Eunice had deposited St John upon the balcony of the first-floor apartment of former Liberal MP, The Rt. Hon. Leonard Cossins, the disgraced Lord Mayor of Mitchell-Baines who had been removed from office having been caught administering counterfeit buttercup syrup to the local yeomanry whilst on a hunting trip to Stoke-Poges.

Beetroot Cossins had moved to Kuala Lumpur where she had died of lethargy and pie.

Her protestations were drowned out by the sound of Gordon Honeycomb barfing up aftershock into the kitchenette sink.

I once went to one of his Virgin Vie parties and had a really good time watching Chas having a paddy whilst trying to put on Dave’s socks, before realising that he only had two feet, compared to Dave’s three.

There was Arctic John, a businessman from Salisbury who doesn’t hold water, Bruce Knott, a social worker from Cumberland who spends his lunch hour picking his bum, and Judith Glycerine, the reformation pig.

Tobak Davenport, who is a cross between some Sugar Puffs and Lynn Faulds-Wood, was squatting there before being removed by the local constabulary after he went round to complain about Luther Blisset’s pet turkey fouling the communal herb garden.

A huge meringue with polio who drives everywhere in a beautifully restored Hillman Imp.

On the other side of St John’s house is a fake egg timer who can’t maintain an erection. He shares the property with a glossy beef burger called Tom, who has been painted by a seven year old magistrate in order to be entered for this year’s Miss East Lancashire competition. Next door to them is a Dundee cake with a lisp.

Your toaster’s a puff.