The school holidays, don't you just HATE them. Especially the school bloody summer bloody holidays. My peaceful snooze in the sunny spot by the log basket is perpetually interrupted every twenty minutes or so by another bloody caller for the boy. Every bleedin bloody buggering twenty chuffing minutes there's a knock at the bleedin bollocking door "Is George in?" It's got so bad now that me Mum had had a sign made up, and laminated mind in case of inclement weather, "George is not in. So please don't knock and don't ring. Thank you." Does that make any difference, does it balls. Every twenty buggering minutes. "Ring/knock. Is George in?" Can't they bloody buggering bollocking well read these idiots? "Erm, I though he may be in and you'd forgotten to take the sign down." No we haven't right. He's not in so bugger off you bleedin buggers or I'll bite your bleedin bollocks right off I buggering well will.
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