March 18th, 2007

Mr Agreeable! The column in which the words “fuck” and “cunt” are asterisked

I read with some interest and a raised eyebrow that the million-selling Las Vegas generic viagra combo Panic! At The Disco are riding high in public esteem currently, with their new single “Build God, Then We’ll Talk”.

Oh, yes indeed! Panic! At the disco! That’s precisely what the sight of these silly little painted f***ing tampon armed little twats is inducing up and down the f***ing country! One blast of their experimental blend of “pop” and “punk” and the dancefloors of Leeds and Manchester clear, the exit doors jam with a terrified humanity leaving trails of f***ing diarrhea in their wake, glitterballs shatter into a million shards and DJs cower in their booths covering their f***ing ears, cursing their own folly in dabbling with such shockingly subversive sounds! “Eek! He’s a man. . . and he’s wearing . . . foundation!!! Run for your lives!” F***wits! If you’d called yourselves Total F***ing Indifference! At The F***ing Disco As Everyone Dances To Hi-Ho Silver Lining And Come On, Eileen Rather Than A Bunch Of Clueless F***ing Flunkies Like Us, C***s That We Are, you’d have been a bit more f***ing nearer the mark! Not a f***ing idea in your head that hadn’t been comprehensively done to f***ing death by 1979! Still, if that’s what goes down these days, watch our for my new f***ing sitcom! Set in a Torquay hotel it’s called Fowlty Towers, and features a dim-witted waiter from Spain called Miguel and a hilarious episode in which the manager, Bazzle, goosesteps around in front of a group of f***ing German tourists! Yeah, that’ll f***ing do! Pathetic f***ing wankmeisters!

Australian premier John Howard suffered a narrow escape this week. A plane on which he was flying during a visit to South east Iraq was forced to make an emergency landing after the cabin filled with smoke.

F*** me, thank f***ing Christ for that! Phew! That was a f***ing close one! Oh, please, don’t f***ing scare buy viagra me like that again, Mr Howard! I cannot imagine the turmoil world politics would have been plunged into if a vile, irrelevant little tit like you had died of f***ing asphyxiation! The words “loathsome little c***flake” are ludicrously fawning and f***ing flattering when it comes to f***ing Howard, a fat little maggot living three feet up George Bush’s f***ing rectum subsisting on the red meat lodged in his f***ing intestine! If I was that pilot I’d have f***ing crash landed that plane whether there’d been smoke in the cabin or f***ing not, if I’d known a skidmark on the f***ing underpants of mankind like Howard was on f***ing board! C***!

Keith Allen is back on our screens in a new, three part ITV series called Mobile.

Jesus shat in my f***ing mouth, is there anything this cocky, malingering f***ing stranger to the f***ing razor blade and terminal f***ing tart Keith Allen isn’t f***ing fouling up with his utterly unwanted f***ing screen presence right now? It’s not enough that he’s spawned that tediously stroppy f***ing overheard-loud-conversation-among-teenagers-at-a-f***ing-bus stop waste of f***ing lipstick Lilly Allen! Face it, not unlike the words “Rowland Rivron” or “Jo Brand”, is anything guaranteed to induce a bigger, bowel-deep sigh than the news that what you’re about to watch is infested with the f***ing involvement of Keith f***ing Allen? F***ing makers of edgy new f***ing drama series, listen! It is not f***ing mandatory for you to include Keith Allen in every single f***ing one of your productions! Next time he calls, just tell him to f*** off and if he persists, have security carry him out by the f***ing trouser seat and dump him in the f***ing skip round the side of the building! Mega-c***!

Jazzwise, the magazine are to celebrate their tenth anniversary with a special week of concerts at the Pizza Express Jazz Club in London. Among those who’ll be playing are such luminaries as the Michael Wollny Trio and the Stan Tracey Octet.

F*** me dickless, I grew a f***ing beard just reading that f***ing announcement! It’s the f***ing 21st century, what sort of corduroyed f***ing c*** still listens to f***ing parpy, drearioso old man’s bollocks like this? An ‘octet’? A twattet, more f***ing like! “Ooh, wait for it, here comes the trombone solo!” I am going to every f***ing evening of this poxy, spunk-encrusted f***ing festival of yours and I will be at the front, throwing things, that’s my f***ing promise to you, you noodling f***ing knobrashes! You should be thanking God you’ve managed to last ten years without angry members of the f***ing League Against Silver-Framed Spectacled F***ing Pullover Fillers coming round and burning down your f***ing offices, you c***s!

Paul Wilson of The Observer’s column, regarding proposals to have penalty shootouts instead of draws in football games is trailed as follows on the newspaper’s website; “Talk Of Scrapping Draws Just Shows How American We Have All Become”.

Listen, you f***ing arseholes, who the f*** is this f***ing “We” you’re constantly f***ing invoking, whether it’s Why We’re All Obsessed With Kate Moss, cheap viagra Why We Love Our Gas-Guzzling Vehicles or Why We’re All Watching Fame Academy? No “we’re” f***ing not, you lazy, celeb and shit-addled f***ing hacks! The only f***ing “We” you can include me in is Why We’re No Longer Buying The C***ing Observer!

Finally, it seems that proposals are afoot to reduce the UK’s carbon emissions by some 60% over the forthcoming decades. This would mean dispensing altogether with such luxuries as cars, foreign holidays, TVs, DVDs and central heating, if targets are to be reached.

Yeah? Well, you can go whittle a f***ing stick and swivel f***ing hard on it, twattos! You might as well f***ing ask us to hold in our farts to reduce f***ing methane emission levels! So, it’s like this, right? The only way life on earth is f***ing sustainable is if we go back to a miserable-as-f*** agrarian existence, entertaining ourselves by worshipping Gaia, shaking pig’s bladders in an amusing way, tending f***ing cabbage patches, boiling our sandals for f***ing soup and dying out every few years of disease, plague and f***ing pillage? F*** that! Whose f***ing fault is global warming? Our f***ing useless c*** of a planet, that’s whose! F***ing “fragile eco system” my arse! Any planet that can’t sustain a standard of f***ing life the average f***ing pub dog wouldn’t tolerate doesn’t deserve to f***ingĀ survive!


MR AGREEABLE’S HOROSCOPE!

What’s in YOUR future?? This week: Aries

Aries, the star sign, is ruled by Mars, viagra online giver of determination, energy and power and symbolised by the Ram. Determination, energy and power certainly have made you Top Dog in your f***ing sales department. However, come next Tuesday, after you’ve downed a shitload of f***ing Stella at a post-regional sales conference f***ing bonding session, you will cut across a f***ing field by way of a short cut back to your f***ing hotel. As you squelch through the f***ing cow patches, your natural Aries instinct will draw you to the sight of a slumbering ram. Stirred by the lust that comes with f***ing intoxication, you decide you will have that ram and clamber astride the beast, demanding satisfaction. However, the animal resists your advances with a powerful kick of its hind legs and you tumble back into a barbed wire f***ing fence. It is three days before you are discovered, soiled, suit torn and trousers round your f***ing ankles. No one raised the f***ing alarm because your absence in the sales department wasn’t actually f***ing noted, you being, when push to comes to shove, a f***ing spare tool.

WARNING The above item is a piece of “fake” or “spoof” astrology and should not, therefore, be taken seriously. For an authentic horoscope, a more accurate prediction of what will happen to you this week, look instead to trained and qualified astrologers such as as Jonathan Cainer in the Daily Mail or Neil Spencer in the Observer. BEWARE OF PHONEYS!


Comments are closed.