Ted Max

I've seen the poles in those West End bars, but they're usually serving the drinks. (tuddum, pssh)

EDF Charades is a classic free exchange of goods with added mutual benefits. You are at liberty to provide your interpretation of the EDF charade market, and I am equally, and without prejudice, able to extract value from that interpretation. Social benefits accrue incrementally and conform to a pure distribution of need. That you seek to undermine this market with weighted, or means-tested, offers of determination, ignores the fact that all posters have the equal opportunity, right, and means, to guess the subject of the charade. I would support, have supported, and do support, a return to these free principles of choice in determining the outcome of the charade - and the rewards, accruals and supplementary benefits (monetary and social) that occur. In short - your guess.

Maypoles are for ... "it is the image of the penis which is venerated in religions such as ours..."

Vacuous bint.

I'm too fuckwitted to work that out.

Very nice, Simon. I heard a customer worrying about Sainsbury's new healthy-eating drive the other day: "Do you think because you are virtuous, that there shall be no more cakes and ale?" she asked.

Chener is a portal to lost worlds. The keeper of the gate only allows you to see what he wants you to see.

I'd be curious too, if I were him. "As the caterpillar chooses the fairest leaves to lay her eggs on, so the priest lays his curse on the fairest joys."

Oh. Right enough. That was very open-minded of it. "Prisons are built with stones of Law, Brothels with bricks of Religion."

What does it have to do with Father Charles from St John's Church?

Lovely day out. More tea vicar? See the football, shocking wasn't it? How's the wife keeping?

Just ask youself, what would Station Master Barry Jones do? And then do that. (EDIT PS: Down here in Peckham we had some trees planted a couple of years back and they had a little notice on them asking members of the public to water them, using the pipe provided, until they were a bit bigger. So I say, water them.)

SMB Jones got it sorted. taps nose.

I think he meant the police, PR.

Smoke rises from the township, swallowed by the fallen skies. Charred roof timbers protrude from low stone walls like smashed limbs. Nothing that could be carried by the old and young has been left. The Duke's men have taken the rest - the furniture, farm tools and fuel that count as payment for carrying out his work. A riderless horse returns, spattered with wet ashes and blood, to circle his former dwelling. His is, for now, the only life remaining on the Glengall Road. His hooves strike the frozen ground, uselessly obeying his belly's instructions. Eventually he lies down on the rubble where his stable once stood, and lets the falling snow be his blanket, the clouds his roof.

"He not stop talking about bloody fence soon. I shoot self."

"Quick, is neighbour Tony. He come to talk about bloody fence again. Turn light off and quiet keep. Last time he was talking four hours. About fence."

We've got bad wombles. The ones that spread litter. Don't mess with them and if you're going into the garden after dark alone make sure someone knows your whereabouts.

Those tabards don't cover as much as you think when you're lying down, either.

Renegade wombles.

He's not the only one.

Three more hairdressing questions: Accidental nudging of face by hairdresser's bust is just that - accidental. Isn't it? Why does answering the question, "How long since you last had it cut" feel so shameful? What are the Saturday girls laughing at in the back shop. It's me, isn't it?

That's the next book title sorted, then. I see it as probably tartan misery-lit, set in North East Scotland, referencing the Clearances, the demise of Ross County FC, perhaps even Culloden if we really want to get ambitious. Sort of an 18th century War Horse.

Three x No.

Do you have JOB?