Bloody hell! Groida and his barmy charabanc have been stopped by the polis on the A49 on their way down from Rhyl. What is it with that collection of dozy arthropods? Can't they even manage a six hour journey through the Queen's realm without getting mistaken for a dangerous mob? The only threat they pose is to anyone with a sense of smell being overcome by the foul miasma of their personal gases. Incidentally, Groida, if you are reading this on your Fartleberry, or whatever it is called, your pleading Dutchman phone call was about as convincing and amusing as your double glazing salesman from Nassau. Don't expect a hug of reconciliation when you and your lugubrious tribe finally desecrate Cornish soil. Wear shin pads. All over.
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