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(en) Britain, Anarchist Class War Cambridgeshire trouble-making rag FEN TIGER page 14 - Some more from Magic Phil

Date Wed, 30 Jun 2010 10:29:27 +0300

In a monarchy not very far away, there once lived a mediocre, jugearred prince. At 31 years of age, the time had long since come for his mediocreness to land himself a princess, a royal bride to be chained into conjugal servitude at great financial and spiritual cost to the tithe payers the length and breadth of the aforementioned mediocracy. ---- âShe must have excellent bladder controlâ, stipulated his regal mediocreness to the King and Queen. ---- âThat is the most important thing of all. Well that, and a knee-jerk contempt towards post-modernist architectureâ, added his jugearredness. ---- So it was that the mediocre monarch-in-waiting sped off in his Range Rover in search of his urine-retentive bride-to-be. ---- He motored far and wide in his trusty 4 x 4 for many a month.

Whenever he spied a castle, he called in to see if a princess lived
On his travels, his royal jugness encountered many a plain and
ordinary aristocrat, but none of them came up to his stringent bog
standard - vis-a-vis the waterworks department. Really top-class
bladder control amongst the in-bred upper crust is as rare as an
impoverished merchant banker.

At last, sad and lonely, the jug-earred prince returned home to his publicly-subsidised palatial castle.

One night a wild thunderstorm raged against the castle walls. As lightning whiplashed the purple sky, a demur bashful figure battled through the gale and knocked on the
palace door.

Inside, sheltering from the storm, all the servants were busy serialising diaries for The Daily Expresso. So for the very first occasion in his pampered existence the King
himself went to see who it was at the door.

The King was astonished to see a 19-year-old photogenic blonde kindergarden assistant standing outside. She was ungainly and hunched forward, and although sopping
wet, had not a single hair out of place. âOne of our lotâ, thought the King, as he led the lone stranger to one of 27 warm lavatories where his mediocreness, formerly
known as the Prince was waiting.

As soon as he clapped his meat pies on her, the Prince fell head over ears in lust with the slightly-above-average-looking blonde. He was filled with carnal desire when
she curtsied and declared, âI truly loathe modern architecture and havenât had a pee since last Tuesdayâ.

âWell, well, wellâ, the mediocre one mused, âWeâll soon find out whether youâre up to the job, my dearâ.

While the improbably bashful visitor removed her damp clothes, the Prince lay down in his gold-rimmed bath tub, his mouth agape and his hands cocked. The unfeasibly
water-retentive blonde spurted out a torrent of bright green pee the likes of which his jugness had not witnessed since his fagging days at Gordonstone.
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