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So and I was up at the Ali Pali, watching where the darts could be. The darts were on, yeah.

Well, championships are on. And obviously I checked in the sloters to have a look at their

Christmas menu, Sam Pleyton. It's nice, yeah. It was so nice. Don't it? Of course,

Adrian's there, sitting in a throne, like a Christmassy throne they put in for him.

This was meat king. Yeah, he's earned that, I reckon. I reckon. Anyway, I sat down in the booth

by the door, okay, and this is basically what I heard, yeah. Here it goes.

Welcome along, sir, to our tirade of festive fuck. An angry assault on our lessonces

delivered with a dash of yield-tied glee. Oh, yes, struck me in an rabbit right up my face,

whole. Allow us to lead you on a sleigh ride up to the condom cellar of the grotto of fuck

and back again. Before we start, sir, would you like to wear this festive paper crown?

Oh, yes, yes, yes, yes, I'm very much wood. Here you go, put it on.

Oh, you feel a bit waxy, and you know, thanks for that, bit waxy, I assure you, it's paper.

Ah, it's a kind of paper. It's actually made from the dried skin of a chew,

oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, alright, okay. It was made by a body, sir. It feels right.

This isn't just for Christmas, is it? No, it is fucking nuts, sir. What's on this Christmas menu

than you, pervert, of scour flesh? Well, for starters, sir, you can try the hospital bedpan

filled with pigs in blankets. That sounds a bit forking conventional for my sort of

...