The Indian Summer of the Tory Party

Grimbeau

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Cedric found the Marquess of Coole spreadeagled on the Ottoman with the ‘Half Life
Of Snails’ in her bloodless grip & texted Henry so
Henry knew Edward G was heinous culpable and twigged at once he had to go.
After all the yoke was full with blistered aubergines, midget broccoli festooned the architraves, and a hairless Headcase looked perturbed wrapped only in a samphire throw.
At heart the man was a pushy upstart from Central casting; the one they always let through, the dead loss leader, the hollow idol to kill off with strychnine on a wet afternoon
Think of the afterthrill of eating chocolate in the dark and feeling a little moist.
But it was all a charade. The long positions still held firm on cupidity and smarm
Peregrine was out a sea huntin marlin for Veronica. Nailed up and bleeding effluent from
every orifice he was hooked, lined…

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