wax

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We went to Great Yarmouth last weekend with a few friends to visit Louis Tussaud’s House of Wax there, which was hilariously rubbish. The exhibits were almost unrecognisable as who they were supposed to be, and it looked as though most of the clothes they wore came from one of the many thrift stores that can be found in the town. There was something endearingly English about the whole thing.
It was a fairly grey afternoon, and most of the shops couldn’t wait to close. At four-thirty, the two people who were running the House decided to call it a day, so they closed the shop, counted what little takings there were, then headed off home. In the darkness, the Margaret Thatcher waxwork called over to the Mussolini figure to turn the light back on, and muttering something in Italian under his breath, he did as he was bade. Hitler decided he needed a lager, and asked if anybody was up for joining him. Neil Kinnock and John Major were the only ones interested, and on their way out they were joined by Kylie Minogue and Christie the mass-murderer, who knew the combination to the safe.

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They took the petty cash, and ended up in a run-down bar just off the promenade. Hitler had too much to drink, and was becoming increasingly belligerent. In the end, the barmaid refused to serve him. Don’t you know who I am, he said to her. I’m Adolf Hitler, and I bombed the shit out of this crappy little town.
And I’m the Queen Mother, said the barmaid. Now get out, before I call the police.

Actually, I’m the Queen Mother, piped up a moth-eaten waxwork with surprisingly white teeth, which had sneaked in a few minutes earlier, and was having a gin with Kylie.

The next morning, back in the House of Wax, Hitler swore he would never get in such a state again.

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