My lovely wife Shirley has taken up Zumba.
Yesterday, I was on the pot studying the racing form. She was bomping about upstairs. To that bird who married Russell Bland, Katie Rihanna or some such.
I decided to put a monkey on White Supremacist in the 2.30 at Ascot when, in mid wipe, I heard a loud crack and a Reebok clad foot appeared in the ceiling overhead. It was Shirley’s foot.
“Get your big arse up ‘ere and help!” She cried, her foot wiggling in despair over me. Like the sword of Damocles it was (I’ve got a box set of classic Greek myths all starring Kevin Sorbo and that girl from ER; the one who had a crutch, I found out she doesn’t use one in real life – now that’s what I call acting!)
Part of my pellet remained despite three flushes but I figured where my priorities lay and bolted upstairs to help Shirl out of her predicament.
She was like a lycra clad Rumpelstiltskin.
“I was gonna get round to fixing that.”
“Useless twat.” She said as I pulled her out. Sadly the Reebok (A Chrissie prezzie from Yours Truly) came away and landed in the bowl amongst me business.
It took ages to flush.
White Supremacist romped home though!