Tuesday, 25 December 2012

I just give up...


This is so the worst Christmas ever.  Man Friday and self both have di-ha-hee-ho-hah from yesterday’s suspect bacon and egg sandwich (lucky I never gave any to the dogs).  Oh yes, and between running to and fro the khazi, I read on the internet that Quincy died!  Well, I give up, I really do.  It’s nearly 5 on Xmas arvo, I haven’t had anything to eat and the whole flat stinks of Clovey/Spicey Xmas air-freshner with a charming undertone of old ass.

 

There’s a ruddy great piece of beef in the fridge, just staring at me.  And Quincy is dead!  True, true, he was ninety but for heaven’s sake, you think he might have held off till the New Year.  I think I might just start on the Advocaat and blow the consequences.  Oh, oh and those e-cigarettes…they are stronger than real fags!  I had about four puffs then my legs went wobbly and my head was all swimming.  For crying out loud: who was their bloody test market?  Winston Churchill and sodding Fidel Castro.  Good for your health?  My nether eye.

 

Perhaps I’d better buzz orf and pour that advocaat.  Oh, I thought the Queen looked well this year – has anyone noticed how her chest has grown over the years?  Or is it me, just being a bit Jimmy Saville in the regalophile-type way?

2 comments:

  1. I suggest you write the Queen a note saying "I love your tits, ma'am" and see if you get a response. She's pretty sprightly for her age and not too old for new experiences.

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