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.

Rensdorf and plump, whilst attempting a co-ordinated whispering move (Marlon Brando v that Horse bloke, circa 1995) have missed the point. Bloddy novices, don't you just luv 'em? So, straddle to Euston (dropping a ceramic as I do so) puts the whole city circle into instablility yet allowing myself an out. Work it out, suckers - especially you, Tuj, since I've got your castanet (it's/they are plural, like sheep!) Cast a net? So simple with you simpletons.

Dujon] the point of this game is to be bad-tempered and tetchy, NOT to just be a pretentious CU*T.
1.Wake up.
2. Smell the BO.
3. Shower.
4. Use soap.

Liverpool Street.

Aaaargh - you can all f*ck off, the lot of you. I've got a date tomorrow night and I don't know what to wear. Rickmansworth emergency curry stop.

Clapham Junction and you can all go shit yourselves.