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'Billions of Men. Why Animal Test?' in large black letters across the front and 'When God Made Men, She Was Joking,' across the back. But Pete was made of stern stuff, years of having doors slammed in his face and on his foot, if he wasn't quick enough, had .....

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he not played his cards right throughout all of his 41 years?

He decided to go elsewhere with his proffered paintbrushes. Bloody feminists, he thought, disinterestedly. I mean, didn't I whistle in appreciation at the woman with those legs? That's a modern man if I ever saw one. I held a door open for a doctor at hospital and she never said thanks. Another thing I did was stop buying porn cos my wife complained about it. It is really....

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the thin edge of the wedge when you try your absolute best to be a new-age man, and it goes so unappreciated. I mean to say, I was just saying to the missus the other day, after she came home tired from her cleaning job, 'Don't worry about cooking me a three course meal tonight,  dear, you can skip the entrée tonight if you like.' How's that for .... 

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Chivality..chivalriness or what they call it?" So engrossed in his monologue was Peter the useless painter, that he missed the approaching Rottweiler, Russell the Rotty as he was known to acquaintances. Peter nearly fainted, such was the fear, but Russell Rotty merely sniffed his nether areas, and, overcome by bad stench, turned away disconsolately.

Better luck next time, mused Peter the painter, reflectively."After all, it's....

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not every day you get to bite the bum of a famous painter like me. Missed your chance mate!' he jeered at the Rottie, getting all cocky now Russell had turned away. But Russell had only turned his back momentarily to take a few big lungful's of air before .....

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running amiably towards the posterior of Peter, and then proceeding to nuzzle it through his trousers. Peter was surprised. " Shame but truly and really, you cannot get people to arselick, neither physicsly or whatsit, nor meteorically", declared Peter philosophically.

He walked off, his next door being answered by Starkus Storkcraw, 54, a stockbroker of immense repute, mainly for his expertise in drinking, and drinking copious amounts of sherry on his nights out.

Starkus Storkcraw, magnificent sherry guzzler extraordinaire, answered the door, monocle in situ, left eye scrunched up into a myopic, unseeing slit.

"What do we have here?", enquired Starkus, in a puzzled type of way.

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"Errrm..ellow Peter, it's Bert here, can you paint my house orange and purple stripes please?" he,asked, inquisitively.

"Are you sure brother? After all, only ageing hippies and similar like that".

"That's great..my ulterior motive is..I am chasing a posh hippy chick named Eleanor..she's lovely but she feels,I am square..help brother help..."

Edited by itsmeagain
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'Weeeelllllll ......it'll cost ya. The missus has been onto me about fixing a hole in the roof. Don't know what's wrong with the good old bucket to catch the drips trick, but you know what wimmen are. Fussy like. Nag on and on. Are you up for that?'

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count it out. It really was,all a man could do to resist just going round to Pete's abode and throwing the two grand at his stubbly little face. The self satisfied, morbid little cretin. Wasn't it just a month ago that the two recalcitrant brothers had disagreed over a 20 pence piece Bert had found on the floor in Tesco?

Bert had wanted to put it towards a pint that night but Peter had decreed that Bert ought to save it, as it was a case of waste not want not. Hes not bothered about me wasting 2000 quid though, the spotty jerk, thought Bert. I will bide my time, he thought, ominously.

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pounce, metaphorically, by ensuring the next 20p piece they found, was his to do with as he pleased. That is the essence of revenge, thought Bert, proudly. To ensure that all 20p pieces are mine to do with as I want. Not as he wants.

His mobile rang, it was Happy Days, his theme tune, that rang out across his London kitchen.

"Bert hello its Eleanor. I cannot attend.....

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other suggestions. Being a man of very few original ideas, and hardly being what might be called fleet of foot, he would, he surmised, end up supping again, alone, in the ball and ferret, the local boozer.

And guess what? By 735pm, he was ensconced in a chair, nearby in the same tap room were Jim, Jack, and John, three 65 yr old blokes having an interesting chat.

It seemed that Jim....

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recently retired and with idle time on his hands (giving the devil ample opportunity to find work for them) had taken to watching Last of the Summer Wine. This had given him the idea that Jack, John and he could .....

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do their own, real life, version of said situation comedy.

With that uppermost in his mind, Jim and his two mates went out to the wilds of Yorkshire, Haworth moor to be precise. It was lovely out there, thought Jim.

It appeared that Jack had hit upon a new form of wildlife.

"A female orgasm", intoned jack, quietly to John.." now this author suggested.."

"Hey up them female orgasms don't they nest in these parts?" asked Jim, enquiringly.

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