When surface from a four day crash, bluebottle-gobbed, and hear the children calling you... and rise to find they've roped your guts, so fall, you jessie. They crown you King Cantaloupe and gob you up a synapse bomb. So now, you hooting bletherskate, not clocking you've been prammed to serenade the door of your ex-wife, where pierced on glares of ice you fold to weeping topple. Then find you've wandered back to school, and frit the squabs and now here comes a teacher with a copper. Then welcome. Mmm. Ooh, fuss, fuss, fuss, fuss. Welcome. In Jam.
| Name | Type | Role | |
|---|---|---|---|
| Christopher Morris | Writer |