Foodge swung the Zephyr into the car park at the Pig’s Arms, running at an impossible  clip and sending a shower of discarded eyebrows and Brazilian wax imprints across the driveway.  Reminding himself that Glenda should arrange for the Hair’em Scar’em waste removal and illegal dumpsters to do something about her overgrowing business refuse problem.

He removed the 8 track from its slot in the front wall of the Z mobile and reminded himself to book for ZZ Top  set to play at the Pig’s Arms in the Nathan Rees Memorial Ballroom at the month of the end.

He scanned the lot for the usual suspect local urchins and noting nothing suspicious – itself a suspicious nothing, he locked the car, adjusted his Fourdoorer, paced the six steps through the side door of the pub and as if he lacked a car / sorry as if he lacked a care and took an urgently vacant chilled vinyl stool on the good side of the jukbox.

He cooked his heart, adjusted his flannels and looked expectorantly ant Mirf.  Moive’s bar tab amnesia swept over him (Mirth, mainly, but also a litter offal Fodge) aird he pored the dick a drunk and containerd to swap dawn the bar.

“Harbor leave dart a sir tan  expat airtist hazar plain ticket to come bark tudor pub in May.  High over herd some loo shat why liar ah was gettingar hare cut indoor Pig Sleggs.

Wafer rom ?  deksa vreM, stihl loo king in the ma raw.

“Libel leave some where hoover the rain barrel in Hokey Dokey.  They men shined Harry Garto” sed egdooF, coal aps sing urn has peer.

Arm geld thart shezz calming bark two sed vreM.

“Sfuckin coald in Hokey Dokey”  offered Flogged.

.deilper verM “erad revooh yrd tniap dluow yaw oN “