Me Mum and Dad are just back from doing "the big Christmas shop" and rarely have I seen me Dad so thoroughly pissed off. If ever you go to Morrison's then avoid the checkout "girl" called Rachel like the fucking plague. He says "girl" - although apparently old hag would be closer to the mark. Old deluded hag who woke up this morning thinking that she was a female Peter Kay in fact. Listen Rachel nothing you have ever said, or will ever say, is funny right? You are not enhancing the customer's Christmas shopping experience with your incredibly dull and painfully transparently contrived attempt to "get in the Christmas spirit" - you're just a fucking window-licking dullard, more intelligent specimens of which I've seen floating upside down in the pond in the park. Get to fuck, and take your fucking Christmas fucking hat with you. You're about as funny as piles. No "we're not all set for Christmas" if we were we wou

Surprised that that little diving lad didn't get nominated, you know, what's his name....oh, it's on the tip of me tongue.....Suarez that's it! I tell you who was never going to be in the running, that twat that presented Match of the Day on Saturday night, struggling to come up with his name as well. No not Lineker, some other git, who's opening gambit was to tell us how many goals had been scored in the Premier League that day. Which is all very well unless the game that you are particularly interesting in is the last one on. So me and me Dad spent the entire programme trying to avoid adding up how many goals had been scored in total, so as to attempt to avoid our televisual entertainment being entirely ruined, only for this knob-head to introduce the game with "this is the last game on 'cos it had the fewest goals in it." Seeing as we already knew that 3 was the lowest number of goals scored that day, then this urinated all over our chips of enjoyme