Me Dad says that giving it up requires dedication, hard work and depth of character. Which is presumably why he's never done it. He'd had a few last night that's for sure. Something to do with Everton beating Man Utd, whoever the fuck they are. I wouldn't know, football is a tarts game. Chasing tennis balls and rolling in Shit, they're the sports for me. And eating, obviously.
"Sorry seems to be the hardest word" is what they say. Unless you're Chinese of course and then it's "Squirrel" apparently. Woof.
The little fella is fourteen next week apparently, so they're all going out for a meal. I mean, when I say all, I mean all but me. I never get invited fucking anywhere me. The tight bastards. Anyway, he's asked if he can take his girlfriend, wooohoooo, that's what all the fucking aftershave before school is for then. And he's also asked "please don't embarrass me," the fucking cheek of it. That of course is like a red rag to bull for me Dad, who's decided that this is the prefect occasion to have the "bird n the bees" chat. I caught him practising in front of the mirror before. It's going to go something like this: "Hello Frannie, how lovely to meet you. George has told us all about you. Take a seat. Now then, when a Daddy Sparrow and a Mummy Sparrow love each other very much and they want to have baby sparrows, Daddy Sparrow puts his penis into Mummy Sparrow's special place and 9 months later they have a baby sparrow. When Daddy Sparrow isn't really bothered that much about having any baby sparrows he puts a condom on his penis and chucks it down the back alley afterwards, if you get my drift. This also stops the spread of all sorts of nasty unwanted sexual diseases, especially after Mummy Sparrow got rogered senseless by that group of starlings in the bird bath the other week. Any questions? No, good, now here's a picture of George taking a shit in the bushes when he was two...." I think that should go down well. Tact and diplomacy are me Dad's watchwords.
Christ on a bike, it's starting to feel more than a bit like Christmas round at our house, following the arrival of yet another parcel for yours truly. My best mates, and the undisputed No1 fertiliser supplier in the whole of the country - Thomas Bell of Brigg - have only gone and sent me a thing called an Advent Calendar. You've probably never heard of one, so here's a brief description. It's like a thin box, about the size of a piece of A4 paper, and there's all these little window things on it with numbers on them, right? Now I think that the idea is that behind one of the windows is a little prize, and you have to guess which window it is. So, you might say "7" and you open window seven and there's fuck all there, so you close window seven and have another go. Well, get this, the one they've sent me must be a dud or something, 'cos there's a little prize behind ALL the fucking windows! Honest. Woooohooooo. How do I know that? Well, 'cos I've opened them all and eaten the fucking lot haven't I. What a fucking brilliant idea. It almost makes up for the fact that me Mum and Dad are making me wear a new collar. There's was nothing wrong with the old one - they reckoned that it smelled of shit - which it did, but what else do they expect a Border Terrier's collar to smell of - David Beckham? I don't mean the actual heavily tattooed ponce himself, I mean David Beckham by David Beckham - shows very little in the way of imagination doesn't it by the way, just like the man himself? Still, hats off to his missus. She's donated a load of her surplus unwanted clothing to help the starving in Africa. All they need to do now is lose a couple of stone and they'll soon be able to fit into them. Woof.
Well, I've opened my parcel, and you'll never guess what it is - only some dog biscuits free and gratis from Dodson & Horrell, suppliers of horse and dog food to the Queen. The fucking Queen. Christ! One minute I'm a Border Terrier rolling around in shit and the next I'm hob-nobbing with bleeding royalty. It's a funny old life innit? I could be knobbing a Corgi by the end of the week, don't laugh, look at Mike Tindall, the cauliflower-eared, ugly, broken-nosed twat. One minute he's having his ear bitten off in a scrum and the next he's tupping royalty. And that Limpik Wimbik Optic bloke. OK the Cheeky Girls aren't royalty exactly, but have you seen the face on him? And Andrew Lloyd Webber, Christ that's real ugliness that is. When he was born he was so ugly that the midwife slapped his Mum. I'm moving up in the world. I can smell it. At least I think that's what I can smell....
Is it purely a coincidence that on the same day that it's confirmed that the "50 Shades of Grey" creator E L James has become the world's best-paid author, that J K Rowling announces that her next book is to be entitled "Harry Potter Chokes The Chicken"? I think not. I'm a bit excited today. Me Dad says he's got another parcel in work for me. What can it be? I've still got loads of ears left (they only give me one at weekend's the tight bastards. Me Dad say's I'm getting fat. Pot, fucking kettle, take a look in the mirror Lard Boy). They get sent to me by my best mates in the whole wide world, Thomas Bell the country's leading fertiliser merchant, so it can't be more of them surely and it's ages to Christmas yet. I'll let you know tomorrow....
What is it with Mongs and trains? The two go intrinsically together like Ant & Dec, or shit & my neck. Me Dad says that travelling home from Leeds on the train the other night he was the only normal person on there. The thing was awash with Mongs. Leeds, of course holds the record for the UK's highest per capita ratio of Mongs to normal people in the country. According to a recent survey by Defra 37.6% of the population of Leeds is a type 1 Mong, and a further 34.2% is a type 2. For those that don't know the difference, a type 1 is easily spotted as being what me Dad calls a "mouth breather" - these are Mongs who are familiar with the concept of breathing through their noses, but simply chose not to do it. Why take the risk? You've done perfectly fine breathing through your mouth all these years, there's simply no point experimenting with this new fangled technology of nasal breathing is there? The second category, the slightly rarer type 2 Mong, is easily spotted from a distance as the "for fuck's sake PLEASE don't sit next to me" thought screams across your brain. They look a bit like Mr Bean, only funnier, obviously. If they aren't hanging around Leeds railway station taking pictures of the trains, then they're getting on the fuckers and sitting next to you, picking their nose and generously offering you an Uncle Joe's Mint Ball all at the same time. Then there's the very rare type 3 Mong. Normally shy and reclusive due to their enormous size, they combine all the traits of the type 1 & 2, along with ginger hair and freckles. Sometimes seen working in McDonald's or Asda. Look for the till with no queue at it whatsoever, whilst the others are all 30 people deep and you've probably "twitched" yourself a type 3. Next week, how to avoid trannies on the bus. Woof.
The kids are off on holiday (again) and they're doing my head in (again). Watching telly in the lounge, that's MY fucking lounge that is, the bone idle bastards. I can hardly get 40 winks in for that Hannah Bastard Montana shite that they watch. Me Mum told the big teenager that her room looked like a tip and that it better be tidied up by the time she got home from work. Predictably she's done fuck all about that, and I don't think that the old "I couldn't hear what you said properly above the sound of all the seagulls circling overhead" excuse is going to wash again somehow. Me Mum and Dad took me out for a quick spin round the park last night, and there were half a dozen of the lazy twats all passing bottles of cider and WKD round. Me Dad said wistfully to me Mum "ah teenagers, they throw up so quick these days don't they?" Meanwhile the other one, the "little" teenager, the one that tips half a litre of fuckin Paco Rabane all over himself every bastard morning and can't stop looking at himself in the fucking mirror. The tart. Goes fucking spastic if he's got a hair out of place he does, yet he's perfectly happy to wear the scruffiest bastard shit splattered shoes I've ever seen for weeks on end. Where's the logic in that?
What fucking storm? It's been fine up here in God's own country. The worst since 1987, batten down the hatches, the papers cried. Batten down my arse more like, that's been far more windy than the weather, especially since they switched me onto Butcher's Choice in tins last week. Fuck me, my guts have been worse than that time I snaffled me Dad's chicken jalfreezi. Shitting through the eye of a needle I think you two-leggeds call it. Anyway, back to the fucking weather. The Met Office issued an amber warning telling people that with high winds in the south expect things to come flying off the line, like any washing that was still hanging out, and Joe Hart of course. Fucking southern softies. They're such Chav's aren't they? The BBC news has just shown footage of one such wanker showing off already with his 30 foot Christmas tree placed precariously on the roof of his car. He'll never get that fucker home. Hadn't even tied it down or nothing. Tit head.
nPower have apparently received thousands of thank you letters following their latest energy bill price hike. They come from people thanking them for bringing their inheritances forward by a few years. Woof. I watched that EastEnders thing for the first time ever on the telly last night after there was a bit of a panic on when the teenager's iPad broke and he couldn't watch it in his room (at least I think it was EastEnders, it could have been CrimeWatch). It's very similar to Strictly Come Dancing and the X Factor I thought. Fucking shit. Me Dad doesn't care for it much either, he said that he'd rather shit in his hands and clap than watch that again. It's the Bake Off final tonight, we'll all be watching that though, if only to see if Mary Berry has clung onto life for another week. She doesn't look well does she? Like a fucking skull with lipstick on she is. Still, I imagine she'll make a fortune at Halloween, if she can manage to wring another week out of life. She must be about 160 at least. I reckon that they only reason that the BBC picked her for the job was that it was the only woman that they could find that they thought would be safe around Paul "I'll just put my baguette to one side to rise" Hollywood. The dirty get.