Month: November 2017

“Now call me old fashioned but if you gave a smack head £500 for the month, are you completely certain he’s going to prioritise rent and bills first? Because I think he’d have a massive fucking party.”

“He would nose me on the counter after we’d closed for the day”

The government is falling apart quicker than an Ikea stool under the sheer weight of James Cordon and his massive ego. It’s collapsing like a pro Brexit argument faced with actual reality.

He’s bullshit in a shit, a shit haired albino ape. He’s a fucking Greek restaurant after a Hen do, a  
Two Fat Ladies secret love child, the fucking bumbling Eton Mess.

“Dose eny1 no wen bin day is”

Yes. Your fucking local authority website you dumb cunt.

Bang a few log huts up, play some shit generic festive saxophone music and boom! You can charge a fiver a shot for some hot wine, or 4 quid for fucking a macaroon and cunts will flock in their droves, standing there in the biting cold, skint, squashed by hoardes of other cunts all saying how fucking lovely it is.

I’d even take Miranda perpetually falling over in a poorly edited loop until the end of days than hear that open throated cackle, or witness that over practised fucking glasses twitch ever again.

When did we allow our children to be bullied online? When we were bullied the bully was fucking there, in front of us! For Christ’s sake teach your kids to leave the virtual room, close the lid on the laptop or even close down the social media account. Boom. Problem solved.

We know that if Keith, a self employed plumber fills he his tax return in wrong and misses £300 he owes that he’s a tax evading cunt and will probably rightly go to prison. A celebrity however can squirrel away millions of pounds in perfectly legal tax avoidance schemes and will probably be treated to lunch by someone from fucking HMRC

They’re as expected as a knitted jumper for Christmas off your nan, or a massive fucking gas bill in January, and to be honest it’s a fucking chore talking about it.