“You’ll get nothing more from me!” I roared at Widdicombe as she tore towards me with those great juddering udders. “I’m exempt from this sort of thing, d’ye hear?”
Veins the size of undersea transportation tunnels, nipples not s’much like fried eggs, but more like fried and flattened legs, with gallons of milk spilling out all over the shop, stinking and ruining the carpet. Mountains of tit, left, right ‘n’ centre! No escape!
“Damn you woman!” I thundered, darting behind a Chesterfield. “Can’t we just go for a Coke?”
Slowly, as in an eclipse, a dribbling booby appeared over the back of the sofa. It blotted out the sun … well, the standard lamp. I stared up in horror at that flabby great knocker, flecks of blabber juice dripping into my eye. Christ, the smell!
I knew what I had to do if I was to get out of this alive. Like a man on his way to the gallows, I reluctantly raised myself level with the nipple, and opened my mouth.
“There’s a good boy,” Widdicombe cackled. “Mummy knows best, mummy knows best, mummy knows best …”
I let out a strangulated whine as fifty year’s worth of rancid and backed-up flabber-batter poured down my gullet.
All I’d wanted was an interview.