Eggbound In Finchley

Some have marvelled at the eggstreme diet that fuelled Margaret Thatcher’s jet propelled march to power in 1979. For myself, thinking about eating all those eggs makes me feel eggceptionaly nauseous. This sensation can best be described as a more intense version of the way I feel whenever I think about Margaret Thatcher. Still I am proved correct about one thing having always imagined the Iron Lady would be surrounded by a sulphurous miasma. It’s clear now this was not the satanic smell of brimstone but the farty smell of someone who lives on eggs.

Strange how those driven to eggcel in their chosen field, while they like to present a public persona of cold logic and superior intellect are all to often proved ready to eggshibit eggcentricities and embrace superstitions and crackpot beliefs it they think it will help them succeed.

We can at least understand one thing about Maggie though. Her bizarre diet eggsplains why she always sounded constipated when speaking.

A million brownie points each for egg jokes and puns in the comment thread

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3 Responses to “Eggbound In Finchley”

  1. rithompson Says:

    I was in North Finchley yesterday! Didn’t smell like eggs though! :))

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