August 20th, 2007

Rancid dickpaste! It’s MR AGREEABLE!

Waking up to a breakfast of cucumber wafer slices, wholemeal cornflakes with low fat milk, mint yoghurt and a can of petrol topped up with the urine of an alcoholic tramp, I set aside my breakfast tray and peruse a handful of recent periodicals. Therein I read that this last week was the 30th anniversary of the death of Elvis Presley, the “King” of rock’n’roll, who died aged just 42.

F*** me sideways, are people still celebrating this greasy, cummerbunded sack of f***ing hamburger excrement? Shouldn’t it be some sort of f***ing sectionable offence to dress as the c***? Can’t we put them away, the way we f***ing do people who dress as f***ing Napoleon? I mean, everyone laughs at these sad f***ing suet brains but f***ing think about it, it’s thanks to their sort that we’re lagging behind evolutionarily as a f***ing species! If it weren’t for these f***ing greased back Elvis Conventions-in-Doncaster attenders, the chances are the human race would be well on the way to growing extra f***ing fingers by now! He was the King of f*** all, you docile twats, except the f***ing appallingly decorated bathroom in which he shat his f***ing sloppy kilograms every evening before the f***ing Colonel hammered on the door and shouted at him to get his fat arse in the f***ing van to Vegas!

It seems that Tim Henman, after a lengthy career in which he was much loved and supported by British fans, is on the point of retiring.

Well, you know, I think it kind of might make f***ing sense, don’t you, Tim? Now that you rank 845th in the world among people listed as “Henman” in the f***ing phone book! How you f***ing dare show your blank little ferret face f***ing year in, year out, with a solid career of 100% crushing disappointment behind you, I’ve no f***ing idea! With every f***ing advantage on your f***ing side – pampered upbringing, sorbet-brained Daily Mail readers braying you on, you still f***ed up, like clockwork, every f***ing time, to some f***ing Belgian! A spine made of f***ing wet lettuce! Even if you’d gone into every match with a two set head start just for being “Tiger Tim”, you’d still have f***ed up, because you are a 24 carat, died in the wool, copper bottomed, certified, Grade A, sure fire loser, as well as being the man who extracted the “Shorpe” from f***ing Scunthorpe!

India Knight has been writing in the Sunday Times, musing on the subject of “Wags”, or wives and girlfriends, who recently suffered the wrath of Roy Keane. She first of all brings to our attention the fact that “Wags” is now used as a word, which she finds quite amusing. As to whether or not “Wags” are a good thing or a bad thing, she keeps an open mind. However, she does observe the following. “Is there really such a huge difference between being a stay-at-home mother who relies on her husband’s income and a shopaholic Wag flashing the cash? The principle’s the same, it’s just the amount that varies.”

An open mind? An empty f***ing mind, more like! Did you even think this worthless f***ing piece through before you started, or just start f***ing writing in the vague and vain f***ing hope that eventually you’d stumble upon something that made sense? Yes, you vaporous f***ing saphead, to answer your f***ing question, the one you’re paid to f***ing answer not f***ing ask, there is an enormous f***ing difference! One’s a homemaker, the other’s a f***ing permatanned f***ing parasitic symbol of the monumentally avaricious f***ing gormlessness of 21st century “lifestyle”, one aided and f***ing abetted by the f***ing broadsheet supplements who used to be a f***ing antidote to this sort of f***ing hooray horseshite!

Finally, it seems that The Pigeon Detectives, Leeds’s latest indie sensations, have been knocked off their number one perch with their single, “Take Her Back”, no longer roosting atop the hit parade.

Christ on a f***ing kebab skewer, have you seen or heard these f***ing chimps? Sweaty f***ing potatoheaded skull wasters who if they ever came across a f***ing hairbrush would probably stuff it down the front of their f***ing spunk encrusted f***ing underpants! I would rather have six straight pints of lager spilt over my head than listen to this lairy, ogling piece of chantalong wankery ever again! Imagine the f***ing Cure left in a dustbin for ten years straight, then dragged out through several hedges, pissed all over by a bunch of f***ing drunk students, then presented to the f***ing British public with a “Will this do?” C***s!

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