laugh at life with gillie

   When Archie Fox awoke the morning after a night of drinking with his pals he wondered why his head ached so much as he had not drunk anymore than normal. His scalp felt as though it had shrunk around his skull and the latter was trying to break out. He managed to drag himself  up and sit on the edge  of his bed where he stared into space.  Billy, his large mix breed dog. stood up from his bed in the corner of the bedroom, stretched his long limbs, arched his back, flexed his well sprung chest, shook his massive flanks, wagged his long ratlike tail, strolled over to his master and placed his massive paw on Archie's knee, he gazed into Archie's eyes with a look of adoration in his own blue left eye and brown right eye; he had more breeds in him then Battersby Dogs Home. Archie twiddled the dogs pendant ear- the other one stood erect like a German Shepherd dogs- as he stared through glazed eyes at the photo of his late wife. 'I wish you were still here,' he mumbled to

laugh at life with gillie: My first message and disclaimer.

He was a Spy; I don't know why, because it was all hush, hush. He had to sneak around and look; but never, ever rush. If he rushed he'd not have seen what he had to look at. So he sneaked around on tippy toes and earned the name the cat. He was cool, he was flash, in smart suits he cut a dash. He got the girls and drank the drink; usually shook, not stirred. His reputation went ahead of him so he attracted every bird. I tell you all this in past tense, because he came a cropper. whilst out spying from the air he fell out of the chopper.

Come on Dads, here's the chance,  join in with Dads Rap Pack Dance. Wave your hands up in the air;  Kids embarrassed? You don't care. Jump around on spindly legs, the blood will rush to those old pegs. Do a roll, you know you can, spin on the floor like a fresh air fan. The Mother Rap Packers follow on, fans of Walter, Fred & John. Wear your flat cap back to front, Your on the dancing partner hunt. Now we've all got on the floor, youngsters making for the door. we don't care were having fun, We are Dads Rap Packers son. The pubs all ours now kids gone, we'll have an old fashioned singalong. Move your arms like a choo-choo train, back to your childhood again. Grab a partner, swing her round, grab another as she falls to the ground. Let your daft out, no one cares, It's cos you have had had many beers. Had a good Night? I think so; in the morning you'll be feeling low. Head is banging, embarrassed too, it all floods back a

The government are not being fare, They make tuition much too dare, They want it like the bad old times... F**k I can't think of owt that rhymes. Dem Lib Cons? they is crap. Lets Rap! Rich dudes is so up all dem selves, they want us all filling their shop shelves. Whilst they go to Uni and row boats and walk around in dem blazer coats Al that shit do my head in I on the street aint that a sin? We go down whilst they go up, we sit around with our begging cup. Only shelter I got is Hood... Not good.  EN-IT!

I'm going to have a shout at rap, close this yawning generation gap. I'm 70 and  up for it. lets have a go, Yo! we'll strut our stuff in the hood, that's good. We have our soul,  and rock and roll Now live in this time, talk in rhyme, lets have a go; Yo! We all have our point of view, Now it's their time give them their due, let go, Yo! Come on you Dads, here's your chance strut your stuff take a stance shout at the pensioners rapping dance ... EN-IT!

Acid Sid was of disrepute. He sold drugs to kids in a snazzy suit. His pockmarked face was in a snarl as he walked round with his mate Carl. I put Carl in so that it would rhyme but it was Sid alone who did the crime. I chased him off; how he did cough. He ran until his lungs gave out, plus, he suffered terribly with chronic gout. I said, "now look what drugs have done," he said, "I'll shoot you with my gun." The bullet whistled past my head and hit his mate Carl, who fell down; dead. I felt guilty of a crime, I'd introduced Carl to make it rhyme. Acid Sid said, "I've another bullet." He touched the trigger,but he didn't pull it. His acidic lungs gave up on him, His eyes rolled up, all glazed and dim. The pain ebbed out of his gout riddled feet, as he went to hell to face the heat.

There was a food critic who criticised food. His remarks about it were very rude, He criticised here, he criticised there, he even criticised the restaurants beer. He would not drink and he would not eat. Then one day in a restaurant he fell off his seat. The Doctor declared, "he's critically ill, Through picking at food and not getting his fill." Now the critic was critical; a bit of a prat, his limbs were no fatter than those of a gnat. The Restaurant Chef said, "it served him right, he came in earlier and criticised all night." They took him to hospital and tucked him in bed, and by the next morning he was critically dead.