The Three-Word, Never-Ending Westfield Story

[JonnyBoy]

up in clingfilm

[catflap]

Bought at tesco

[Westfields Rock On]

by his wierd

[Phssthpok]

Westfield driving mother...

[7 Heaven]

wearing leather knickers

[Phssthpok]

and a vibrating

[neo]

large rod thing ?

[Westfields Rock On]

for her to

[neo]

waste away hours

[Phssthpok]

laughing at Catter*am's...

[Captain Colonial]

pet donkey, Norman.

[Captain Colonial]

A summary to date of the three word never-ending Westie story.  Any nonsensical phrases, groaningly awful puns, and other crimes against literature are entirely your own faults.  I have edited a message or two when they accidentally overlapped as two people posted at the same time and thus confused the story.

Paul Merton would be proud of you lot.

The story so far...

Somewhere in Kingswinford, there lurks a man with a large black Mercedes, who drove it to Colonial's house, whereupon he promptly fell over dead tired, due to laughing at Colonial's enormous bright green and yellow coloured waterproof patio parasol, which was sat in the greenhouse, next to his big, fat & stupid Labrador.

Later on, a black helicopter polished with Autoglym and sporting a pre-panelled chassis, large c******m logo, built in Essex, piloted by Sharon, who's from Oxford, but was born breech first in Westvile and conceived on a train just outside Whitby in a narrow back passage. It smelled of fish 'erman's wellies, but she didn't care, she's used to laughing at small savaloys.

But anyway, she decided to leave the chopper in the shed out of sight and play with her battery operated pogo stick which made her bounce, much to the dog's amusement.

Flossie liked it up where the sun shone.  She couldn't sit until the swelling got soooooooooo bad that her leg got stuck in the toilet.  But ter soon helped lubricate the big swollen appendage until end.  Suddenly the swelling on her slow typing muppet went Kermit green until she saw little Miss Piggy in her Westy smiling, Miss Piggy had just received a plain brown package full of surprisingly strong smelling kippers, which she had accidentally just dropped down the new exhaust silencer, down a manhole to beat Buzz Billsberry, that nice rat arsed Donkey rider, who went down and down until he found Kylie McPherson with the leggy sister, Elle phant ivory carvings stuck to her hot shiny exhaust.

Kylie rode a mutant killer chicken pretty well, considering her exceedingly itchy jumper made from soft and fluffy irradiated brake linings.

She loved it when Blatman said, "Grease my nipple and ball joints, and play with me Avo's until they stop compressing."  She loved his fetish for green banana peelings.  Although you should see those ferrets run a steam train through the tunnel backwards while play harmonicas and danced to jazz, thought Kylie.

When out of nowhere in his Westfield, the stupid Labrador dropped the clutch, stalled, restarted the 1.6 girlie engine.  "It's running RRRRUUUUFFFF!!!"

Kylie went dog fighting wearing slippers and nothing else, but she did fight like a frog in Wellingtons, until she turned into Vanessa Phelps.

The next day, while readying herself with 20 vodkas and diet Babysham, she farted loudly and blew off the bl**** doors!

b******* me, she ain't shy of getting 400 posts cards from Manchester, 'cos like Boddingtons, you get creamy and thick heads.

Unfortunately, she didn't have a towel to mop up, so instead used a bucket and rolled up cat alytic converter that smelt bl**** awful and tasted like rotten eggs.

The plot was thickening.  Sherlock was called a nunney by Watson after he slipped and fell on a big plastic armadillo, placed on cats gravestone in deepest Wales.

Luckily, not everyone noticed that the moist damp patch was, in fact, the cat's putrid entrails which stained Sherlock's new moleskin trousers blood red.

Afterwards, he gave it back to Kylie!  Kylie, now Kenneth, unzipped his / her leather catsuit slowly, revealing a large set of pistons, complete with rings and the adjustable rubber grommets.  Unfortunately, Wallace wasn't into full swing yet, even after attempting to get into the narrow body, but unfortunately Vanessa blocked his access, until the black cat was saved from certain death by Postman Pat and his little red catering van, which was out of control and heading towards a black hole in Kylie's large knickers.

"Hurrah", said Pat, the Irish postman, "I've always wondered what colour those large knickers were."

"You can't park, you're a woman ising cat owner, overpowering weak minded animals with your size 52 leggings and ankle warmers."

Meanwhile, the Westfield with the strange green drivers started the race, it / he was back, coming up to Redgate when suddenly a streaker ran out of caster sugar.  You're so sweet, Honey Monster can but Brian can't understand his missus, she's from Oxford, Brian announced shyly.  Through which window?  The open one with the flys, the mesh screen?

As she started to spray on, asking for directions to Saaaaaarrrfffend pier, which is nice in comparison to stepping in a fisherman's welly, so let's beat Kylie with a 12" record collection by Robert Johnson, not the famous spoon playing monkey spanking fella from deepest darkest C******m, where regularly they bend their knees in genuflection whilst ring kissing in deference to the WSCC club and their members superlative transport.

Meanwhile, Vicki Butler-Henderson went down on Friday night to The Blue Oyster Cult tribute band with guest appearance by Kylie, Vicki, and Herman Munster (whose impotence problem had resulted in many hours of aversion therapy).  Since time itself began to go backwards, throwing jelly naked at Kylie and into the garage of love, but Herman and Vicki said, “Let’s go to the bathroom, grabbing toilet rolls, some industrial soap, some left-handed magazines, and a giraffe, which is nice with chips and Kylie and VBH flavoured special dips in plastic containers with chilly sauce and cold lager and kebab meat all piled on Kylie’s naked tum, tum, tum, tum, bum, bum, bum.

“Bum?”, said Blatman,  “Surely you mean A***.  It’s nice to dress like a sailor with Captain Birdseye pretensions and fishy fingers”, raising no suspicion whether he pulled the one-eyed bearded sailor’s daughter under the keel, up and under, in and out, splish, splash, splosh, was the sound whilst being vigorously beaten with a water filled Durex.

Cleaning up later, the fishy smell had stained the otherwise spotless reputation of Jeffery Archer and his famous stripey prison uniform.

“Where’s the Westfield?”, asked the farmer, who was covered from head to toe in leaky crossflow oil, automatic transmission fluid and copper grease, after working on reboring Kylie’s bottom-end.  He got to test his con-rod gering technique out in the garden greasing HIS nipples and wishing for a circus midget, who miraculously appeared in a Caterh*m, voicing his opinions.

“That’s not on”, so he reached for his king-dick and bashed it until it started to throb, clutching his torque wrench to check his nuts, he said with a Country Life magazine under his big flapping spaniel ears, “How now, brown cow, foot and mouth and swine fever are a worry when you have nuts the size of a big tropical coconut tree, and your wrench keeps on slipping as you plunge through the palms of Kylie sweaty, her new name, but enough of Kylie Sweaty, onto the Lone Ranger and his Westfield, let’s talk about finishing this story?

“Good idea”, said everyone, who exploded into a million empty vacuous spaces just like before.

“Have we beat Kylie and Buzz?”  “Why of course.”  They were talking about the weather while knitting jumpers to prevent cats from climbing on the bonnet of the one and only Little Bo Duke, who had the world’s biggest collection of cats.

Meanwhile, an amputee with his Cateringvan, which was faster than a moped with 10 wheels, stuck his finger up his… nose and into his mouth to savour to chew and suck on those big red sweets covered in fluff you always find in your underwear after a fantastic voyage of discovery that things get totally covered in the aforementioned fluff.

My Westfield’s now covered in cow muck on the steering wheel.  Luckily, it’s small, soft and thoroughly perfect in size, weight and volume.  The girth, however, was so big that’s written on the outer edge was a rude, if not libellous colourful statement that claimed the Tweenies were really a visiting group of top plastic surgeons from another planet, about to go where no man should be allowed unless accompanied by a string quartet playing Pink Floyd sings Val Doonican, and whistles small barn owls while playing with himself.

The Police with radar gun and big helmet zapped an innocent low flying Westy as it blatted cute fluffy rabbits into bitesize pieces with chocolate chips shaped like cats, turtles and tigers danglers, yes danglers Dastardly deed into what was once a hamster wrapped up in clingfilm, bought at Tesco by his weird Westfield-driving mother, wearing leather knickers and a vibrating large rod thing, for her to waste away hours laughing at Catter*am’s pet donkey, Norman.

[Edo]

Meanwhile a westfield

[Phssthpok]

shaped dildo shocked

[Paul Hurdsfield - Joint Manchester AO]

Mother Teresa's best