Who Let The Dogs Out

Managed to snaffle a piece of toast with Utterly Butterly on it this morning. What a load of shite that is. And as you know I'm not a picky eater. It says on the packet that it's supposed to be spreadable straight from the fridge and packed full of the buttery taste you love. Well they score 1/2 on that front. Spreadable straight from the fridge it is, but then again so is diarrhoea (not that we keep any in our fridge you understand). The taste it's packed full of sadly also resembles the latter rather than the former too. Utterly Diarrhoealy it should be called. Shite. I'd send the makers a polished pooh on a plinth but I suspect that they may liquidise it and put it to other uses. As you may have guessed from the lack of blogging lately I've been in Stalag 45 again whilst the two-leggeds went off on holiday. It's not to bad in there in the summer I suppose, apart from the lack of wifi, but it's fuckin freezing in the winter time. Have you ever tried pissing ice cubes? It's no fun I can tell you. There were a couple of tasty little numbers in there mind, just to keep me pecker up so to speak. Jackapoo's they were. A cross between a Jack Russell and a Poodle apparently. Is there nothing they won't cross a fucking Poodle with these days I ask myself? What's next? A Jordanoodle? Mind you, that probably already exists. Talking of which, me Dad was talking to some bloke the other day who's son was a mascot at a Man Utd game quite a few years ago now, back in the Beckham/Dwight Yorke days. And apparently there's a WAGS/creche at Old Trafford and he was in there with his son when Jordan walked into the room. Quick as a flash Victoria "Utterly Diarrhoealy Wouldn't Melt" Beckham, who was down the other end of the room, immediately piped up with an impromptu chorus of "Who let the dog's out" I gather. Poor Victoria, she must struggle carrying all that inner talent around with her all day. Woof.