London Mayor encourages Pants-Wetting on the Tube

Greetings my fellow mortalth. Herewith continueth the pathetic tale of my childhood on the “Farm”, how I was locked in the dungeon of neglect and how I performed many admirable feat-th of heroithm, magic and origami. Well, not quite. But anyway it was all quite heelariouth – ha ha ha I am laughing tho much it ith really quite uncomfortable. Ahem. The truth is that I grew up in woeful ignorance of urbanity (otherwise known as Sitty-Lyfe.) On the occasion of a familial visit to the hair-raising wonders of the coastal Sitty of Elizaportabeth I was asked would I want to work about the blok, oh blammit I think it reads “walk about the block”, but I coodint spell in those days either, anyway my sweet and innersint response, which I lithped in dulsint tones, woz to whit (to who?) ahem, woz such - in the three simple words that reveal so much of my simplified and unspoiled state - such worms being: “wot iz a blok?” Well it's acksherally 4 words if you count “a”, which is “a” debatable point. The other oh-cajun upon which my youthful and fetching ignorince was revealed will involve a description of the workings of a shearing shed. Maaa-aa-aa. The point being that after the sheep had been tickled they needed to get from point A to point B and my father, who was forever inventing things provided they could be welded together from rusty bits of mettle, devised an ingenious system of lifts, into which the freshly tickled sheep were deposited before being whooshed down to a holding pen in the depths of the earth. (A distance of some 6 to 8 feet, ha ha.) The “lifts” were really no more than a kind of mettle pan with low sides, sufficient to contain a sheep of moderate size and aspirations.
Whell! Picture this – I overhear an adult conversation in which it is related that my uncle Woolly had become stuck in a lift during a daring visit to some far-flung and dizzying metropolis. Yowks. As a small and possibly dim-witted child whose only experience of a lift was the kind used during the tickling of sheep, it took me many years to discover that my Uncle Woolly had actually become stuck because of some mechanical failure of a large box-shaped apparatus into which many adult humans could fit with relative ease. I was quite firmly convinced that the lift he was in was identical to the ones used in the shearing shed and the reason he had become stuck was that his arse (if you will pardon the pun) was too big for it – and that he had been inextricably lodged in it and could not be pulled free in spite of the efforts of sundry strong gentlemen etc. The whole (imagined) incident made a rather vivid impression on my young mind.
It is hard to imagine that I have progressed from such rural quaintishness to living in the gargantual sprawl of urbanity that is London, glawp. It took me some years to learn how to cross the road, I was terrified of those metal whizzy things with people inside. And the underground – yawp, eeks, oop. Take the other day for instance - there I am standing on a 60 foot near-vertical escalator trying not to faint, when Tiddlebat reads from one of the interminable posters that you pass on the way down (and again on the way up... growch, groan, sigh) the words “Pants-wetting is fun!” With my usual rural ignorance I came to the immediate conclusion that it was Boris Johnson's way of dealing with the fact that they supply no public conveniences whatsoever on the entire underground network, or perhaps a way of reassuring those less able to control their bladders when faced with the sheer terror evoked by the near-vertical plummet into the bowels of the earth. Anyway it turned out Tiddlebat had actually read the words “pants-wettingly funny” - from one of those gawstly boring ads for another gawstly boring goddam West-End play. (They should come to the East-End, we don't play about around here, haw haw!!) It was just as well he told me actually, I was about to try it out. Ha ha ha, I am such a fool..... or perhaps I am just terminally incontinent. Eeeek squelch, ooops, better go..... farewell my furry little friends... until next time.