Whilst bending over as me butler applied me Anusol caught sight orf this crap on a bit orf newspaper in the cat’s litter tray: “Gregory Porter fans will already be well aware of the subtle power of his voice that can caress or confront, embrace or exhort, which slips down through the ears, trickling gently into the soul like whisky and honey. His third album, Liquid Spirit, is a cup that runneth over with lyrics ranging from the political and provocative to the deeply emotional, all sung in that rich, resonant voice”.
Have to say that the last time I have truly had that experience was taking a spot orf golden rain from the under gardener’s daughter. By God after a few ciders can that filly piss!
God spare me the bollocks. The memsahib had the cunt on the wireless but short order tuned to the gee-gees at Haydock Park. Said he sounded like a low rent Barry White (and he was a fucking flatulent joke) but minus the luvvvv.
To cap it all the tosser sports a titfer held orn by a bally balaclava. Apparently the old liquid soul luv machine wears the fandago to hide a skin condition. Never notice that then. Cunt in a twat hat.
Nominated by: Sir Limply Stoke
