Finished the tunnel, and made my bold bid for freedom and the bright lights of Brigg around 10.45 this morning whilst me Dad's back was turned - making himself a bacon butty - the fat bastard. Through the fence, across the pond round the back and down Knox Way, heading for the main road where I could hopefully catch the bus to Brigg. The land of pig's ears. Waited ten minutes, ten fucking minutes, no sign of bastard bus to Brigg. Town Centre, yes. Brigg, no. The fucking council are fucking bastard useless round here. If I paid any council tax I cancel the fucking standing order forthwith. I'd have thought that there should be a bus to Brigg every five minutes, at the very least. Ten fucking minutes I stood there, in this bastard heat. Panting like fuck. So by this time I was starving, obviously, having already eaten my contingency food supply the minute I got out of the tunnel. So, nipped back to Knox Way to see if there was any decent foraging to be had, a couple of sausages, a carelessly discarded half kebab from last night maybe, some pizza perhaps, even a few fuckin chips just to tide me over. But there was nowt to be had. Buggering bastard balls all. So I popped into number 10, just to see if there was a fry up on the go, I love a good fry up me, they tempted be in with a Hob Nob, shut the door, checked me collar and phoned me Dad. So, here I am back where I fucking started. The tight bastards. I don't even really like fucking Hob Nobs, I feel like such a fool. I mean, if our lads that escaped from Colditz had only got 2 minutes down the road and immediately fallen for the old "Would you like ein Hob Nob, good buddie.....hello is that the Commandant?" trick, they'd have been a laughing stock wouldn't they? They'd never have made a fucking film out of that would they? I need a plan, a proper fucking plan. And a fast car. A black one. A Porsche 911 with alloy wheels. I wonder if me mates at Thomas Bell, Brigg - the number one fertiliser importer in the whole of the country - would send me one?
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