There’s a rather muddy ditch by the side of a country lane that winds itself through the beautiful Yorkshire Dales.
It’s about a metre deep. A depth that is perfect for any discerning fugitive in which to lie down and steal forty much needed winks whilst keeping the lowest of profiles.
Well, it’s a perfect depth for most outlaws on the run, for sure. However, it seems that The Chairman’s ventripotent rotundity is once again some cause for concern.
Whilst waddling around searching for somewhere to lay his sweaty balding head, a deed made all the more tricky after misplacing his much loved braces, the Chairman was forced into diving for cover when a horse and rider rounded a corner up ahead.
The abandoned pair of slacks resting in a heap on the road momentarily prompted a curious cock of the rider’s eyebrow as she clip-clopped past but, thankfully, it wasn’t enough to influence a dismounted investigation.
You see, she would have easily spotted the heaving hump of the top of a hefty human belly filling the ditch next to her. And by the time she would have approached, there would have been a deep, rasping, spluttering snoring…
No comments:
Post a Comment