Return of F-G (it is)
Return of F-G (come on)
Return of F-G (oh my God)
You knew that I’d be back (here I am)
That’s right my grateful followers, Peter’s back to rock the show. Respect due to me.
Thursday 26 July 2012 – 12.45pm
Well I’ve been on a sabbatical due to some personal matters and, of course, big business. I was asked for some advice on a promising little blog regarding luxury sausage making. ‘Squeezing one out’ will be making big waves on the blog scene very soon and is set to put our little town on the map for quality sausages. Keep them pealed (not the sausages though, that’s reserved for potatoes and other hard skinned vegetables. Pealing sausages is only for emergency stuffing use only). Offaly good.
And the personal matters? Well I’ve been suffering with post-nasal drip which has sapped some creative energy recently. Well, I’ve picked myself up, dusted myself off and got on with conquering my goals. Is there any left to conquer eh Peter?
Thursday 26 July 2012 – 3.56pm
So Peter’s back. Bring on the trumpets and play a lament to boredom because it’s being chased up the flag-pole. Bingo!
Back to business, you’ll be glad to hear that the leylandii article is right back on the front burner. It’s as refined as single malt and twice as mind-blowing. Long gestation
So, how are the courses going over at the leisure centre? It’s a funny story but, due to circumstances beyond my control and a court order, I’ve been stopped from running them. Daphne turned on me and claimed sexual harassment on the third lesson. Like she had a chance with old Peter eh? I like my women like I like my coffee. Strong. And Kenyan. Mrs. F-G is a lucky lady eh Peter?
Back soon for more pearls of genius. I may even break out the leylandii post. Brace yourself…
Christ who invited Peter back? No…… I missed that email otherwise I’d have done something… I’m not having another Irish back-lash…. Um, looks like there will be more Peter Foust-Grumpert soon… Sorry about that.
Dolphins of Dagenham – by Hanky Meatspin
That ripped that family into a whole three quarters,
Wantonly spoke at the cat in Dutch paint
That signalled the end of days around the spoon,
Talking of deeds never spoken of then
Written in jest of days when they were once happened of yet,
Spoken words on tea towels
The sound of closure,
Closing closily in a closing way backwards,
Moisture clinging from Scouts
The fork of destiny,
Hanging like a sausage around their cloaks,