I got given a post this morning, but I had no need for fencical supportage. Only joking - it was a new role, and boy do I lurve hot sausage rolls (oh, for a hot saussie roll from Craskes in 1992. Mmmmmm).
I was made Fire Marshall Co-Ordinator, but due to a downstairs mix up, I was unmade in the afternoon, which is a shame, coz I was looking to have a load of fun with it.
Yes indeedy - fire drills need to test the procedure, and to ensure that the plebby Fire Marshalls are getting everone out, you get to hide people in cupboards! Brilliant! How cool is that?!
On the one hand, if there is a fire, you get to tell the old gimmers there’s a fire, and to hide in the coatrack, so you can dispose of them in smouldering secrecy. And if there’s a drill, if you can find one of the babes amongst the aged mingers, get ’em in a cupboard for a bit of ’sardines’ whilst everyone’s off outside!
Red hot fire in yer pants missus? Best cool you off with me foam - let me just me extinguisher hose out...
But, alas, twas not to be.
And coincidentally, we had a fire alarm go off in Hades. Now, I wouldn’t mind being trapped in a cupboard with gothbabes sporting more cleevadge that you can shake a stick at, and less skirt that you raise a dick at.
Or something. But you have to laugh - Fire in Hades! Isn’t that ironic!
Dontcha fink?
It’s like rayeeaaaayn when you’re weeding clay
It’s a free pie, when you want to get laid
It’s a Goodies vice, that you just can’t break
And who would have bought Rick’s digger...
Well, no it isn’t ironic, actually, coz Hell is all aflame, whereas Hades is like some cavernous gloomfest, bedrenched in a miasma of phosphorescent mist rising from the Stalag Muff III and dripping from Stella McCarntney’s tights.
Not to mention the Aardvarks.
