Piss off. They're round here every fuckin ten bastard minutes it seems, disturbing my beauty sleep. We don't want to switch to a new provider. We aren't interested in how much fuckin money you can save us with your fuckin Jock electricity so pack your bags and piss off back to fuckin Scotland with it. What's that? Oh you're only dong a survey. Well fuck off with that too, we're too bastard busy to bother with you and your surveys so you can stick that up your Jock arse as well. Do I make myself clear? NEVER, EVER, come back here again. Write that on your little iPad type thingy and get to fuck. Maybe I could interest you in some Spanish unemployment? Pooh count: 2, one of which bore an uncanny resemblance to Garth Crooks for some reason, another annoying little shit like the bloke from Scottish Power.
You couldn't make it up could you. I spent much of the weekend dozing on the sofa watching telly. Glastonbury was on, although sad to say there was no Snoop Dog, Bone Jovi or any other canine related artists. The big news seemed to be the lack of female headliners and now we know why as one scored a spectacular own goal. She missed her slot cos she was doing her hair. It takes ages she said. Why NOT start doing your hair well before your show time. Aaagh no where's my handbag I've left it in the car, I've got to back to fetch it.