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Thursday, 29 December 2016

In which it's all bollicks...

That's it! Four fecking days off after the festivities are over...

'Stop moaning, Lovely One!' I hear you chorus Dear Reader, 'you can have a lovely rest and put yer feet up, watch a bit of telly.'

You'd like to think so wouldn't you? But no, a delicious visit to AP and then on to others.  Soon as I get back it'll be off back to work humping boxes of fecking shite that nobody wants, up and down the sodding stairs at the Purveyor  of Fine Grocery Items.

'OH STOP COMPLAINING, LOVELY ONE,' you cry, 'at least you've got your health'

GOT MY HEALTH!  I'm a fat, flollopy dollop with dangerously high blood pressure, diabetes, elephantine, varicose legs, loose teeth, knackered knees, a comedy stomach and a hacking cough worthy of 60 Woodbine a day AND enough super- floo-us hair to stuff a kind sized mattress.

And as for watching a bit of telly: what a load of bollicks that's been. Every crappy Christmas film has had fecking dogs in it, 'saving Christmas' or some other bleedin' nonsense. This morning hit an all time low with 'Herbie goes Bananas' Don't these blithering eejits know that cars do all that 'thinking for themselves' now?

The Christmas  tree is shedding all over the sitting room floor, shitty water is seeping up through the khazi floor, there's no hot water, can't afford to put the heating on, the oven's shagged and I'm growing a goatee.

Happy fecking New Sodding Year, one and all.



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