Imogen Thomas and I went to buy a car from Sarah Palin's son. As far as this transaction goes, we're BUYING TRIG'S.
Imogen Thomas and I want to make a wood shack a la Ray Mears, so we're in the forest CARRYING TWIGS.
Imogen Thomas and I travelled back in time to the 19th Century, and tried buying our way into Parliament. The Tories weren't keen, so we're BRIBING WHIGS.
Imogen Thomas usually eats ready meals from the co-op, but I think she should broaden her palette. So tonight, we're TRYING FIGS.
Driving past the slaughterhouse in an afternoon haze, Imogen Thomas suddenly shrieked “what's that awful noise?”. “That, my dear,” I replied, “is the sound of DYING PIGS”.
In an absurd alternate reality, Imogen Thomas witnessed a love story between two offshore oil platforms. I don't know where to begin explaining this, but it looks like she's MARRYING RIGS
Imogen Thomas was reading the compendium of Ancient South American archeology, entitled MAYAN DIGS.
Debating what colour apparel would be most suitable for her friend's baby, Imogen Thomas decided the child looked nicest in CYAN BIBS.
Imogen Thomas understood that MTV had pandered in recent months to the Jewish market, as she watched ZION CRIBS.
There's no accounting for taste, but Imogen Thomas had stayed up all night on Ebay bidding for tickets to those Celine DION GIGS.
Business at the costume shop that Imogen Thomas and I have been running in Soho seems to be going well but perhaps worryingly, we're selling a lot of ARYAN WIGS.
She'd dropped her smokes in the bath, and it was a whole week til her Giro- so Imogen Thomas found herself, somewhat pitifully, DRYING CIGS.
“It's not a question of freedom of speech,” Imogen Thomas began. “Rather that people shouldn't be interested in this stuff. It's banal” “Yes”, I sighed “...But you'll sooner see FLYING PIGS”
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