This is the overpowering stench of two men battling through the pubis of David Bellamy as they seek to exchange their imaginations for a hollowed-out skull full of gold.
Home grown, self-fertilized, self-satisfying nonsense, sometimes resembling a pair of Esther Rantzen's testicles, or a giant priapic parsnip towering over the hysterical inhabitants of London Village. Read it, and quite literally weep. Then go and mow the lawn.
Medium-sized POB man WLTM female reverend of any size GLBNP with interest in Victorian stethoscopes, mud-figurines, stamp albums and stump albums. Send stamp-addressed email to one of my addresses. I'll get a man to pick it up.
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