My booky wook [antikvár]

t On the morning of April Fools' Day, 2005, I woke up in a sexual addiction treatment centre in a suburb of Philadelphia. As I limped out of the drab dog's bed in which I was expected to sleep for the next thirty wankless nights, I observed the previous incumbent had left a thread of unravelled dental floss by the pillow - most likely as a noose for his poor, famished dinkle. When I'd arrived the day before, the counsellors had taken away my copy of the Guardian, as there was a depiction of the Venus de Milo on the front page of the Culture section, but let me keep the Sun, which obviously had a page 3 lovely. What kind of pervert pohce force censors a truncated sculpture but lets Keeley Hazell pass without question? 'Bhmey, this devious swine's got a picture of a concrete bird with no arms - hanging's too good for him, to the incinerator! Keep that picture of stunner Keeley though.' If they were to censor London Town they would ignore Soho but think that the statue of J