In the name of the father, the son and the holy Gambon

And TheGambon sat in his pew, and wanked. For the Gambon was still randy from his Sunday Dench-athon. Mrs Brown and Chocolat he had earlier watched, for this was like any other Gambon day. And he wanked and he wanked and he wanked. And he could almost hear the noise of her deep and wistful clunge wheezing and yielding and sopping as he enjoyed now and now and now again with his mighty CRANGER. And TheDench knew this, for she was sat in the pew in front, and could hear TheGambon singing his mournful self-penned hymn ‘Inside the Bleak and Craggy Dench’. And TheGambon lent forth and intoned ‘I will brown you tonight TheDench’.

TheDench’s once-sawdust lamb hangings were hereafter referred to as ‘wetter than an otter’s pocket’ and so they were. Moist and ripe and salty. And gashy. And deep inside here did TheGamboner plunge. On the altar, in the font, upon the organ, their cracked and ruined bodies were forced together. And TheGambon did brown TheDench. Mrs Browned her. In the arse.