Right I'm fed up so it's back to business as frigging usual.
Me, Geoffrey and the T-G were all sitting round a roaring driftwood fire last evening, puffing on our Meerschaums and working our way through a barrel of madeira, when suddenly the door burst open and in came Razor Bill, clutching a telegram.
"I think it's bad news!" he blurted, before throwing himself exhausted on the couch and fanning himself with a copy of the Speedispend Christmas catalogue.
"Open it then, Tuppy," said the T-G in his serious voice.
"We've to start paying rent!" I said shakily, after reading the awful news.
"Rent! what's that?" asked Geoffrey.
"And council tax," I added.
"But why? and who to, exactly?"
"What for, you mean," said the T-G. "This isn't on, lads. Not on at all. We'll have to take action. Where's me pistol?"
"Can we not have a bacon sandwich first," I asked in an outraged voice. "Surely..."
"Stop thinking about your stomach for one second, Tuppy. There are more important things afoot. Grab a packet of smokey bacon crisps and let's get cracking."
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