I’ll have you know between a stopover in La Mancha for the night which afforded unexpected news upon checking out in the morning concerning the role played by a disgruntled former orchard employee who also happens to be a jilted ex of a certain narrator in making a false report concerning non-existent illegal immigrants, it took me two days to practice up for a passable take on the soundtrack of this here production demonstrating that jangly guitars from Ridgewood are little more than Coach being cheeky given the plethora of discrete rendezvous points easily accessed without spending a dime, absurdly inflated fuel notwithstanding.
Never mind Bunbury Road in Stratford, darling; I couldn’t care less about any of the latest belch of engagement rumour stories. If concern over that happens to be fuelling London’s fascination with BBV of late, may your anxieties be laid to rest!
