Disaster strikes. The Jogger, no doubt aware of the futility of his task, turns around over half a mile short of his target and runs back. Robbed again! This is worse than the muppets in Brighton outdrawing me constantly.
I know the fix is in as The Jogger dogs it back past us, refusing to meet my angry glare.
3 comments:
Two things strike it about this picture. Firstly assuming that is the aforementioned jogger in the middle to far distance then I don't see how you think you were going to win this bet if there are ninety seconds left out of four minutes. And secondly hasn't the man in the foreground (presumably Tim) got an enormous baldspot. In summary - zonergem equals cheesehead.
The Jogger is but a lobster's throw from us. It's a five day march from where he is to the foothills of the Copper Statue. And besides, he can get tired can't he?
I am thinking you are right Mr Zonergem, it is, how you say, like taking the candyings off the babies, betting with this Tim. Also can you help me with the meanings of the words bespoke tailoring?
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