The Anglian Connection

Having regained his senses, or what pass for senses in this thrill a minute fantasy, Jimbob gathers the underwear together and is immediately assailed by an aroma reminiscent of an unemptied Port-a-loo at the end of a four day Rock Festival. Deciding to reliquish his sense of smell and sense of reality our hero (Well he's my hero anyway, so there!) resists the urge to wash, iron, fold and place the underwear neatly in the Harrier's airing cupboard and rushes to the front room where he retrieves his sewing kit stored nicely in an old Danish All Butter Cookie tin (and very nice they were too thanks). He then proceeds to extract all the elastic from the underwear and using a neat running stitch learned at his mummy's knees, when she was sewing up his mouth to stop him crying and eating, fashions a parachute (ta da). Resisting all attempts to stop him Jimbob steps out of the Harrier onto the garden path and strolls to the rear of the stricken aircraft. He admires the flora and fauna in the garden and stops briefly at the garden shed where he extracts a deck chair, sits and enjoys what could be his last rollie. (Before you lot complain about airing cupboards, front rooms, garden paths, sheds etc in a Harrier, this is my part of the fantasy and I've read enough Spike Milligan to know what is and isn't possible, so there! Ya boo sucks to you!) Throwing away his dog end Jimbob proceeds to tie the improvised parachute to the rear of the Harrier carefully avoided burns on his posterior from the jet exhaust. "OK," he shouts "you can run out of fuel now, I'm leaving this story for a while to think about underwear again"

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