Waking up to my silver breakfast tray of poached eggs, figs, lightly buttered toast, grapefruit and a gallon of homebrewed whiskey in a rusty petrol can, I pick my newspaper and read with interest that Prince Harry, or “Cornet Wales” is to be sent to Iraq after all, despite the interest his deployment will attract from insurgents.
Griddle my f***ing cock, if the gung ho little ginger f***ing twatrag wants to f***ing go and get himself f***ing splattered like a f***ing hedgehog all over the f***ing roadside for God, Grandmummy and St. George, I say let the ginger f***er go! Shove a stick up his ginger f***ing arse and parade him around Baghdad out the top of a f***ing tank! Draw their fire! They might as well be firing into f***ing empty space, which they f***ing well would if they shot him anywhere between his f***ing ears! Or watch, as he gets kidnapped and a f***ing national whipround for this right royal boil on the penis of mankind raises precisely 78p! C***!
It would appear that Snoop Doggy Dogg, having been refused permission to enter the United Kingdom, has now similarly been denied entry to Australia. This, it seems, is because he has failed to pass the Australian character test which takes previous convictions into account.
Oh, my f***ing giddy Aunt’s c***, excuse me for a second while I pick myself off the floor and clear my f***ing windpipe, but did I f***ing misread this or are the three notions of “Australia”, “convicts” and “no, you can’t come in?” conjoined here? The f***ing Australian character was forged by f***ing convicts, you Antipodean, kangaroo-eating arses! I know you hate being reminded of it, the same way as you f***ing hate being reminded that you don’t f***ing talk properly, but it’s the f***ing truth! You should be f***ing lucky anyone visits you down there in the f***ing fly-infested, arsepit of the f***ing globe! As you should f***ing know given that every f***ing boat and plane leaving Australia is crammed to the f***ing rafters with you c***s, all on f***ing one-way tickets!
After several years of hard rocking and international touring, Cooper Temple cheap viagra Clause have decided, with a heavy heart, to call it a day and split up.
Y’know, folks, there’s a theory – some call it chaos theory, but call it what you will – that even the slightest action, say, a butterfly flapping its wings in one hemisphere, is capable of triggering a chain reaction which will initiate hurricanes in the other hemisphere. In other words, all events are inter-connected, every slightest occurrence has within it the potential to alter destiny in ways that are eventually profound. There is one event which is the exception to this, however, and that is the disbanding of Cooper Temple Clause. This is an event of such minuscule f***ing significance that it will make f*** all difference to anything or anybody! F***ing Cooper f***ing Temple f***ing Clause, the group who mixed up Goth, Prog, hardcore, New Pop and Electro and came up with precisely bugger all! Cooper Temple Clause? C***er C***le C***s, more like!
Recently, in The Observer, the columnist Jasper Gerard wrote, “France is so serene it is stiff; Monty Python would declare it a dead country. Now Newcastle produces no coal, this should become the new cliche: whenever one gives the recipient something he absolutely doesn’t need, say that it is like sending serenity to France. After a joyous year of revolting, the country fell into a serene slumber that began with a picnic of ripe brie, gurgling Burgundy and drowsy sex one sated, sensuous, sozzled summer’s afternoon in about 1969 – and it has never woken up.”
You really are a fatuous c***, aren’t you, Gerard? It’s just one endlessly unfurling, brown f***ing carpet of shite from you, week in, week out! Why don’t you just f***ing strangle yourself with your own f***ing bow tie and have f***ing done with it?
Finally, it seems that the “rock satirists” Spinal Tap are among the latest act to be booked into Live Earth, the 24 hour rock extravaganza on July 7, to promote ecological awareness.
Well, I dunno what f***ing satire Spinal Tap have got in mind but it can’t hope to f***ing match the monumental act of satire that is f***ing Live Earth! A bunch of f***ing million watt burning f***ing megastars jetting in from their vast, fossil fuel burning f***ing estates, c***s who spend their lives stamping all over our faces with their f***ing carbon footprints, gathering in one gigantic, throbbing, rainforest-ruining orgiastic emission of collective f***ing eco-piety? You might as well have a f***ing rally of the Leather Booted Goosesteppers Against The Nazis! Or f***ing Muslims Against Allah! F***ing up the eco-system with your f***ing squanderous, ozone destroying f***ing tosh is what you do, you c***s!