50 shapes of fae. #doitwithagoblin

It was bound to happen. Mrs Hoblip left her copy of 50 shapes of fae on the stool in the kitchen. And by stool I mean the thing you sit on, not the thing that’s left behind when you’ve dropped the kids off at the pool.

Though,when we’re talking about Mrs H’s kitchen, I would not be surprised by anything I found there as her culinary boundaries could not be described as narrow.

She once served us toadstool soup, and it contained not one iota of fungus, I kid you not.

Still, 50 Shapes of Fae is, apparently, is Brownie porn of the most depraved type. So you can imagine my surprise when Mrs Hoblip’s boy, George (note the comma, as in boy, George– not Boy George of Karma Chameleon fame, just in case you needed clarification) calmly explained to me that it’s sold two million copies in Legondia, whose inhabitants are  amoebic sea creatures with not a sexual organ to waft at anyone between them.

ME: “So despite having only pseudopods to turn the pages with, they can read?”

George: “Nah. But they have one eye so they look at the pictures, innit?’

ME: “It’s illustrated then?”

Geroge: “Totally, and I’m not even lyin, yeah.”

George has adopted an annoying South London youf patois as his homage to the London Olympics.

ME:”I didn’t see any images in the copy I found in the loo.”

George: “That’s because it was a bog roll paperback. Advertisin’, innit. Cover of the book around a sheaf of double ply so as to avoid sticky finger.”

ME: “Ah, that explains the absence of plot and the fact that it read a lot like random cuttings from newspapers.”

George: “Good quality newspaper though. Skidmark tog six.”

I refrained from asking him who or why anyone had decided to grade newspaper in terms of slide-ability and absorption. Instead I got back to the point.

ME: “Any chance I could get hold of a proper copy then?”

George: “Yeah, when the English translation is done, you’ll be the first to know.And you ought to be since you’re in chapter 12.”

ME(Coughing and spluttering): “Chapter 12?”

George: “And 16, 17, 19 and 55.”

ME: “But I don’t…”

George: “Remember that dream you had about those Vietlombardian triplets?”

ME: “How do you know about…”

George: “That Damien Hirst lampstand in the corner was me with my video.”

ME: “But it was just…”

George: “A dream, yeah. So no copyright issues, see? Careful what you wish for.”

 

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