This is the Head Honcho of the Sunday roast. You wouldn’t realise it with his inability to stand up on his bloodless stumps, his head slipping all over his greasy neck, not to mention his arms, most of which are hidden behind his back ready to strike out at the slightest provocation. It took me ages to persuade this fella to pose for this mug shot. Cant’ imagine why he’s the boss man, you wouldn’t put him as such, he’s as much pizzazz as a chicken with a carved potato head should do. Inanimate and slightly sinister and unsettling to look at.

He lures you in, then makes you eat the whole plate, and go back for seconds with ample supplies of red wine gravy and the next thing you know you’ve slipped into post Sunday roast food coma and all sorts of younger offspring are asking you needless questions; taking and winning advantage from you and theres not a damn thing I could do to stop them.

Trips promised, clothes purchased, lifts granted and all for a quiet life post Chick-down. Is there no where quiet where I can lie, like Mr Creosote, fit to burst.