On my way back from checking-out the smokers' hang-out  I passed behind the oyster bar near the grunting port, dodged a traffic warden sporting an illuminated hard-on and carrying an ******* of Napier's bones

Clearly an urban fox thought I until he did the wheelie-bin by the church with a one-two, shuffle, feint, one-two and a worthy one-two too,  Who-what?  You what? Done what? By whom and with what? Beside, by, from or to.

Prejudices rearranged? he asked producing a large wasp and a small tuba from his inside hat pocket and blowing ancient Aramaic **** against a bus shelter until 'it'  threatened to rain. Fifty quid, fixed penalty, a producer? *******. OK and he did.

Is it recycling day? Is this the day? Double yellow mate, work it out for yourself. Clamp or tow, clamp or tow. These are the choices of the voices in the head of a fox in the know. Turn out the illuminations, turn up the incantations, no more ruminations - root out the creeping infestation with a Round-Up-Ready (TM) altercation.

Two minutes to Tango, two for a fiver, this tall to ride, slip inside and pitch a Force Ten and wait for the chicken coop and the soft fox lips to meet again in a kaleidoscope shower of cheerleader's tail feathers and scarlet sherbert dips.

Phone home on Napier's dog and bone, watch out for the crock oyster and if you feel like one slipped down despite precautions, get back to the bar and order double portions.