Quid Pro Quo

A mate of mine used to borrow his sister's lapdog and, nestling it firmly inside his right arm, he'd walk into west London pubs precisely around the time brunch tables were three jugs down and kicking off.

Before he'd even got to the bar, he'd be surrounded by beautiful women.

When it comes to magnetizing members of the fairer sex towards your vicinity, the next most proficient thing you can do in lieu of nuzzling some rat-sized canine into your chest hair, is to crouch by the roadside with a smile on your face, blowing up pink balloons and tying them to a bicycle made for 2-4 year olds.

In fifteen minutes i'd say i was approached by no less than six broads, and it goes without saying much cawing and smouldering and batting of eyelids ensued. That the average age of these women was around 63 is more a reflection on the residential aspect of my godson's parents house, than anything i was specifically doing wrong. I've concluded i just have to pick my street corners better. 

So yes Joseph, your new bike is our new bike.

Your godfather will be over soon to take it for a spin.

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