spimcoot invites you in for a chat
What's that my dear? Ah yes, our appointment. N-no, quite right quite right, I hadn't forgotten. Shall we go somewhere nice and quiet where we can talk without being disturbed... actually, I was just on me way to the Post Cartoonists' Lounge, although I can't promise that you won't be disturbed there; place always gives me the willies, and
the cleaning lady is still off with her nervous breakdown. Really? Well if you're sure. At least Wowbagger's away so we'll only have to put up with my belching. Off we go then; let me just pick up this... oof... box of pornograph... that is, phonograph records. And could you just hand me that bag of empties there... for recycling, that's it. Yes, they do look more like fulls than empties don't they? No, you can't recycle 'em with whisky in, that's the whole point...
Here we are, Glibbman Mansions. It's on the top floor I'm afraid but there's a lift, provided Sebastopol the lift man has dragged himself from the arms of Mrs Sebastopol this morning: grip like rigor mortis that woman... Oop, morning Sebastopol, how's the wife...
Yes, it always smells like that. We used to wonder why Sebastopol put up with people doing that in his lift until we realised it's Sebastopol that does it. The Lounge is down at the end there if you'll lead on while I tackle the light switch. That's bett... oo, watch out for that loose floorboard! Oh my hat, I forgot about the other one! I say, are you all right? I expect it looks worse than it is; head wounds are always like that. Never mind, we'll crack open an 'empty' when we're inside. Steady yourself by the door there while I open up... always think this dirty crack in the pane here looks like one of those route maps of some exotic journey in a Thirties adventure film... bit stiff, let's just place a judicious kick... damn it, I seem to have added a little detour to the route... oh! Wowbagger, you here? Ahm, no, I'm no more trying to hide a boxful of pornography and scotch behind my back than you're trying to hide the good armchair by covering it with your gigantic arse. Exactly. Oh, don't go on our account, stay and finish hanging the bunting for my welcome back reception, as I'm sure you were about to... yes, I know you couldn't hang a fly paper but you've always said you'll swing for me and I was rather hoping that there'd be more to welcome back the prodigal blighter than empty lager cans and cake crumbs. No, no, you're right of course. We'll say what ho tinkerty tonk then shall we... or you can put it that way if you prefer... and you'd better return Mark Moxon's beard; he might need it on his travels.
Now then, sorry about that, come in, do. Don't worry, the fleas only bite if they smell alcohol in your blood stream... gosh, I've never seen them go for someone that quickly before. Tch, just look at that; they've practically demolished your socks. Amazing. Pull up a chair... ng! The good one, splendid choice, swine. I'll take the commode.
Righto, fire away, ask me anything you like, start up a conversation thread about any topic on which you'd like my esteemed (or half baked) opinion and I'll attempt to unravel it in next week's gripping instalment. Be aware, though, that if you don't ask me anything I'll just ramble on about meself, which is one of my favourite subjects. No, I don't mind people that talk of nothing but Me, Me, Me: it's when they talk of themselves that I grow weary.
Off you go, then.