The kids are off on holiday (again) and they're doing my head in (again). Watching telly in the lounge, that's MY fucking lounge that is, the bone idle bastards. I can hardly get 40 winks in for that Hannah Bastard Montana shite that they watch. Me Mum told the big teenager that her room looked like a tip and that it better be tidied up by the time she got home from work. Predictably she's done fuck all about that, and I don't think that the old "I couldn't hear what you said properly above the sound of all the seagulls circling overhead" excuse is going to wash again somehow. Me Mum and Dad took me out for a quick spin round the park last night, and there were half a dozen of the lazy twats all passing bottles of cider and WKD round. Me Dad said wistfully to me Mum "ah teenagers, they throw up so quick these days don't they?" Meanwhile the other one, the "little" teenager, the one that tips half a litre of fuckin Paco Rabane all over himself every bastard morning and can't stop looking at himself in the fucking mirror. The tart. Goes fucking spastic if he's got a hair out of place he does, yet he's perfectly happy to wear the scruffiest bastard shit splattered shoes I've ever seen for weeks on end. Where's the logic in that?
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.