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“There’s a hole in my bucket, dear lisa, dear lisa
Theres a hole in my bucket, in a bucket a hole”
“There’s a hole in my bucket, dear lisa, dear lisa
Theres a hole in my bucket, dear lisa a hole”.
It was enchancting, thought David. The perfect melody. The best. Top notch. Like a catapault with sequins on, laced with golden ribbons. With a man wearing a suit of armor made out of smarties stuck together with melted chocolate, him standing on top of it. “There’s a hole in my bucket…” - oh! what poetry, what music! David was dutiful, like a son of The Barrance. He was skipping through a forest of conifers, ukelale out, wearing a kilt of his familys tartan, singing the melody in his blissful deep voice. His father once said his voice sounded like a trout feeding a stoat by pouring a huge pot of honey over him. David liked his father. Up here in the Highlands of Germany, his father lived with him in a log cabin. His father eat weasels for breakfast and toasted breakbeats over his fire of logs for luncheoun.
“LunchCHOON!”
“LuchCHOON!”
In late 1997 a small tapping had started on the left of Davids skull. He turned, to find Aphex Twin, wearing a toupé, flying around his head. Aphex was wasted. It was funning mental. He had just been sitting there, making some Gabba Trechcoat EmoTrance, when the power given off from the musicial fusion in Aphex’s hands created a small explosion, and now he was a flying fish, asking for dirextions to to silo so he could steal some grain to feed his mother. The man in the kilt, David, had thought about this and invited him inside his head for a cup of tea.
It was very nice tea, but when Aphex tried to go he was locked in. So now David had Aphex Twins voice in his head. It came out of his mouth when he spoke, and it tasted like eels.
Really slithery ones. Slithery like they’d been greased up by a man in a chip shop.
David was skipping along, singing the tune.
“There’s a hole in my bucket, dear lisa, dear lisa
Theres a hole in my bucket, in a bucket a hole”
“There’s a hole in my bucket, dear lisa, dear lisa
Theres a hole in my bucket, dear lisa a hole”.
Why not a mole thought David. I’d rater have a hole in my mole than my bucket. I often use my bucket to fly upon when I want to make my round the world. If it had a hole in it it might fall from the sky, and I might last somewhere really nasty. Probably Bolton. And you don’t want to go to Bolton, not if you want to come out with your ukelele in tact.
Why not a foal in my bucket, thought David.I’d rather have a foal than a hole. Because then you could just ride on your foal and carry the bucket and you’d get to the place where you were taken the bucket a lot faster. Which David supposed was a good thing, generally.
Why not a Bo! in my locket, thought David. He couldn’t see why. His hens couldn’t see why, and nor could he. It would be must unobservent of them not to have noticed - they were low-carbohydrate chickens. His father had toasted a chicken once. He was rather fond of toasting, was Davids father. Davids father once told him his mother was a pile of fish. She wasn’t a pile of fish. David had misheard. His mother was a mile of fish. In the old days, you see, the M25 was made of fish, before they invented concrete and tar and orange jackets, and those big drills, and what ever the big drills mother was.
“There’s a hole in my bucket, dear lisa, dear lisa
Theres a hole in my bucket, in a bucket a hole”
“There’s a hole in my bucket, dear lisa, dear lisa
Theres a hole in my bucket, dear lisa a hole”.
David smiled to himself, chuckled, brushed the penny loafers and scrub locks out of his beard, and mumbled:
“Isn’t it ironic that this post about irony isn’t ironic?”
Theres a hole in my bucket, in a bucket a hole”
“There’s a hole in my bucket, dear lisa, dear lisa
Theres a hole in my bucket, dear lisa a hole”.
It was enchancting, thought David. The perfect melody. The best. Top notch. Like a catapault with sequins on, laced with golden ribbons. With a man wearing a suit of armor made out of smarties stuck together with melted chocolate, him standing on top of it. “There’s a hole in my bucket…” - oh! what poetry, what music! David was dutiful, like a son of The Barrance. He was skipping through a forest of conifers, ukelale out, wearing a kilt of his familys tartan, singing the melody in his blissful deep voice. His father once said his voice sounded like a trout feeding a stoat by pouring a huge pot of honey over him. David liked his father. Up here in the Highlands of Germany, his father lived with him in a log cabin. His father eat weasels for breakfast and toasted breakbeats over his fire of logs for luncheoun.
“LunchCHOON!”
“LuchCHOON!”
In late 1997 a small tapping had started on the left of Davids skull. He turned, to find Aphex Twin, wearing a toupé, flying around his head. Aphex was wasted. It was funning mental. He had just been sitting there, making some Gabba Trechcoat EmoTrance, when the power given off from the musicial fusion in Aphex’s hands created a small explosion, and now he was a flying fish, asking for dirextions to to silo so he could steal some grain to feed his mother. The man in the kilt, David, had thought about this and invited him inside his head for a cup of tea.
It was very nice tea, but when Aphex tried to go he was locked in. So now David had Aphex Twins voice in his head. It came out of his mouth when he spoke, and it tasted like eels.
Really slithery ones. Slithery like they’d been greased up by a man in a chip shop.
David was skipping along, singing the tune.
“There’s a hole in my bucket, dear lisa, dear lisa
Theres a hole in my bucket, in a bucket a hole”
“There’s a hole in my bucket, dear lisa, dear lisa
Theres a hole in my bucket, dear lisa a hole”.
Why not a mole thought David. I’d rater have a hole in my mole than my bucket. I often use my bucket to fly upon when I want to make my round the world. If it had a hole in it it might fall from the sky, and I might last somewhere really nasty. Probably Bolton. And you don’t want to go to Bolton, not if you want to come out with your ukelele in tact.
Why not a foal in my bucket, thought David.I’d rather have a foal than a hole. Because then you could just ride on your foal and carry the bucket and you’d get to the place where you were taken the bucket a lot faster. Which David supposed was a good thing, generally.
Why not a Bo! in my locket, thought David. He couldn’t see why. His hens couldn’t see why, and nor could he. It would be must unobservent of them not to have noticed - they were low-carbohydrate chickens. His father had toasted a chicken once. He was rather fond of toasting, was Davids father. Davids father once told him his mother was a pile of fish. She wasn’t a pile of fish. David had misheard. His mother was a mile of fish. In the old days, you see, the M25 was made of fish, before they invented concrete and tar and orange jackets, and those big drills, and what ever the big drills mother was.
“There’s a hole in my bucket, dear lisa, dear lisa
Theres a hole in my bucket, in a bucket a hole”
“There’s a hole in my bucket, dear lisa, dear lisa
Theres a hole in my bucket, dear lisa a hole”.
David smiled to himself, chuckled, brushed the penny loafers and scrub locks out of his beard, and mumbled:
“Isn’t it ironic that this post about irony isn’t ironic?”
[URL]http://ukchatforums.reserve.co.uk/display_messages.php?threadid=126457&forumid=4011[/URL]
? ??
? ??
I forgot to do this thing here.
It reminds me of the good old days ... when people could be bothered to do such things.
It reminds me of the good old days ... when people could be bothered to do such things.
I don't take drugs anymore.
You've obviously fried your brain with Summer drugs and drinking.
I shant read
I shant read
Will do.
Aye. Remind me that when the next election comes along.
*cough*
Cheese for Prez (notable)
*cough*
Cheese for Prez (notable)
*cough*
Mouldy Cheese wrote:
> “There’s a hole in my bucket, dear lisa, dear lisa
> Theres a hole in my bucket, in a bucket a hole”
>
> “There’s a hole in my bucket, dear lisa, dear lisa
> Theres a hole in my bucket, dear lisa a hole”.
>
> Why not a mole thought David. I’d rater have a hole in my mole than
> my bucket.
Perhaps the most genius thing ever written.
> “There’s a hole in my bucket, dear lisa, dear lisa
> Theres a hole in my bucket, in a bucket a hole”
>
> “There’s a hole in my bucket, dear lisa, dear lisa
> Theres a hole in my bucket, dear lisa a hole”.
>
> Why not a mole thought David. I’d rater have a hole in my mole than
> my bucket.
Perhaps the most genius thing ever written.
Heh.
“There’s a hole in my bucket, dear lisa, dear lisa
Theres a hole in my bucket, in a bucket a hole”
“There’s a hole in my bucket, dear lisa, dear lisa
Theres a hole in my bucket, dear lisa a hole”.
It was enchancting, thought David. The perfect melody. The best. Top notch. Like a catapault with sequins on, laced with golden ribbons. With a man wearing a suit of armor made out of smarties stuck together with melted chocolate, him standing on top of it. “There’s a hole in my bucket…” - oh! what poetry, what music! David was dutiful, like a son of The Barrance. He was skipping through a forest of conifers, ukelale out, wearing a kilt of his familys tartan, singing the melody in his blissful deep voice. His father once said his voice sounded like a trout feeding a stoat by pouring a huge pot of honey over him. David liked his father. Up here in the Highlands of Germany, his father lived with him in a log cabin. His father eat weasels for breakfast and toasted breakbeats over his fire of logs for luncheoun.
“LunchCHOON!”
“LuchCHOON!”
In late 1997 a small tapping had started on the left of Davids skull. He turned, to find Aphex Twin, wearing a toupé, flying around his head. Aphex was wasted. It was funning mental. He had just been sitting there, making some Gabba Trechcoat EmoTrance, when the power given off from the musicial fusion in Aphex’s hands created a small explosion, and now he was a flying fish, asking for dirextions to to silo so he could steal some grain to feed his mother. The man in the kilt, David, had thought about this and invited him inside his head for a cup of tea.
It was very nice tea, but when Aphex tried to go he was locked in. So now David had Aphex Twins voice in his head. It came out of his mouth when he spoke, and it tasted like eels.
Really slithery ones. Slithery like they’d been greased up by a man in a chip shop.
David was skipping along, singing the tune.
“There’s a hole in my bucket, dear lisa, dear lisa
Theres a hole in my bucket, in a bucket a hole”
“There’s a hole in my bucket, dear lisa, dear lisa
Theres a hole in my bucket, dear lisa a hole”.
Why not a mole thought David. I’d rater have a hole in my mole than my bucket. I often use my bucket to fly upon when I want to make my round the world. If it had a hole in it it might fall from the sky, and I might last somewhere really nasty. Probably Bolton. And you don’t want to go to Bolton, not if you want to come out with your ukelele in tact.
Why not a foal in my bucket, thought David.I’d rather have a foal than a hole. Because then you could just ride on your foal and carry the bucket and you’d get to the place where you were taken the bucket a lot faster. Which David supposed was a good thing, generally.
Why not a Bo! in my locket, thought David. He couldn’t see why. His hens couldn’t see why, and nor could he. It would be must unobservent of them not to have noticed - they were low-carbohydrate chickens. His father had toasted a chicken once. He was rather fond of toasting, was Davids father. Davids father once told him his mother was a pile of fish. She wasn’t a pile of fish. David had misheard. His mother was a mile of fish. In the old days, you see, the M25 was made of fish, before they invented concrete and tar and orange jackets, and those big drills, and what ever the big drills mother was.
“There’s a hole in my bucket, dear lisa, dear lisa
Theres a hole in my bucket, in a bucket a hole”
“There’s a hole in my bucket, dear lisa, dear lisa
Theres a hole in my bucket, dear lisa a hole”.
David smiled to himself, chuckled, brushed the penny loafers and scrub locks out of his beard, and mumbled:
“Isn’t it ironic that this post about irony isn’t ironic?”
Theres a hole in my bucket, in a bucket a hole”
“There’s a hole in my bucket, dear lisa, dear lisa
Theres a hole in my bucket, dear lisa a hole”.
It was enchancting, thought David. The perfect melody. The best. Top notch. Like a catapault with sequins on, laced with golden ribbons. With a man wearing a suit of armor made out of smarties stuck together with melted chocolate, him standing on top of it. “There’s a hole in my bucket…” - oh! what poetry, what music! David was dutiful, like a son of The Barrance. He was skipping through a forest of conifers, ukelale out, wearing a kilt of his familys tartan, singing the melody in his blissful deep voice. His father once said his voice sounded like a trout feeding a stoat by pouring a huge pot of honey over him. David liked his father. Up here in the Highlands of Germany, his father lived with him in a log cabin. His father eat weasels for breakfast and toasted breakbeats over his fire of logs for luncheoun.
“LunchCHOON!”
“LuchCHOON!”
In late 1997 a small tapping had started on the left of Davids skull. He turned, to find Aphex Twin, wearing a toupé, flying around his head. Aphex was wasted. It was funning mental. He had just been sitting there, making some Gabba Trechcoat EmoTrance, when the power given off from the musicial fusion in Aphex’s hands created a small explosion, and now he was a flying fish, asking for dirextions to to silo so he could steal some grain to feed his mother. The man in the kilt, David, had thought about this and invited him inside his head for a cup of tea.
It was very nice tea, but when Aphex tried to go he was locked in. So now David had Aphex Twins voice in his head. It came out of his mouth when he spoke, and it tasted like eels.
Really slithery ones. Slithery like they’d been greased up by a man in a chip shop.
David was skipping along, singing the tune.
“There’s a hole in my bucket, dear lisa, dear lisa
Theres a hole in my bucket, in a bucket a hole”
“There’s a hole in my bucket, dear lisa, dear lisa
Theres a hole in my bucket, dear lisa a hole”.
Why not a mole thought David. I’d rater have a hole in my mole than my bucket. I often use my bucket to fly upon when I want to make my round the world. If it had a hole in it it might fall from the sky, and I might last somewhere really nasty. Probably Bolton. And you don’t want to go to Bolton, not if you want to come out with your ukelele in tact.
Why not a foal in my bucket, thought David.I’d rather have a foal than a hole. Because then you could just ride on your foal and carry the bucket and you’d get to the place where you were taken the bucket a lot faster. Which David supposed was a good thing, generally.
Why not a Bo! in my locket, thought David. He couldn’t see why. His hens couldn’t see why, and nor could he. It would be must unobservent of them not to have noticed - they were low-carbohydrate chickens. His father had toasted a chicken once. He was rather fond of toasting, was Davids father. Davids father once told him his mother was a pile of fish. She wasn’t a pile of fish. David had misheard. His mother was a mile of fish. In the old days, you see, the M25 was made of fish, before they invented concrete and tar and orange jackets, and those big drills, and what ever the big drills mother was.
“There’s a hole in my bucket, dear lisa, dear lisa
Theres a hole in my bucket, in a bucket a hole”
“There’s a hole in my bucket, dear lisa, dear lisa
Theres a hole in my bucket, dear lisa a hole”.
David smiled to himself, chuckled, brushed the penny loafers and scrub locks out of his beard, and mumbled:
“Isn’t it ironic that this post about irony isn’t ironic?”