Day 2, and Frank Lampard off-of football, and not in a good way, is walking through the streets of London’s glittering Sardinia in what can only be described as pale blue shorts with a navy motif.
He reminds us of someone we know, but this someone won’t be getting a mention because this someone will take it as flattery and that’s no good for anyone. Particularly someone.
Isn’t it refreshing to see a topless famous whose tits aren’t the size of the Dolomites, whose arms aren’t the size of a semi-detached house in Kidderminster, and whose belly isn’t as taut as a zeppelin in a condom?
It’s a sad, sad situation but muscles are officially boring. And it’s getting more and more absurd. The male equivalent of wearing a nice whorey dress to the prom only to see every girl in the room is rocking the same whorey look, it’s a worry and tradge when all and gaysundry have tits ‘n’ ass, tits ‘n’ ass. It’s boring is what it is. And too much vanity is a total deal breaker.
We think what we’re trying to say is we’d bum Frank Lampard all around the world and aye, aye, aye indeed.
*runs fingernails down chest*
Either way, those Twinkles we were downing in London’s glittering Soho all of yesterday afternoon, by which we mean all of yesterday, have made us feel what can only be described as nauseous, with a touch of the horn. God knows what a Twinkle is.