There are *ucking foxes in next door’s garden!!!
And that – ladies and gentlebloods, is my best and only impression of Mr JonnyB.
Except he probably wouldn’t have said the ‘ucking’ word.
Yes, hello, my name is Betty. I am, apparently your hostess. With fingers full of fairydust, dear Jonnyboy has let me twinkle all over his internet while he’s away. Here I am.
I’m not sure what to do now.
Oh yes! Foxes!
Sorry. “Foxes!!!” There are *ucking foxes in my neighbour’s garden!!!
Now when I say *ucking foxes, I think we all understand what I mean.
The asterix is representing a letter, you see. I’m just not sure whether I’m allowed to swear. Although, lets face it, this is the internet. I could probably tie balloons to my pubic hair and issue an open invite to a party in my Aunt Jemima and no one would bat an eyelid. Especially not the foxes. Sorry, that doesn’t make much sense, I just realised I was supposed to be talking about foxes. I have no idea how Jonny does this, it’s very hard.
I understand that the first sentence I wrote could sound like ‘there are foxes in next door’s garden and I’m not very happy about it’. This is not the case. There are foxes in next doors garden, and they are at it. They are cavorting. Relating. They are relating like rabbits.
Except not like rabbits, see, because I’ve always imagined rabbits might have happy, soft, fluffy, moppet sex.
Foxes? They have angry sex, from the sounds of it. Angry, bitey sex, all teeth and claws and barking, sounding thoroughly unpleasant for the time it lasts, which luckily isn’t very long before, in stunned silence, they seem to crawl away and lick their wounds alone.
So by the sounds of it, I would estimate these foxes have been married for somewhere between ten and fourteen years.
As they still have sex at all.
See, I don’t know whether to complain. Where I live, one doesn’t converse with ones neighbours, unless one is attempting to secure a very bad fate or some very good weed. Or both.
I might complain to the foxes, but I’m not sure they would care. Or hear me over the shagging sounds, which sound like this. ‘NYEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! ROGH! RAAIIIIG!’
I could try hunting the foxes, I suppose, but having not left the city in a long while, I’m not sure whether the hunting ban affects us as well as those dreadful rurals. Also, I would have to loose my dog out of the window. And while it would almost certainly not kill him, I think five floors may be too much. Although gravity would probably ensure he landed cast first, so he may be ok, as long as I threw far enough to get over the barbed wire, then he could sniff them out. Well, he would have to, of course, after that time with the… Oh I should stop this. I don’t really have a dog.
Not any more.
I should probably stop now all the same. Jonny never writes too much, does he?
Besides, the knockout bell has rung, and the vulpine lovemaking bout has stopped for the evening. I imagine them there now, lying there, silently hating each other but satisfied, pulling on their – foxes don’t smoke, do they? – pulling on their glacier mints and just being generally cunning.