...Dazed5] and we're still waiting. And Rensdorf: shove yer head up yer arse. Please.
Wimbledon, laying a backmark podume. Ha!

You know, I'd actually like Chalky if her eyes looked like limpid pools instead of stagnant ponds! Bloody upstart, the shed was probably where she was conceived - not the woodshed, the wool shed! Doncha just love shearers? Inkspot on the other hand plays silly whatsits with whatever is around. If you recall, blotting paper was used to sort out the structure of microbes; sound familiar? Anyhow, I'm not moving - Kings Cross is doing me proud at the moment, unlike some of you meek and mild wooses. Must be off now, someone has just offered me a nine inch pizza supreme ... whoooeeee!

On an offensive
pen: your ears look like a herring.
Dujon: your name sounds far too much like a mustard.
Gusset login: You should really stop playing in your underwear.
Chalky: Yellow makes you look ill. Please cease from wearing it, especially a jumpsuit.
rab: you smell of fish and wee.
JLE: your MC moves are akin to a pre-school child's.
Right that's enough offence. My move is Heathrow, teminal 4.

[Lib] It's quite difficult to be horrid to you but I'll try my best ... SNOT! Heathrow Terminals 1,2,3 should make your last move look really feeble.

Quite simply, it would pleasure me more to have my testicles nibbled by a baboon called Auberon than to lower myself to the depths being shown by those cockarses who think it's sufficient to steno-diarrhoea into the box marked Stance (presuming, of course, the sub-pond biology that frequents this part even knows what the latter means) and click Submit with nary a thought as to whether its lexospew is worth daubing over the fabric of the interwebnet. Quite simply, I wonder why you sub-human cretin don't just switch off your terminals and have a genuine Bank instead of making do with this pixellated ersatz.

Off with the pixies again rab? Regardless, it's obvious from your comments that you can't touch type. On that note I'm off to Canada Quay.

[Dujon] You're 'aving an Upton Park you've really lost the farkin' plot mate, senior moment I expect, you sure it ain't Canada Goose?

Now, settle down, plump, just because the false teeth I borrowed from you don't work all that well is no excuse to clatter me! So, with a small side-step to Fulham Broadway, I call your bluff. Upton Park, really!

Some of us only need false teeth to play castanets. Latimer Road, meaning rab can't use anything longer than a six letter word next go. Think you're so smart, eh?

As I expected, skip a day and the pre-sentient life-forms continue their aimless milling around, as oblivious to the real nature of what is happening as slime-moulds in the swarming phase. Dujon displays as much coherent structure as a spider on caffeine, while plump is surely rab's sought-for baboon, long may they enjoy nibbling each other's testicles. St. Paul's, a precise counterpoise to the situation at Waterloo.

Wrens duff church aspires to pitiful as a move and invokes Morden not so much counterpoise as counter punch. It's the end of the line for you in more ways than one.