moules marinade. "Oh dear!" yelled Gordon in total frustration. (Well, that wasn't quite what he said but you get the general idea. ) Not only was the kitchen now on a 30 degree slope - he could live with that - but there was no martini, no lemon, no spices and, to cap it all, a piece of Borg had just landed in his cake mix
the outer limits of reason, sensibility and comprehension, Cy, the Borg investibule, pondered on the outcome of his recent union with Sinderella, chief whipper-out at the Climax donkey sanctuary, where
he had discovered the delights of mixed doubles - but that was a different time in a different star system. He stared down at the impenetrable plasmasphere. Why was he always left minding the cube? Then, blissfully unaware that the entire landing force had been destroyed, he went back to practising his serve
in the ancient city of New Wimbledon, a quiet place in East Atlantis where rules were sacrosanct. But the Umpyres were getting worried. The tide had never gone out that far
into vullvva the city of darkness, where humidity was high, and moisture levels were off the scale. However, the Gee-spot was missing.... someone had a nerve....