Waking up to a breakfast of smoked kippers, herring pieces, low calorie flakes, muffin, Gala cheap viagra melon slices and alcoholic tramp’s vomit sucked through a straw, I set aside my breakfast tray and peruse a selection of periodicals, to catch up on recent events. Therein, I read that Liverpool has been designated European Capital of Culture in 2008 and in January, to kick things off, a one-off event entitled Liverpool – The Musical will take place featuring Sir Paul McCartney, Ringo Starr, Dave Stewart and the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra. Also to appear are Echo & The Bunnymen, Pete Wylie and The Christians.
F*** me sideways, you could take all of the words out of the above paragraph except f***ing “Dave Stewart” and this would c***idious enough but Christ on a f***ing cockstick, Liverpool – The Musical? how f***ing far into this sub-prime farrago of self-congratulatory cheesewank is anybody gonna be able to get before the end off tearing off their f***ing left legs and beating themselves over the heads with the f***ing sticky end? The Christians? If they’re f***ing playing, who the f*** is gonna minicab people home after the concert? Liverpool is no more the f***ing Capital of European Culture than f***ing Marseilles is the f***ing Capital of European Hygiene! If this were a celebration in music and verse of a city’s longstanding tradition in f***ing insurance fraud, then they might have a f***ing point, but it f***ing isn’t, is it? City of Culture? City of f***ing self-congratulatory, self-pitying, phlegm-spraying f***ing losers, more f***ing like! You might as well ferry back and forth across the f***ing Mersey selling each other f***ing hubcaps because the f***ing Transatlantic trade link’s long f***ed, and you extraneous Scouse c***s with it!
Let’s f***ing face it, folks, a world so many of whose f***ing citizens choose to cram themselves in like slaves on a f***ing ship to watch these three ancient, histrionic f***ing prunes creak through the f***ing motions is a world that deserves to f***ing choke to death in its own f***ing waste products! Jimmy Page looks like the f***ing disinterred and bewigged corpse of the f***ing late Tony Banks MP, Robert Plant looks like some sort of f***ing overgrown, geriatric, caterwauling f***ing elf and how hard would two men have to pull at the lead of a f***ing dog to persuade it to come along and watch f***ing John Paul Jones if he was playing f***ing solo, the cockend?
Choppy waters for the government as Alistair Darling was forced to announce that 25 million people’s child benefit details stored on two CDs have been mislaid by a junior official by HM Revenue & Customs.
F*** me, we knew f***ing Gordon Brown was a f***ing miserable, irascible, scrotum-faced old Scottish c*** who can barely put his f***ing tie on the right way round but if this is an example of his f***ing fiscal prudence then f***ing excuse me while I sew my f***ing savings into a f***ing mattress and leave it out in the middle of the f***ing street! You don’t f***ing save money by scrunching two f***ing huge departments into one, you stupid, myopic f***ing skinflint, any more than amputating your f***ing left leg is a sensible way of losing f***ing weight! Still, this is Brown’s chance to get rid of f***ing Chancellor Darling and replace him with Chancellor f***ing Baldrick! Useless c***!
Finally, something of a double treat – India Knight generic viagra of The Sunday Times has devoted her viagra online latest column to Amy Winehouse. Detailing the recent adventures of Britney Spears, Pete Doherty, Kate McCann and Ms Winehouse herself, she deplores a culture in which “we” “gawp” at celebrities in difficulties. She offers the original thought that the public like to see the famous cut down to size but wonders if “our” relatively small and insignificant lives are really so much better than that of the “brilliant” but wayward Winehouse.
Well, f***, yes, that’s me put in my insignificant f***ing place. Yes, we do gawp rather, don’t we? All of us. And that’s not at all rich coming from a f***ing columnist who spends most of her f***ing personal and professional f***ing life gawping till her jaw’s practically touching her f***ing knees at the f***ing drearily endless vacuous tabloid parade of f***ing dysfunctional celebdom in the f***ing hope of finding 800 f***ing sanctimonious words to submit, at least 100 of which will be the f***ing word “we” every f***ing week! India Knight talking about the public’s unhealthy f***ing relationship with celebrity is like a f***ing vulture complaining about unhealthy relationships with the f***ing recently deceased!