Knob Of Butter.

It's very comforting, I'd suppose, living in a town where most people are quite predictable, which is one of the reasons that I like to pop over to Ramsgate from time to time, to break up the monotony of that comfort.
In all my travels, I don't think I've ever come across another place quite like it for the underlying, nay found-a-mental, madness of the populace!
Not that I'm complaining, though. Far from it!
Anyhow, while letting my new hair-do down in Churchills last night, I was accosted by a rather scruffily suited (and a bit smelly) older gent, brandishing a saxaphone and completely mullering Gerry Rafferty's Baker Street, until the stocky looking barmaid, that I thought (and I'm still not entirely convinced otherwise) was a fella, told him to desist before she mistook his sax for an endoscope.
Feeling a bit sorry for the poor chappie, because he did seem a bit depressed, I engaged him in conversation and, to cut a long story short, escorted him home.
As it turns out, it wasn't just a smile that he had problems raising and, try as I might, there seemed to be no rectifying the matter. Mind you, as his flat looked and smelled like he'd used the whole thing, at some point, to prepare a village sized spaghetti bolognese, I was experiencing a few problems, myself.
"It's the vallium," he opined "been giving me problems for years."
"Perhaps you should stop taking it, then." I suggested.
"Oh no," he replied "I really can't cope if I stop."
"This is coping, then, is it?" I enquired, giving him a gentle flick on the flap of tubular skin hanging from his groin.
"I know," was his retort "it's a bummer, isn't it?"

Er, well no, actually!