Dear Dobson,
I hear you loud and clear regarding the arrival of the black dog. He's obviously doing the rounds. I can smell him lurking, damp and mangy... He'd better hope I don't see him, otherwise I will be compelled to kick his filthy head in.
At the moment I am listening to Derek and Clive 'The Pope gives me the horn...' - it brought you to mind for some reason.
You'll be most disappointed to hear there was no anal action on last night's date. I've decided that either I'm peri-menopausal or I have flu. I arrived at London Bridge Station heavily drenched in my own sweat - not a good look for a first date. Walking along by the river chatting was fine but whenever we went into a bar or pub the deluge started again. I was like a whore in church.
In spite of the above he wants to see me again. Either he liked the way I looked as I perspired or he's taken pity on me.
A day of alcohol ingestion awaits. It'll kill or cure.
Frankie
PS. There are two people in Germany reading our shit.
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