Right.....
I raised a quizzical eyebrow and uttered the words 'This place is a refuge for the poor' and with that... I took my Paul Daniels head out from her mouth and laughed heartily. 'HA HA HA HA HA' I boomed.
She had been in the room for more than her fair stay and I had a trickle of guilt for some of the things which I had 'taught' her.
At first we romanced, we danced, we had a ball but, with her being a scrubber it was inevitably going to end in tears.
My father had forbidden the relationship from the first outset and was a man of great passion and furious belligerence when it came to, as he called them 'the great unwashed'.
Mother was cold, like a sheet of icy serenity which only served to make fathers unquenchable thirst for the blood of the underclasses, more torrid and unduly hideous.
I did the only thing that was possible, at this, the poor wretch's time of need....
I kept her in the loft, fed her raw pork, cut all her hair off and punched her in the face.
Her looks had weathered over the years and it would be a lie to say that time had been kind to her. Yet i found a strange love inside me for this urchin, the kind of love a man finds for a well trained dog, a sexual love,
I bum dogs you see. As far as I can see, that is the main difference between the higher class of people and the anti-aristocrat, they work hard for a living and we need not do, they live simple and humble lives, ours are blessed with indulgence and hedonism, we bum dogs, them, not so much.

Why is that? I thought to myself one day whilst giving 'scruffy' a thoroughly deserved seeing too.
Suddenly a thought crossed my mind 'I can smell dog poo', it was a mystery all right... The Game Was Afoot!

I lurched back and forward, my legs were of varying sizes and walking up and down stairs made me weave back and forth.
I lunged at the nearest hound, a small Corgi by the name of Lord Snootles Hemmingway-Smithe, he also took the full chudderbum dry.
The look on his face was priceless.
"I AM SALAMAN, SON OF VALDOR!" I exclaimed as I bullyrammed my third victim, Sir Earnest Archingway-Croften-Martyn, a small dachshund with a kind eye and a reputation as a lovable cad. It was still there, that foul smell. Dogmuck. Dogdirt.
The stench was overpowering, I gaged with tears in my eyes and a painful grimace as I shot my full load all over Sir Archingways slender backside.
Then it was the turn of my old arch enemy, Viceroy Pumpernackle Consworthy-Honningchurch, a vicious bloodhound with a cruel streak a meter wide and a curious white flash that ran from the top of his head to the tips of his oversized paws.
'My spidey-sense is Caningaling' I thought, as I held old el' pumernackle (a pet name, forgive the pun) in front of me and went mental, kicking his back-doors in with furious gusto.
He didn't seem bothered, just carried on chewing an old cricket ball he seemed to have produced from no-where.
I was fast approaching the vinegar strokes when the mutt turned round to me and opened his mouth, but nothing could have prepared me for what happened next.
"Craig Charles will be in Coronation Street" he murmured. I was stunned, I politely asked him to repeat, which he did only much louder and clearer than the first time he had spoken.
"Craig Charles will be in Coronation Street".
I finished my dirty duty with an arc of cocksick that I smeared all over his proud mary. 'Craig Charles' I thought to myself, 'whatever next'
"Craig Charles the rapist?" i asked my furry compadray
"You can talk?" I questioned.
"You can talk!" he spat,
"you've hurt my doggy's bum bum, bad-style"

"Wait a minute" I pronounced.
"poo comes from my bum.... and I eat food, and dogs eat dog food, so maybe... if my calculations are correct...
DOG POO COMES FROM A DOGS BUM!"

"stands to reason" announced Pumpernackle,
"what else would explain the stench of dogshit in here".

Of course we laughed and laughed and later that day I took pumpernackle to the vets and had him destroyed.

Thus, Solving the mystery of...
"The stench of the poor and bumming"
(JinDod, Fri 16 Sep 2005, 11:10, Reply)