The stinky biscuits floated in my gang master grandmother Lola’s a*** while she drank Coca cola with Bobo the pro bowler resembling Bono, who had a pro bono b****. Bobo, wearing a bowler, bowled Lola over by taking her to Dover, where they watched over after over of underarm cricket. Good grover, exclamated Lola, this over isn’t over! Lola had glossolalia, and thought grover was gravy. I mean, maybe some colour blind bod watched Sesame Street on a broken colour smelevision and also thought Grover was the colour and smell of gravy. But Lola spoke in tongues more than a class of chess playing Czech students checking their Slovak counterparts while snogging between uttering tongue twisters, such as “the tarted up tzar tarzan from Kazan tarred and feathered leathered Heathers whether Heathers blethered or not”.

Lola was curious, like Curious George the monk, known for eating fried chimpanzeeses with cheeses, well past elevenisheses. “Bobo, why are the bowlers bowling underarm?” He was buggered if he knew. All he could think of was the great Lacquer disaster of 2 1000 ought 3 and a half, when alabaster plaster scattered in his fellow bowler Cheung’s lungs. I mean Cheung was a hearty fellow, but he took Bruce Lee a little too much to heart. “You throw bowling ball overarm, you break pin’s kneecaps”, Bruce said. Or was it the hokkien Err es dee speaking. Bobo’s eyes glazed over, like an aggregation of doughnuts what ejaculated on themselves from being so fresh and fluffy.

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