You tasteless bastards. Firstly they've pissed me Dad off for ages now by constantly emailing him their special offers kicking off with "Hello D" as they haven't got his full fist name on their computer just his initial. Today they top the whole fucking lot by emailing him to say "D, you’d look good in a onesie!" The soft twats. He'd look like Elmer Fucking Fudd at bedtime in a onesie that's what he'd look like. The thought of it is frankly abhorrent and only serves to make me want to dig this fucking tunnel out of this shit hole for the bright lights of Brigg even faster. Woof. Meanwhile you can imagine how thrilled I was to read that Burger King are now doing home delivery. That said, you have to live in Los Angeles or Sacramento to qualify, which puts me at something of a 5,500 mile geographical disadvantage really doesn't it? My cup fucking runneth over. Not. Twats. Sausages on home delivery that's what Border Terriers want. The Dial-A-Sausage 24/7. I bet they've already got that in a big city like Brigg. I often lie in me basket dreaming of Brigg, where the streets are paved with pigs ears and there's free sausages on the griddle 24/7...
With your annoying fucking bastard fucking texts. I don't want tickets to see "Being Tommy Cooper" right. He was shit (and a wife beater too, allegedly) when he was alive so I don't suppose his act has got any fucking better now that the useless lanky fez topped fucker is pushing up the fucking bastard daisies has it? "The brand new sensational show celebrating Britain's all time favourite comedian" That's a pretty fucking bold statement as well isn't it? If he was that fucking good then you wouldn't have to resort to texting fucking Border Terriers like me to try to persuade me to go to see the sad fucker's show would you, you useless gang of twats. Get to fuck with your fucking reminders about how many fucking free bastard fucking texts I've got left as well you fuckwits. I'm trying to dig a fucking tunnel here, I haven't got time for you and you're text spam shite. Have I made myself clear? Oh, and happy birthday to me Mum. And thanks for that bacon this morning. You couldn't throw them left over sausages in with me tea tonight could you? Ta.
Every now and again two women come round to our house, harass me Dad on the step for about 10 minutes, and then go away. I'm not sure, but I think they are trying to convert him from eating white bread into eating brown bread, 'cos he said to me Mum the other day "the Fucking Hovis Witnesses have been round again whilst you were out." They always leave him a magazine, extolling the virtues of eating brown bread, and then they fuck off again until next time. One of them looks like Dot Cotton off the telly. In fact it could be Dot Cotton off the telly. "Ohhh, it's a terrible world we live in today isn't it? Have you ever thought about eating a bit more brown bread? That'll sort the job out a treat. Jesus loved brown bread he did. Always had a couple of loaves of it on hand, for emergencies like. Used to carry them round in a Tesco's bag to keep the flies and the sand off them. Invented the first ever brown bread fish finger sandwich he did. I'll just leave you this magazine." I suppose that the recipe must be in there?
Fuck me, me Dad brought me home another parcel AND another letter last night from those wonderful people at Thomas Bell, the leading fertiliser merchants in the whole of the world! At this rate I might have to get meself a little desk set up with an in tray and everything. I was shaking like a shitting dog when I opened it to find another box of 50 pigs ears! That's enough to last me a week or two, and will help fuel my "dig for victory". I haven't bothered too much with the tunnel this week to be honest, it's been too fucking hot hasn't it? Sweating me little doggie bollocks off with this bastard fur coat on all day I am. Not that me Mum & Dad give a fuck like. Anyway, the nice people at Thomas Bell seem to think that it's probably OK if I go and live with them when I get out of here. They could probably do with a bit of security muscle on site like. I can handle meself me you know. It's a terrier thing. I mean I'm more Barry McGuigan than the Kalashnikov Brothers of whatever they're fucking called. if you get my drift. Caught a hedgehog in the garden the other night you know. Shit itself it did. Rolled over into this little ball thing, the soft get. Covered in fucking fleas aren't they, the dirty bastards. Not surprising if they keep shitting themselves like that I suppose. Picked it up in me mouth no fucking problermo and ran round the garden with it in me gob. Bet the Kalashnikov Fucking Brothers couldn't do that, the big tarts. If you're reading this Mr Kalashnikov, any one of you two pair of jessies, I hereby challenge you to pick up a shitty, flea encrusted hedgehog in your mouth and run round your back garden with it. I somehow don't think they'll be getting back to me on that one. Case proven I think. I'm tougher than the Kalashnikov Brothers! Woof!
What do you get if you put the head of a cat on the body of a dog? A visit from the RSPCA! Anyway, pleased to report that the Ginger Ninja over the road has finally moved out. Even better - the new people don't have kids! So that got me Mum and Dad talking the other night and she said to him "If we were going to move house I'd like it to be to a big old Edwardian jobbie." Me Dad says wistfully, "Yeah, I used to live in a lovely house with period features once..or the ex missus as I now call her." Woof!!!
Christ, I thought I was hard done by until Johnny Colman sent me this link to a series of images in the Daily Bellylaugh of a poor creature that they bill as "Jack the Balancing Dog" who "loves to balance household items on his head," they gleefully tell us. "And the Australian cattle dog is happy to impress by balancing items including a football, books, a kettle, and an egg - all in return for the cheers and praise of his San Franciscan owners," they go on. I fucking knew it, Septics. Look at the pictures. Does Jack look like he's having fun to you? He looks fucking well pissed off to me, and I don't blame him, "come on Jackie boy, lets put a kettle on your head." The tight Septic bastards. The only image where Jack does look like he's having fun is the one at the end where they've finally run out of household objects and bits of fruit to balance on the poor fucker's head. The heartless twats. I might have to rethink my plans on where I'm heading once I've dug me way out of here. I might scrap the bright lights of Las Vegas and head for Brigg. The streets of Brigg, near Scunthorpe are paved with pigs ears I've heard, and it's also the home town of the only people in the world that have ever shown me any kindness, Thomas Bell & Sons, the country's leading fertiliser importers. They wouldn't humiliate a dog like this: Tight Gets
Didn't get much further with the tunnel over the weekend. Me Dad took me on three walks Saturday, yes THREE. The tight fat get, so that kind of put paid to any tunnel digging activity that day. Then Sunday afternoon they were both in the kitchen most of the day. Watching me like fucking hawks they are. Snoozed on me blanket in the lounge, or in front of the fire for the rest of the day. Had a quick look at Match of the Day, what is wrong with that Suarez bloke? He's got more screws loose than a second hand Ikea wardrobe if you ask me. The dirty, cheating, biting, racist, Uruguayan hamster-faced dickhead. Then bed, so not much digging opportunities there either. I think I might have to make it a weekdays only thing. But I'm so knackered after three walks on Saturday that I might have a day off today. Me paws are still a bit sore, and there's a nice sunny spot on the bean bag in the lounge with my name on it. I can keep an eye on the Ginger Ninja over the road from there. They're moving out today by the looks of it. That should improve my beauty sleeping opportunities no end. Every five fucking minutes he's usually knocking on our door. So I have to bark at him obviously: a) he's a kid and b) he's ginger. The soft get. He knocked on our door one day last summer with the usual "is George in?" enquiry. "No he isn't he's gone to the Lake District for the day with his Dad and we don't know when he'll be back." said me Mum. So he sits at the end of the drive, waiting. About half an hour later, I kid you fucking not, half an hour has passed and the kid's back. Knock, knock. "Is George in?" Fuck me. No he's bastard well not in a) he's gone to the Lake District b) it's August Bank Fucking Holiday, have you ever nipped to the Lake District and back in half an hour on August Bank Bastard Holiday? No. His Dad drives a fucking car not a Harrier Jump Fucking Jet. And even if he did perchance have access to a Harrier Jump Fucking Jet the chances are that he wouldn't just fly to the Lake District, say shall we get out? Nah let's not fucking bother, we'll go straight home again. And even if he had decided to come straight home in his Harrier Jump Fucking Jet then how the fuck did George manage to sneak back into the bastard house without you seeing him as you've been sat at the end of the bastard drive all the fucking time, Ginge? If a Harrier Jump Fucking Jet had just landed in our back garden do you think you may have noticed this event, sat at the end of the drive? Fuck me, this is what I have to deal with round here. Mind you, if you stand close to him you can hear the sea.
Day 2. Fucking knackered I am, and not even got past the utility room wall yet. Then there's the fucking path to excavate under, then the pissing garden wall, then the bastard shed. It was all right for those twats on the telly, there was loads of them. This is just me on me Jack Jones. Me paws are fucking red raw they are. I might just have half an hour in the sun on me bean bag in the lounge, if I can make it that far, I'm feeling quite dizzy actually. Stop laughing and get to fuck, I'm dying here. I can't even be arsed to bark at the ginger kid over the road, that's how cream crackered I am. Where's me Prozac...
Ever wondered why they say "it's a dog's life" or "I wouldn't treat a dog like that" or "I wouldn't give that to the dog"?? It's because a being a dog is fucking shit that's why. Ripped me favourite soft toy - a bag of Chase N Onion Walkies Crisps, - to shreds last night in a silent protest. Did anybody notice? Did they shit. I could ride round that living room on a fucking unicycle juggling fucking knives and nobody would notice. Still, I've made a start on the tunnel. It's in the utility room underneath me basket. They'll never think of looking there, the lazy gets. The lino was a bit of a bastard to rip up. Then I had to eat the fucking stuff. Why are you looking at me like that? What else was I supposed to do with it? Stick it down me trousers and casually flick it away whilst on morning exercise? I'm a fucking dog, we don't wear trousers. And they've just had me clipped, the tight bastards. To cap the fucking lot there was talk of a holiday round the kitchen table last night, and you know what that means for me. Stalag forty fucking five, that's what. They don't even have fucking wifi in there. The heathen bastards. There's the exercise pen, I'll grant you. Which gives you the faint glimmer of hope of a bit of lurve action, although if you're not careful that can all go tits up. And you don't want to find yerself getting backscuttled by a big sweaty slobbering Doberman do you? Exactamundo. No, it's escape for me. I've worked it all out. I've done drawings and everything. Well, when I say drawings, they maybe aren't EXACTLY what YOU would call drawings. I mean I haven't got an architect's easel and a load of them fine nibbed pens for fuck's sake. That would look just too suspicious wouldn't it? "What are you doing there little fella?" Whistles nonchalantly, "Me? Erm, nothing much, just the drawings for the conservatory at No 27." Not going to happen is it? Then I've got to get me secret food stash together, I've got a couple of biscuits put to one side for that. Then there's roof supports needed for the tunnel. I've got me eye on next door's fence for that. And that's me all set to go really. Las Vegas here I come...Well, I might stop off and see the Bichon Frise bitch at No 64 first. Christ she's hot. I could give her a thing or two to yap about I can tell you. Woof.
In the house, on me own again. Bored bastard shitless I am. I bark at the odd passer-by just to show a bit of willing more than anything else, sleep a bit, chew me paw a bit, check me bowl a bit (there's never anything in the fucker, I don't know why I bother). Fucking starving I am. They haven't even left the telly on for me or balls all. How the fuck is a Border Terrier supposed to get by in conditions like this. I bet even Terry Fucking Waite had the telly on. Probably sat up in bed, reading the papers with a cup of tea watching Jeremy Kyle all day was our Tez. Not me, oh no. I'm off out of here the first bastard chance I get. I'll show the heartless fuckers. Don't tell anyone right, but I'm going to dig a tunnel....
