Three jollies

On my way here tonight I saw a house on fire. Nice to see people getting along.

What do you call a line of people with latency issues? River Dance.

I arrived home late one night and found three jolly people outside my door. I asked them what had brought them there. As one they ceased to smile and opened wide their chests, as each welcomed me to look inside. The first introduced me to Ragout, an aged mynah bird with an unappealing song and the second to an unnamed reel of cotton, spinning in reverse. The cavity of the third, however, was quite empty and, with a gesture, he invited me to push my head inside, and without a thought I did so. "It's dark in here" I cried. "Where's the switch?" "Right here" was his humourless reply, as he brought it down hard across my buttocks, prompting me to leap inside.
The first thing you notice when you're lost inside the belly of a jolly is the sound of trumpets. A bright, wheezy sound that forces you to blush and light up like a bulb, and this is how you find your way.
I don't suppose you'll be surprised to learn that almost the first thing I saw in there was a McDonalds. I went inside and bought a McBready Donut Burger™ with Hundreds and Thousands, not to eat, mind, but in case I would need it to ward off future evil. It seemed the right thing to do.
I was on a long, sloping street that shimmered like gold but was moist and slippery, and wasn't easy to walk along, as though it was a made-up lip and the walls were a row of glistening teeth, along which chinchillas scurried furtively, hoping to make a mark. At least they looked like chinchillas at first glance, but the way they moved gave them away, and it was clear that beneath their skins they were rats. I continued down the hill and before long saw the unforgettable figure of Grandfather Man, fast approaching with his unmistakable metronomic stride. He's an odd fellow with a big, bushy moustache whose gait is as rigid as a stick, arms swinging like pendulums at his sides. I knew from experience that the only way to stop him was to ask him the time. So I did, and he stopped, and stood to attention with a sharp click of his heels. 'Big o'clock'. He retorted, like a pro. At least, that's what I think he said, and there's no point in arguing with Grandfather Man when it comes to time, or asking him to repeat himself. However, now that he was stationary he was almost certainly going to start twittering away about how things were before the war, so I took my leave, but not without firstly accepting the drink he had offered me with a knowing look. Grandfather Man has always been useful in that sort of way. Onwards I walked, with the donut burger in one hand and the drink in the other, ever sensing that life was teeming all around me, but that I could see nothing but the chinchilla rats, and that whatever else was there wasn't visible because I wasn't on the same wavelength. I needed retuning in some way. I was lost in thought and absent mindedly dunked the do-burger into the drink and all hell broke loose. There were bodies leaping and bounding all about me. A swarm of Leaping Frivolities, the closest of whom spun my way, made a lunge for the dogur, tore it from my hand and went screaming back up the hill, hotly pursued by the the rest, in a raucous body of howls. At least I felt free now to drink my drink in peace, and as I did so things started to appear slightly clearer, so I took a hearty gulp. I saw that to my left was a suhway and before me a slightly busy road. It didn't smell too good, like the farts of bats in Gothic arches, but reality, it seemed, had been restored.