Margaret Thatcher Gives Birth to A Victorian
September 24th 2008 00:32
The greatest Prime Minister in British herstory, Sir Margaret Thatcher has, at the ripe old age of 5 foot 4, given birth to an antique bed-head.
The bed-head, a cast-iron job with some truly wonderful lattice, was delivered by Caesarian suction, a new method initiated by Hoover.
"It's older than you," jubilant nurses, picketing their noses with placards, told the exhausted vacuum-cleaner as Thatcher escaped to the roof.
Doctors, erudite and learned chops with oft-white coats, climbed up there too to talk the extremely distraught mother down.
"We wouldn't let her get a word in," they told each other as they gave the bouncing bed a workout with a very voluminous mid-waif.
She was somehere in between very skinny and just plain anarchic, jealous nurses told Thatcher who was asking to go the lav.
"I need to go number 10s," the free-thinking labour-gal told her chamberpot, as she hailed down on a cab from the roof.
The taxi, one of those black numbers driven by one of those black numbers, was a right toff, or so Thatcher's butler told panel-beaters.
"On tonight's show," one panellist, having just adopted the suckling antique, told viewers who had tuned out for the oven's on.
The bed-head, a cast-iron job with some truly wonderful lattice, was delivered by Caesarian suction, a new method initiated by Hoover.
"It's older than you," jubilant nurses, picketing their noses with placards, told the exhausted vacuum-cleaner as Thatcher escaped to the roof.
Doctors, erudite and learned chops with oft-white coats, climbed up there too to talk the extremely distraught mother down.
"We wouldn't let her get a word in," they told each other as they gave the bouncing bed a workout with a very voluminous mid-waif.
She was somehere in between very skinny and just plain anarchic, jealous nurses told Thatcher who was asking to go the lav.
"I need to go number 10s," the free-thinking labour-gal told her chamberpot, as she hailed down on a cab from the roof.
The taxi, one of those black numbers driven by one of those black numbers, was a right toff, or so Thatcher's butler told panel-beaters.
"On tonight's show," one panellist, having just adopted the suckling antique, told viewers who had tuned out for the oven's on.
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