BBC Radio 3 can be picked up in Slovenia by filling a large pair of women's tights with the third/fourth page of the Primorske Novice (only this newspaper will do), and rotating it around an oak staff at four revolutions per minute.
In Cardiff, ferocious pensioners terrorise the streets, tearing down entire buildings in their eagerness to get at the fibre glass insulation inside. They then sell this to Bolivian merchants, who ship it home on one extremely well trained and muscular carrier pigeon.
I recently met and fell in love with the smallest bat in the world at a late night roller disco. He was performing as a bass guitarist in the complementary cabaret act as part of a progressive jazz combo called Whoops, Butterfingers. Sadly, we can never have children because he is addicted to crabsticks and too much salty food diminishes semen and eyesight.
I had a fabulous weekend. I went down to Glastonbury for the festival, danced solidly from morn till night before poppin' a green Smartie. Instantly I was aware of the harmony in the universe and of the one true love which binds us all. I stayed up discussing theology with the Polyphonic Spree and Thom Yorke came to my tent for a cup of sugar. Nah, I didn't have to work at all.
[BtD] Diamanda Galas popped around for a cup of Shergar yesterday as she was feeling a little horse. Luckily I still had some left (I've used up the right side).