What a sad gang of soft fuckers you must be. Am I the only one to notice that those ham-fisted twats on the telly are having their house done up bit by bit? I mean, he spills rose wine all over the fucking settee when the dog jumps over it, so he thinks why the fuck bother trying to clean that off, let's just ring Nationwide soft fuckers and get them to replace the entire thing. (Me Mum by the way would need more than a prancing fucking dog to get a full glass of wine out of her hand I can tell you. A fucking crow bar more like. She can fall asleep clutching one and never spill a drop, as she does frequently). Half a day goes by, it can't be much longer as they're still wearing the same fucking clothes, and his equally cack-handed missus chucks a tin of paint all over the carpet, so he's straight on the blower again. Bugger me, ten minutes later the pair of soft twats are dropping the chandelier (I use the word loosely, this thing IS shit and DOES want smashing). No worries, Soft Fuckers Insurance will send a new one round first thing in the morning. By now you can almost see this twat looking round the house for what he fancies new next, so he drills a hole into a water pipe, squirts the telly a bit and next thing fuck me rigid the deliver driver, with whom they are by now on first name terms, is banging on the door with a cheery "52 inch plasma for number 72".
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.