When I came out in rashers, the doctor gave me some oinkment and told me to sty indoors.

So I read the newspaper. It advised me to invest in gilts. After a few days of boardom I took up backgammon. When I got fed up with that, my wife said, “Try it while riding piggyback.” So I did, but I fell off in a bacon roll. She said, “You’re all streaky. You need a bath, chap.”

My wife brought me a pig gin, forgetting that one glass renders me unconscious. In the pur-suet of happiness, I wallowed it.  As a result I shank down to litter more than a grunt. Anyone could have walked in and cut my stroganoff.

When I came rind I begged her to call the doctor, but he said I was only hamming. He pate’ed me on the belly and said  if I could spare a rib or two I would soon be cured.

I bristled, but he advised her to criss cross my crackling with a knife and rub salt into the wounds. I won’t tell you any more because it’s snout to write home about.