Showing posts with label daft old fart. Show all posts
Showing posts with label daft old fart. Show all posts

Saturday, 5 May 2012

Once upon a time

In a land known as "dahn 'ere in 'Ampshire" lived a daft old fart who thought it would be a jolly jape to play chase with his young pussy.

Whilst chasing said young pussy up the garden he slipped on some wet grass and went arse over tip crash landing on his right elbow on what was part of the patio and is now crazy paving.

As the elbow swelled the daft old fart being of the male gender decided that if he ignored it, it would go away, three days later the elbow was the size and colour of a small pumpkin and the wiggley things on the end of his handie went numb he reluctantly went to see his general medic bloke who wrote a note saying how silly the daft old fart was and sent him (with note) to the most feared place in the area just over the border in Surrey-Grimley Dark.

The daft old fart managed to drive his carriage to the most feared place called Grimley Dark 'orspital and after many. many, many hours whilst watching the ransom on his carriage reach vast proportions was taken to have a magic picture taken and was relieved to find that the hard bits inside his elbow were still intact which meant that the organic mechanics didn't get their chance to slice and dice the damaged portion of his anatomy.

So after many, many many more hours (whilst the ransom on his carriage almost matched the deficit) the daft old fart was sent back to his Castle with a large paper bag full of pills and things and his arm encased in what seemed to be a drainpipe just to make it even more difficult to do "things".

What followed over the next four weeks were several more trips to his general medic bloke, more than three times several trips to the physiotherapy do-dah a couple of injections to the damaged elbow and the inability to blog.

Finally the drain pipe was removed, the pills ran out and his general medic bloke told him to sod orf the daft old fart was able to once again put fuctioning fingers to keyboard and produce his normal load of old bollocks.

So the rumours of my demise are greatly exagerated, and unfortunately for you I am still here...

And the moral of this sad tale-if you are a daft old fart and want to chase young pussy-wear spiked running shoes.