shoreline.
Unmodishly modern, it hides back from the road with
far too many windows for my liking. Is one blinking?
That squat, sly station just doesn’t want to be here.
It doesn’t even want to be a station. Give it some
planes and make it happy.

Straight on past lots of historical things far too
interesting to mention. Actually it’s taking all my guile
just to keep crossing these bastard side roads. Fuck-
ing cyclists want it both ways. To my left Somers
Town, whose gangs steal boys from Brick Lane and
don’t give them back. To my right, more stuff – litter
and history mainly. Coming up to Pret now and across
the road by way of welcome to the British Library a
huge bronze man bares his arse.

But then on the corner by O’Neills I see it. Im-
perious and brooding. Aloofly cogitating. Standing
in all its sturdy glory just below the circling bats
and thunder clouds. Vibrating and juddery, railinged
and shadowy... Queen Alexandra Mansions. (just
opposite that fancy dan station). On the recommen-
dation of my friend Paul I once went to view a flat
there for sale. Once inside that dark, dappled place
the accompanying agent told me as he knocked ner-
vously on the door, that the vendor had sworn if he
was ever in when a prospective buyer called, he’d kill
whomsoever it was. On entry it was luckily empty,
but it quickly transpired that this was actually the
flat of a devil. I didn’t buy it but its proximity to
King’s Cross does remind me I have the devilish
horn upon me once more, bringing me to at least my
vertical ramble’s end...

olds constantly select- ing and arranging words purely for the entertainment of mankind

it’s been over a fort-
night now since The
Chameleoplane change.
The sequence should
have been orange/
pink/taupe/aquamarine.
However, it’s stuck be-
tween orange and pink.

cicily sAint-sAëns has
agreed to sing at the Sea Mu-
seum Fish Abyss opening
ceremony. Accompanied on
piano by partner Phiz Fitz-
patrick, she will sing from a
selection including Schubert’s
‘Heidenröslein’ and Styrene’s
‘Oh Bondage Up Yours’.

Archie penhAllAgrAm ‘The
Zooglueman’ passed away peace-
fully last week after a medium ill-
ness. Archie, the founder of Pen-
hallagram Adhesives and known
and loved by many was often seen
as he journeyed on his distinctive
green cart between the city’s four
zoos and his factory in Hackney.

Queues Are AlreAdy forming for the
fifty-first Ethelred Institute Summer Show
which starts on Thursday with a private
view attended by the Chief and Queen.
Shortlisted paintings for the Scrotonium
this year include: ‘Subjectless Symphony in
Cinnamon’ by Sir Stark Trumpeter, ‘Unto
The Pure All Things Are Well Pure’ by
Canon Durdle Dore, ‘Old Nug’ by Prim-
my and front runner, ‘Sports Day For The
Mentals’ by Sir Sibbly Strithfellow Gore – a
forty five foot frieze including every one of
the eight hundred and forty four inmates of
Dour Mooer Asylum.

To avoid the scenes of bloody pande-
monium that accompanied last year’s show,
all paintings in the Sir Betfred Cummings
Lozenge will now be surrounded by con-
crete anchored crash barriers and patrolled
by an extra five security beasts.

Trivia note: Highest skied entry: Dennis
Whittock’s ‘Tulips for Julie’ (258 feet).

“brAce yourself for an
epidemic of orids. And
especially watch warm,
wet windowsills”, warns
the Public Department of
Safety and Health.

“Orids are most likely
to appear in northernmost
corners, especially when
a damp day follows two
dry”, advises spokesman,
Rob Spiers. “Once inside
the orid can terrify almost
any living thing – from
very rich kings to micro-
scopic, one celled organ-
isms.”

Adding to public orid
anxiety there are now
reports the pest has been
deliberately released in
areas to the north, south,
east and possibly west of
the city. “Anyone acting
suspiciously”, says Rob,
“will be paraffined with
moderate prejudice.”

thomAs ‘little’
Pucker of Penge
has today been
hanged (00.01
- 01.15) at Pend-
leton Glee gaol
for the felonious
acquisition of
five curlew eggs.

Tri-bearded,
box nosed,

prancing frog?
or headless,

grapher of
phoTog?

promenadin’
with

the fog that has covered the
east of the city for the last
two weeks, moved yesterday, a
quarter of a mile south-west.

Page 4

E
on the cornet

CRIPPLE
GATE 452

+ support

reyhound
g

SHINDIGERY
Surfeit of Lampreys support Sophistical
Rhetorician in a six week residency at The
Squalid Fig. The Seers start their semi-mini
tour at the Cybercave. Sozzled, Stoned,
Plastic-Policeman’s-Helmet-Wearing,
Ripped-Off, Swedish Student play a
one-off at The Drunken Boat while Im-
maculate Tea Towel Thrower continue
their residency at the Church of the Avun-
cular Molar.

sYnThEtIc stUff
Singles out... Speak Lord For Thy Servant
Heareth from Can These Dry Bones
Live? Bear, Bear and Bear again from
Danny Ton-up and the Mountain Boys.
Slicin’ ’n’ Hopin’ ’n’ Thinkin’ of Lovin’
from Victor, The Crooning Whittler
and Cuntitative Easing from Buster Boom
and the Bad Pennies. Sadly sinking with-
out trace: Holloway Helmore’s Sold Up
The River.

Albums in... On The Boards – Taste,
Unprincipled Maniac – The Gladstones
and Lapwing Bap from Unsympatheti-
cally Matched Hotel Annexe. Coming
next month: The Brunels’ From Here To
Maidenhead and The Forgivemenots’
Make to Yourself Friends Of The Mam-
mon Of Unrighteousness.

seEk And eNjoy
See, see and see again Spaniels of Destiny
with sexy frontman Shirty Flirty. Special
shout-out to Sham 67, All Lime Chemi-
cals and Little Girls Like Soap.

shrIEk And dEsTroy
The Supercalafragilistics’ platter of
misery, Granny’ll look after yer.

sHoUldn’T hAvE
Dolly Damsels’ Agincourtin’.

so oooooooooooooo LoNg
Radiobore – Georgie Shaw. Too long in
the comfy chair. The beard, the blarney, the
brogue, the Brahms and the Billy Bragg –
and that oh so sad veggie cookery slot.

stEer cLeAr
The Noggins – Keep on Nog Nog Noggin’
Along – er, no. Soylant Greenford – lung-
ing onto the granularsootcore bandwagon a
century too late. And Seanarina – the fact
your dad is Alonso Multirima Cultino
means nothing to us.

streEtEsT PrEaChEr
Check out Crazy Bill Morris at Ham-
mersmith Square – something about social-
isation – stap me if I know what he’s on about,
but he means it maaaaaaaan.

swAnkiEsT swEePer
Checkout Wilfo – Classiest broom in
the east. Junction of Cannon Street
and Commercial Road.

spUnky mUdLark
Fleet outflow boy with red hair and
rickets, who shouts at passing, pretty
ladies, “God bless porridge.”

streEt LiAr
The Everything Man,
of Exmouth Market.

“Buy fat chickens
and tormenters for your fleas.
Flounders, figs and periwigs,
and rind to bind your cheese.”

stop PrEss
Best test pressings just in... Hoarse
Whisperer’s Silent Assassins. The Per-
fect Sibilants’ Cider Cellar Stella and
Stressed Pheasants’ Trespassers Will
Be Prosecuted.

Page 5

?? ?? ?✕

Page 6

'

Page 7

tAmford my siAmese generally
wakes me at dawn by lying across
my neck and purring loudly. As
an alarm clock it may not be that
reliable but it’s a pleasant enough
way to slip into the day. After I get
up and shower I meditate for 15
minutes before having breakfast.
If it’s an underwater day I’ll have
a full English, otherwise it’s Twyn-
ings Soft Tea, wholemeal toast and

marmalade (Tiptree ‘Old Times’).
Whatever I’m doing that day I al-

ways check in the office first, which is
just off the Strand. I get in around nine,

grabbing a coffee from either Pret or Old
Slaughter’s on the way.

I’ve been a riverpsychleaner for 21 years
now. It all started when I was 11 and larking

about on a school trip to The Houses of Parlia-
ment. We were having a duffle bag fight on Westmin-

ster Pier when someone caught me bang on the side of
the head and knocked me straight in. I apparently stayed
under for two hours until the river police spotted me pop
up a mile downstream. I stayed unconscious a whole week
in intensive care at Tommy’s, and when I came to, a very
select selection of doctory boffinologists discovered my sur-
vival was due entirely to a strange infection. I’d become
host to a murdered, 13th century mercenary. Hard to take

in really. They said I’d been ‘infected’ but he’s part of me now –
a telepathic tapeworm – only properly stirring when it’s spiritual
feeding time. I call him John Higgs.

Although there’s only five of us in our department and we’re
pretty much left to ourselves, we actually report to the Public De-
partment of Safety and Health. The office is run by Lindseys One
and Two, without whom my life would almost immediately unravel.
The other two in the team, Captain Phipps the skipper and Chips
the cabin boy are crew, although there’s four of us in the boat alto-
gether if you include John. Underwater days are the first Friday of
each month, and by that time I can sense John’s usually quite agi-
tated and hungry for action. We take the boat out from Westminster
Pier where it’s moored. Depending on reports, we go to where the
river’s most clogged. South of The Fleet is always harder to clear as
there’s so much blood in the water from Smithfield, making it diffi-
cult to isolate problem areas and generally muddying up perception.
If it’s west of the Fleet all we have to look out for is green parrots.
They don’t actually interfere with communication like the blood, it’s
just that John doesn’t like them.

Once we’ve found a spot the skipper will chuck me in (I have to
be thrown, I can’t jump in myself). I usually wear a loin cloth, two
transmitters (one is a backup) and some rope attached to the boat.
Once in I’ll immediately sink, stop breathing, get really cold, and
get in a bit of a trance while I wait for John. This can often be the
loneliest part – lying on the river bed half aware of where I am,
with only the odd diving cormorant for company. Within an hour,
when he feels I’m ready, John will join me. I say join but he really
takes over. I can feel him welling up until I’m sort of just watching. I
still feel physical things though. I can even feel like I’m wearing his

armour, chain mail and helmet sometimes. Once he’s got into my
mind I don’t panic, in fact it’s quite a relief as we sometimes go to
some quite nasty places. A few minutes of getting used to each other
and then we’re off.

We always try to work with the tides – to keep it natural and
go with the flow. I’ll bump and glide up or down the river, what-
ever way we’ve decided previously. Sometimes I get stuck in mud or
snagged on a shopping trolley, but a good tug from the skipper will
invariably do the trick – otherwise Chips is chucked in to untangle.
If the tide’s too slow then the boat will pull me, and I scud along at
around a mile an hour with my eyes tight shut.

Without us constantly cleaning, dirty stuff can pile up and out of
the water. And when it’s into the air you’ve got problems. I can feel
John Higgs radiating as we move – a big, red, bossy, glow. Shooing
off some things sucking in others. Shaking it up and settling it down
again.

There’s many a poor soul in there who usually John just soothes.
But he’s a soldier, and if they resist or don’t move along when he
tells them they get engaged. That can be kind of scary, but being
the engager we always get our way. Though sometimes the sounds
they make can put the fear of Gush upon you. I can identify most of
this world’s noises quite quickly now though – from bleaty, sacks of
kittens to the low, silty moans of suicides and murderees.

Depending on resistance we’ll do about five miles a day. If we get
what we call a spiritclog or an atmandam we can spend the whole
session in one place. Luckily the skipper’s got a sixth sense about
these things and he’s more than happy to sit on deck and smoke
his pipe while we get our hands dirty. But mostly it’s standard stuff.
Some people worry we’ll upset the water deities – even disturb Big

Gush himself. They can rest easy, we operate on a much lower level
– just humble sweepers of one, long flue.

By the end of a five or six hour stint we’re all done. John Higgs
fades away and the boat stops, leaving me rocking and rolling on
the river bottom like a caddis fly husk. It all goes white – and then
it all goes black...

The last Saturday of the month doesn’t exist for me. I normally
surface around 1pm on a Sunday (just in time to have missed Chis-
wick car boot sale, as Lindsey Two always reminds me) in PDSH’s
research centre in Barnes where they monitor me for the day.

Previously, my cold little bod will have been hauled up by the
crew, wrapped in white linen and dispatched post haste to the cen-
tre where it will have been carefully unloaded and popped into bed.
By Monday my temperature, breathing and heart rate are normal.

I don’t want to give the impression that psychic dredging is one
big adventure. Most days I’ll spend in the office writing reports or
in numerous planning meetings. In fact, I mainly do a regular nine
to five and I’m back in my garden flat in Highgate by six. If it’s
summer I’ll maybe take my kite out on the heath (I’m president of
Highgate Kite Fighters). It’s how I unwind – on top of a hill looking
up at the sky.

I might stop off for a takeaway pizza or curry
on the way back, or whip up a stir-fry at home.
After watching the ten o’clock news with the
cat on my lap I generally turn in. I’ll brush and
floss and have a quick wash, but I never fill the
basin and never use the bath at that time. The
last thing I want is old John Higgs waking up
when it’s time to get some serious shuteye.

riverpsychleaner ian riparian Tells
effra p

eck-neck
inger abouT his day and oTher sTuff

Page 8

18 4, ,

neAr the Cross of King’s I espy that tiny tomtom tickler
Drumbo just back from his first American tour where he
says he “knocked ’em dead”. Best gigs, Blackburn’s Ford
and Bull Run – both fests.

deliciA deepool I worship you. How I’d love to
scale your nose and tippytoe along its exquisitely
contoured ridge until I reach your brow – then
dive right into your big brown eye...

A l i g h t i n g
from a hansom
cab outside Hak-
kasan, gorgeous
Whoregerina
Wilde shows

me a shapely set of pins.
“Fuck off tosser”, she shouts

at me coquettishly before disap-
pearing inside.

i bump into a less than
ebullient Hogie in Leic-
ester Fields who tells me
he’s worried about the
possible effects of Char-
lie. The Bonny Prince
natch. “He’s reached as
far as Derby”, he tells me
and fears the barbarians
will soon be at the gates.

So off to Soho to clear
the gloom where I spot
The Gilded Guttersnipe
himself outside Wheelers.
But instead of his raunchy,
hedonistic self he’s wor-
ried about the fact that 400
thousand Soviet troops are
poised to invade.

For Peacesakes timo-
rous daubers, wake up
and smell the turps – it
ain’t Guernica happen...

en route t o
t h e R i t z I
chance upon
the delight-
ful Emma
Potts in Ma-
dame Kelly’s.
I catch her mid
‘Attitude’ and
take a sly
snap on the
old iPhone.
Miss Potts
confides she’s
looking for a
sailor. “Yo ho
ho”, say aye
aye.

Boodles

B
og

us N
im

, The Math
ma

tical Mutt, caught com
p
uting outside

daffodil drummond is not just
daughter of national treasure
dolly. she’s also a talented

singer, actress, presenter, author,
dJ, jewellery maker, wallpaper
designer, perfume putter-outer
and lingerie range put-her-

name-toer in her very own right.
first london memories?
Being on my dad’s shoulders
watching the army come back
after victory at Tewkesbury. I just
remember all these dirty soldiers
marching and these big kettle
drums banging and bonging,
and all these really weird horns
honking. The crowd were going
krosstic. I saw both Eddie and
Ricky. Ricky was so good look-
ing then. I also saw the captured
queen – the She-Wolf herself, in
a chariot thing with people spit-
ting and throwing actual wee at
her. So bizarre – a really strong
mem. Well scrope.

.
fAvourite perfume?
I’ll always love Dior’s Eau Sau-
vage – it reminds me of an old
boyfriend. I also like Spink by
Gobb. And Flambé do a really
spiney whaff called Poor.

hill?
Box.

soAp?
Hilldrop Crescent.

when were you most
twAtted?
Scrofula at Verdigris two years
ago. Most of the night I swear
the dancefloor was at 45º!

on the pod?
A mix by Primpy of my sis
Dystopia’s second sing, Solo 69,
out next whenever. Floor-
wise, it’s gonna be uncondi-
tionally garganche

looking so pulchry in that silky
dress and being so brave with
that blindfold and everything. I
so cry when I see it. It makes me
want to be her – but just for like
that second only though.

cheAt recipe?
I do a really amazing cottage
cheese lasagne.

film line?
When Droozy Hawkes finds
Slo-mo Joe in the cluster-
buster in Winks and screams
‘Ain’t that just a cootietootie’
Klassick.

group?
The Spans, obs. My bro went to
school with Gluey Huey and says
he was a real normal. But Shirty
is sooooo scruuuupy.

hol dest?
My parents have a riverside
kroal in Richmond. We go
there most summers. If we’re
not upriver when it’s plaguey we
go to Highgate or Hamps.

fAve book?
Oh Catcher in the Rye definite-
ly. I love the bits when he goes
on about phonies. That’s just so
true. What really slugs me is ev-
eryone thinks they’re like him.
Get erect! Actch I’m more like
his sister.

Advice for
outoftowners?
Scrimmy round West Cents in
a doldrum – always. Don’t snozz
floofers. Scrine after nine. Never
nunny on a nimbus! And don’t
tip pot boys.

Da
FFoDIl Drummon

D ba
ngs

on
ab

ou

t h
er

lo

nd
on

clubs?
Psychic Clit at Doodles on
Tuesdays and on Thursdays,
Serengeti at Vermicelli, oth-
erwise for a laugh, Spacement
at The Newish Cavendish.
For chillout I usually end up at
Spunked or Riparian Armchair.

top dj?
Zookieblook blows me away.

fAshist designers?
Oh Gush how many pages have
we got? For classic style it has to
be Ritblat Floof, Sonbrid Bassle
and of course, Sincrum Duf-
flet. For edgy I wear Frruup,
Splangg, Mmmmm!!?!! and
Golden Eggg. Of the new stuff
Connie Simmz is doing some
inspirational things with hessian
and the student show at Groan-
ings literally blew me away.

fAve pAinting?
The Execution of Lady Jane
Grey by Delaroche. Oh Gush it’s
so sad. Those ladies in waiting,
weeping and wailing, the execu-
tioner not wanting to chop her
head off, that creepy guy whis-
pering in her ear and Lady Jane

Smo
ke

I
nt

er
nI

Sk
In

t t
ra

nS
cr

Ib
eS

daffodil drummond
is not just daughter of national
treasure dolly. she’s also a

talented singer, actress,
presenter, author, dJ,

jewellery maker, wallpaper
designer, perfume putter-outer
and lingerie range put-her-

name-toer in her
own right.

yours truly as ‘The Swinging Sultan’ at the Pepperton’s Concen-
trated Ox Paste Relish, fancy-dress, launch bash at Pumfy-Comfy’s
in Shep’s Mar on Mon. Also passing muster were Lady Ennui Du-
Nutting as ‘The Most Beautifulist Princess in The World’, boyfriend
Laird Hamish McBeamish of Tra’nee as Boadicea, the Glammis
girls as merry milkmaids and Sonjarita as a sphinx. Spaniels of Des-
tiny bass boy, Hunki Spunki DJed, with live sounds by The Scions.
Bouncer baiting was led by Viscount Bonky Doofer. Despite pap
thrashing starting early, on exit there were fifteen recorded filly fall-
ings – four with bloomers showing. Aprés do drunken straggler beat-
ing and pepper torture by as always those naughty Mohocks.

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