I would connect a flexible hose to your large colon using the most painful method available then force feeding you tins of Tesco Value Baked Beans and harnessing the resulting methane to fuel my green odyssey. I can feel your excitement.
You cunt. Insulting Benidorm Madge like that. She's a prime specimen of Grandmother MILF right up your Tin Pan Alley Joker. Mind you she might need quarantining at both ends if she goes anywhere near you.
There is (or used to be?) a Charles Dickens pub in St Katherine's Dock by The Thistle Tower Hotel for the tourists and yachties. Fucking orrible plastic palace. The sort Tim "Greasy Spoon" Martin would love to run alcohol slot machines devoid of character. Right up your alley Jigger.
You clearly see the shanty town of temporary shacks offering condoms and candy floss constituting your destination a step up from the concrete prison you inhabit year round.
Not before I heave my gigantic fat pimply arse next to you on our fully vaccinated Leger coach tour of the Black Forest and steel industry of the Ruhr valley. I shall wile away the long hours on the autobahn playfully tormenting you and indulging in harmless strategies of breaking your will to live.
Always crying to the teacher. Can we have some homework please Sir! You forgot the homework Sir! Can I stay behind after school Miss? Will you spank me Sir? Where do you keep the cane Sir? Can I bring in a harder slipper? Please Sir can I be ritually humiliated in assembly Monday morning?
Oh sorry my good gentlwanker and my felicitations to your family in their chocolate box cottage and Charles Dickhead stories.
Your humble and beautiful (predictive text) obedient cunt