A wasp was caught in a paper nest that became a psychiatric spaceship.

The whole Russian ballet team bore the fuck out of a dragonfly.

Ruth Crawford is an oil slick of grease in fusty clothing.

On a lighter note, this is a one key performance.

Drunk on power, I couldn't fuel my thoughts on anything but cider.

Exquisite-looking women are welcome in the stars of my telescope-eyed dreams that make the moon wax lyrical about the sounds of flaring comets in my winter years.

Feverish man looking for hot women for cool dates and reasonably priced fridges.

God sees everything, you know.

I wouldn't be seen near a Scrabble board if I had to spell Ouija.

The sensuous beauties of Derbyshire should stand up.

I've released a warts and all account of my time on Spotify.

Anyone up for a game of Scrabble with an illiterate, ineloquent board game fanatic?

Any bawdy seductresses from the pulsating hive of activity that is the Derbyshire nettle and dock leaf beer group?

Any luscious-lipped, inferno-hot, hay-haired women interested in a poetic nonentity?

Any gold-lined, ocean-eyed goddess wanting to speak to me? Will take on moth nightwatchmen and soya dairy farmers who use evaporated milk in the desert of Ashover.

A great philosopher once told me: 'Get out of my house, you dozy twat.'