Terry Venables RIP

Eddie:Here we are; spot the ball competition, page thirteen!

Richie:[Laughs] Lucky thirteen!

Eddie:And the winner is...

Richie:Yes! Yes! YES!!

Eddie:Mister T Venables Wembley stadium, London.

Richie:Goh, Bastard! He wins every week!

Eddie:Do you know, I think he might be the photographer.

Richie:Look, look, look, look [points to the paper] His balls have got to be there! They're underneath his shorts, I drew 'em in, both of them!. They can't be over there in the goal mouth... Unless it's a ladies match.

[They both peer closely at the paper for a moment]

No, no it's just a perm. Oh well, that's another twenty five quid's worth of postal orders down the Swannie.

Eddie:I wonder if they mean the football, Richie?

Richie:Don't be stupid! That could be anywhere! I mean use your head, Eddie. I mean, honestly, if I wasn't here; where would you be?

Eddie:In the pub.

Richie:No, no, no, I mean mentally, where would you be?

Eddie:Inside Maria Whittaker's bra.

Richie:Uh, Uh! Nice venue, can I tag along?

Eddie:You haven't got the bus fare, mate. [Taps the side of his head] Besides which, you've just lost all your money on the spot the balls competition.

RIP Tel El.
 
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