wytchcroft

Not content with poisoning the minds of tiny children with a wacky tutelage of Shakespeare and Space Aleens  I have of late (wherefore I know not) begun to narrow my eyes and turn my evil attentions to what one might call the Senior Service (and here in Limey-land, as Burroughs once cracked, “the only good service is senior service”).

To whit (and not a groat less) – my potential career as a Botox smuggler. Yes, folks, right here.
Justly renowned for my zombie chicken neck and a certain resemblance to Gul Dukat, the medical powers that be, clearly worried by my habit of headbutting my own knees, have decided to take matters (that is my neck) into their own hands and inject the sucker with Botox! Yes, Botox! I am to have a neck as smooth as a baby’s bottom or Cliff Richard’s forehead! Thus, they say, will my droopy head be cured and once more stand proud and erect and – madam stop that snorting! 
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