Gnugle

"My name – is Michael Caine," lied Denis Thatcher, unbottling a cork from his nearest convenience local nightingale. "We go and have a jar," said Mike Not Youngfield, but he was really. A bit of a gnug. Gnugle. Gnuglefoot. "This will not therefore have been a foot." "I hope so, too," smelled Sad Old Mr Pumpkin brain, whose fishiness had been filletted three moons earliest. "Nasty grump!" yelled Mr Ratbag, who also had a silly nose. "My silly – is St Michael's Mount," said the Beginning, lying begging and beginning somewhere near the start of its end, the finish of its commencement. But nay! yea! hark! and yo! Hey, dudes! It was really merely the middle. Frankie Howerd walked in at this point, twiddled his thumbs, caused the ignition and sudden demise of (nearly) three zillion innuendos, and said (to camera), "Oooh, well, you see, it was merely the muddle. Oooh!" No one knew what it meant, no one could spell "Henrietta Earslime" any more, but it didn't really matter because it wasn't Friday. A pig fell through the upstairs window.