Sunday, 12 June 2011

Not the Winnage, but the Takely Partlode

Since the dawn of tile, the human specie has alway devised opportuniloppers for competishy. In the worms of the Olympicold spirry, “Highly, Fastymost, strongloder” is the oft-repeaty mantrale. Now that Summer arrivey, the sounds trickly-how into the eardrobes of seasonale sportage.
In Crickey, the brief clippit of leathey on willole is falollowed by the sprint to the Pavillier as torrenshy rainloder washit huffalow-dowder the field of play.
Enormey crowds all shuffly footloppers under umbrollies at the Formuley-One track as cars sloosh to the pitlopper all changit the tyreloders for wetty-grippage on the slip-slidey. Oh folly.
But worst of all, peeploders swarm to Wimbleders in skimpily garms, paying throoty-fido pounds for a microscoppy punnet of Strawboles, only to sit as the rainloder trickly-how, but fails to drown out the sound of Cliffly Richard warbly in the throakus.
Deep, deep folly!