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Wednesday, 10 May 2017

In which I'm shagged...

That's me, that is, Dear Reader...

Having retired to the truckle bed at nine o'clock nursing v swollen ankles and pulsating varicose veins, having been on me feet for eight hours, I must have positioned me poor old fizzog in a folded up manner on the pillow, because, upon waking, I appear to have a brand new wrinkle to add to the National Collection.

It's one of those delightful ones that traverse the face from the upper lip toward the nose that make my previously rosebud mouth look like a cat's arse.

Oh joy, oh bliss, that's just put the fecking tin hat on it.  It's not sufficient misery that I have to work like a sodding donkey deep into old age, now I look like I need ironing.

Today, instead of tending to the old, sick and needy, I shall deploy my last ounce of strength, drag my shagged out carcas up into the hills, dig a large hole and get in it to wait for the inevitable...


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