The Clementine Complex

by Bob Mortimer

I did make a good connection with a girl this past week or so, but earlier today that blew up in my face and smacked my arse with a fish slice.

He talks nonstop and uses laughter as a form of punctuation.

I would enjoy watching the repercussions of that sort of incident.

“Have you ever needed to use a tourniquet in your work environment?”

Are you happy with what it achieves for you?”

“Smarmy” would be the correct pocket to put him in, and he spoke with a slightly high-pitched inflection.

find that warmth can bring out the taste of death that you often get from a cheap pie and I can see you’ve gone budget with your selection.”

The clogs are massive and important-looking.

“Yeah, I was missing you so much I had to come in. It’s your muscles, Wayne, they get into your mind, draw you in.” He flexed a bicep and gave it a puckered kiss. “These guns can make you want to write a love poem or sing a tribute song in the key of muscle,” said Wayne. “That is exactly what they do. You are a sexy man, Wayne, sexier than a cream horn on top of a polished school bell.” “I know, that’s why I have three girlfriends.” “Have you actually met any of them?” “Only one.” “And is that one your mother?” “No. Your mother.”

On a hidden bit of architrave around its door I have written in tiny letters “large bananas.” I occasionally take a glance at it to cheer myself up.

On the plus side, his dentist had given him the smile of a twenty-year-old, and he smelt like a supermodel’s handbag.

“Blimey, you have got a carp on. You’re fully turgid.”

He looked at me as if I was an advert for a donkey sanctuary.