What fucking storm? It's been fine up here in God's own country. The worst since 1987, batten down the hatches, the papers cried. Batten down my arse more like, that's been far more windy than the weather, especially since they switched me onto Butcher's Choice in tins last week. Fuck me, my guts have been worse than that time I snaffled me Dad's chicken jalfreezi. Shitting through the eye of a needle I think you two-leggeds call it. Anyway, back to the fucking weather. The Met Office issued an amber warning telling people that with high winds in the south expect things to come flying off the line, like any washing that was still hanging out, and Joe Hart of course. Fucking southern softies. They're such Chav's aren't they? The BBC news has just shown footage of one such wanker showing off already with his 30 foot Christmas tree placed precariously on the roof of his car. He'll never get that fucker home. Hadn't even tied it down or nothing. Tit head.
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.