Fuck me, less than a week ago it was snowing, yet now at the first sign of the mercury nudging above zero he's back. Mr Fucking Whippy and his fucking merry band and his fucking "the sun has got it's hat on" jingle. There's me trying to get 40 winks on me bean bag in the watery sunshine and here he comes, with his fucking jingle blaring out at ten billion decibels, parks right outside our house, "hip hip hip hurray..." Get to fuck Mr Whippy, or I'll stick yer 99 where the fucking sun most definitely doesn't hang it's fucking hat. What do ice cream men do in the winter anyway? Sit at home watching Jeremy Kyle whilst stuffing their fat spotty faces with Cadbury's flakes that have gone past the sell by date I imagine. The lazy fat bastards. Get to fuck the lot of you, and take your strawberry fucking mivi's and hundreds and bastard thousands with you. You come round here, waking us up with your wanky music. Piss off. We don't want a fucking ice cream because it's February. Comprendez?
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.