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Each Move Must Consist Of Precisely Eight Words
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Just as it says on the tin. What happens in the game may be debated in the game: perhaps it'll be a conversation, perhaps a word-limited reprise of various games we play, or whatever.
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The clocks have gone back exactly sixty minutes!
Not here, they haven’t!
They will soon, though.
No they won’t!
They go forwards at this season down under.
Correct! Because the earth rotates in the opposite direction.
Only because you're looking at it upside down.
Bloody snow, the very cheek of the weather!
The freakin' weather here cannot make up its mind.
Finally, my leaking roof is fixed. Touch wood.
My roof is tiles, not wood - so there.
Freakin' rodents in my house drive me crazy.
I've trouble with my mouse too. New battery.
At last the brandy butter season has begun.
My Christmas cakes are still demanding brandy tots.
Drunken young kids have no place at Christmas
As do Christmas cakes that make unreasonable demands.
They serve the Chieftan o' the pudding race.
Is that the first line of a poem?
No way, who'd start a poem like that?
My sources tell me that it's sick Burns
Read the poetry of his cousin 'Chinese' Burns.
I am popping by, just to say "Hi!"
Hi, thanks for popping in. Happy New Year.
This game always makes me want After Eights.
Surely we need a mint called Exactly Eights?
It'd certainly help me with my portion sizes...
Finished a tin of Quality Street. I win.
Is the prize a tin of Quality Street?
Sadly it's not, just Quality Street withdrawal syndrome.
What? Surely one cannot really withdraw from chocolates?
I heard some advice at bellringing practice today.
"You need another handful up your tail end."
Pull the other one, it's got bells on!
It is good to be back in the Morniverse.
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