Daves decision to not take a coat to work this morning, though now his loss, was his neighbours gain, for the spectacle they would witness on his return home would be the very essence of man.
Pulling onto the drive, Dave parked too near the garage wall meaning his door would only open half way. Rather than reversing and parking properly like a normal person, he decided that a much better idea would be to try and squeeze out of the van through the tiny gap like an inflated contortionist dry humping through a doughnut.
With his stomach sucked in so hard that it threatened to burst out of his arse he forced his exit between seat and door. Onlookers would witness what resembled a giant square metallic bull giving birth to a stupid red faced fat man beast, with surgeons on standby with blocks of butter to assist lubricating the ailing creatures entrance into the world. Half way out of the van it looked like Dave could be spending the night trapped, his rounded pie frame doing little to assist his exit. With one final push he was free, like a giant arse slamming out a difficult stool, he was fired from the van and he rolled onto the drive.
To his neighbours, he moved in slow motion, this was diet coke break live – in Northumberland.
Dave picked himself up. With the rain pouring down, his sodden shirt clung to every sweeping curve of his body. His love handles exposed, bellowing out above his jeans like a sexy soufflé. His jelly tot nipples now taught from the chilly spring deluge, and sadly pointing down from the ends of his wilting chesticles.
Once inside the raging display of sex didn’t end. Upstairs Dave drew the curtains and began to get changed. Attempting to peal off his soaking shirt over his head, it became stuck half way and he wriggled around with his arms in the air, shirt rolled up above him, like a sultry enchilada.
From the outside, backlit from the bedroom light, a silhouetted dance played out. Dave’s shadow clear through the cheap George home curtains. The grand finale was just like one of those shadow dance acts from Britain’s got talent, whereas where they were often moving and poetic, this was vile and shit.
So tonight was the first “Gym Session”
I started with the rowing machine.
Slowly sitting into position on the incredibly uncomfortable seat and grabbing the handles on the stupidly tight pully cord thing, I wasted no time and the “rowing” motion began.
The first lunge forward sent my now scrunched and bulbous belly rolling up my body until my stomach was in my neck, so I now resembled some sort of male exotic bird puffing up it’s chest, but instead of a plethora of impressive feathers on display there was a stack of lard tires that threatened to tumble back down at any moment, like some sort of shit game of jelly Jenga. I pulled back with all my strength and my belly was released from my neck, I swear I heard it say “Thank fuck for that” as it collapsed back to what seemed like my feet, I imagined the same kind of gushing release that you would get if you were to slice open a waterbed that was filled with custard.
Pretty soon I was in full stride and as I lurched back and forwards my belly continued to traverse the length of my body, up, and down, just like one of those fair ground rides where people sit in a circle around the big pole and it shoots up and down, my organs “ooooing and ahhhhhing” as they were raised and dropped.
Next up, the exercise bike.
First up, this thing was higher than I thought, I swung my leg over like John Wayne mounting a fuck off giraffe and sat down with far too much force so that my arse all but swallowed up the seat, after checking i didn’t need to retrieve the seat from my now ruptured colon, I slid my feet into the plastic stirrup things on the pedals.
I started peddling, at first this seemed ok, I looked at the clock and thought, “Twenty minutes” I can do this. I went for it, it wasn’t long before i could feel my heart beating in my eyeballs. I looked up thinking I’d been going a good ten minutes – three minutes had past. This wasn’t the first time i felt like i’d been going much longer than a couple of minutes in an act of physical exertion. I pushed on as long as i could but decided I’d have to have a breather half way through. Then as if I wasn’t already having a miserable enough time, just as I was slowing down to dismount I spotted on the garage floor under me an extremely unwelcome guest, spider…
To say I’m not a fan of spiders goes in the same box of understatements as me saying I don’t like salads. I took a double take to check it was in fact the horror to which i thought, but there was no doubt, an eight legged intruder was directly underneath me. It was at this point I did something rather worrying, I peddled faster, for some reason, just for a moment I thought by doing so I could get away from it. In those ten seconds I probably got more speed up on the bike than i had in my whole ten minute exercise marathon, the spider stayed where it was, it didn’t gain on me, but I didn’t put any space between us, we were even in the pursuit. I soon realised i wasn’t going anywhere, and nor did it seem was the spider, I imagined it had just popped out to see what was going on and was now laughing it’s eight spider tits off at the sight of me and my Olympic efforts, I’d be the laughing stock down at the Queens Web later on when him and his mates we’re enjoying eight pints.
Eventually the spider got bored of waiting for me to have a stroke and moved on. I took this opportunity to call it a day on the bike and moved onto the weights.
I lay down on the bench. I totally nailed this part, in fact I may have just found my sport. I grabbed the bar and built myself up mentally, taking deep breaths, I counted in to the first lift, one, two, three, lift…Nothing. It wouldn’t move. Surely they weren’t that heavy. Fortunately for me it wasn’t that I was much weaker than i thought, apparently there are “safety clamps” that stop the weights from rolling off. I released these and attempted again, it wasn’t much easier. I was on about lift three when I started making noises I didn’t know i could make, I persevered, my cheeks exploding with every lift in a gibbering slavering explosion of exhaled strain, anyone passing by must have thought there was a man fucking a seal in his garage.
Luckily for me my allocated half hour in the gym that I promised myself I’d do was finally up. To be honest I’ve probably burnt more calories typing the whole thing up than i actually did in there, and let’s face It the only thing that’s ever likely to be totally ripped on me are my pants, but it’s a start. The plan is to do this every night this week. Let’s see how I go. Right now I’m off to meet a few spiders for some drinks and eight kebabs.
Chapter 1 – Bait
Dave stepped out of his works van which he had parked badly on the drive, his urgency to get home threw all sense of accuracy out of the window and he ploughed the corner of the lawn and flattened some of the shite plants he bought in the B & Q closing down sale.
He held his mysterious companion with one hand and used his other hand to open the door, soon realising that a key would in fact be better, rather than trying to insert his hand into the tiny key hole.
He pushed the door with his shoulder and marched straight in. A man on a mission he kicked off his scuffed work shoes carelessly and slipped his hotching work feet into his well worn Primark slippers, his shoes lay untidy on the floor, sole face up, displaying the £12.99 Asda George sticker candidly face up for the world to see, “Dirty, cheap, shoes” he thought to himself.
His trusty companion Snoopy bounded down the stairs and greeted him with the usual enthusiasm as he did every night. He jumped circles, wagging his tail, before nestling his head into Dave’s testicles- longer than was really deemed acceptable, had Snoopy been a human man, he’d be sparked out on the floor missing many of his teeth, however it had been many years since Snoopy had testicles of his own, so Dave allowed him to feel the comforting bulge of two intact pods for a while longer before luring him away with the promise of a biscuit.
With Snoopy distracted Dave wasted no time in throwing his companion onto the bench. He tore, rather than unwrapped the paper from it, upon ripping strips off the package the smell hit him instantly, pungent, unmistakable, Fish.
Battered, golden and more inviting than anything he had seen that day, the fish lay on it’s bed of chips, tail slightly curled up. “Cheeky thing” Dave thought.
Snapping out of the intoxicating gaze he found himself hearing the fish in his head “Stop, you’ll have to use a Condiment”. The fish was right, it was wrong not to, for all it may delay the moment to which he had thought of constantly since picking it up on the way home it was only right to do this properly.
Dave grabbed the ketchup from the cupboard, popped the cap and squeezed it firmly whilst gently shaking, sending overwhelmingly beautiful arcs of red sauce over the fish and it’s companion chips, for a moment he thought he could hear it sigh, or maybe that was himself.
He picked up the fish and chips marched them to the table, not even waiting to sit down before scoffing two of the larger chips on the short journey. At the table, he devoured the fish with a ferocity that scared even himself, fuck knows what the fish was thinking.
All the time both Dave and the fish were aware of someone watching them, it was Snoopy, but neither of them cared, if anything it added to the danger and excitement of the moment, the constant threat that someone might try to grab a chip during the furious feast that was taking place.
It felt like it was over in minutes. But the length of the encounter did not matter, for Dave was satisfied.
Dave sank back in his chair, spent. The fish was gone, and all that was left of the chips were the really shite sharp ones that threatened to lacerate your throat should they be eaten.
There was a silence now, interrupted only by an enormous climatic man belch, which served as a signal to all that the devouring was complete. The air was still, and thick with grease smells. Dave wasn’t sad that fish was gone, they had shared something special that both of them knew couldn’t last for ever, a consumption neither of them had experienced before.
There would be other fish, as they say, plenty more left in the sea.
“Come on snoopy” Dave said. “You can have these sharp dangerous chips for being a good boy”
A lovely day was had at the beach today just me and my two year old son Logan making the most of the fine weather, however as usual the day was not without its unexpected events.
Logan had been a real star and walked for ages without wanting to be picked up, except he cunningly saved this normally intermittent request for the entire journey back, deciding he wanted me to carry him the whole length of the beach back to the car park. Fortunately for Logan I’m well known for my endless athleticism and physical stamina.
By the time I arrived dramatically over the dunes with Logan over my shoulder, backpack in other hand, I resembled something from Saving Private Ryan, purple faced and gasping out my victory of the carpark being near by.
Just as I was about to put Logan down I noticed to my horror he was missing one of his new wellies. I couldn’t believe it, I’d have to go back.
I could see by Logan’s face what he was thinking.
“Leave it Daddy, it’s not worth it”
But I was still in war hero mode “No, I’m going back for it”
“It’s gone Daddy, don’t go back’
“No one get’s left behind!” I cried.
I was a soldier now (Which translated to “Your mother will fucking kill me if I go home with out it”)
I threw Logan back over my shoulder and launched back over the dunes, into battle.
In pure slow motion my courageous welly rescue began, not slow motion because it was dramatic or film like, just that I’m shit at anything physical and each step took me fucking ages. My difficult run on dry sand and pebbles meant I was running like a startled Ostrich with chafing ball sores.
Grenades in the form of tennis balls landed at my feet, kicking up a explosions of sand, thrown by half arsed lazy dog walkers with those shite claw stick things which mean they don’t have to bend over their lazy as fuck arses to pick up the ball and throw it again, I dodged the incoming artillery fire.
I continued my daring dash across the beach, a rousing orchestral soundtrack was now playing in my head, or maybe it was an aneurysm.
Trundling on I glanced down and to my horror “Landmine!”
A massive steaming dog shite, which i can only assume was curled out by some sort of buffalo. I hurdled over it, just clearing the slender Mr Whippy finish at it’s summit where it had been nipped off, smashing some orbiting flies in the face with my olympian feet. This was Cacksaw Ridge, and I was Daveheart, they may shite on our beaches but they’ll never take my Welly.
I came crashing down with so much force I thought I’d burrow through the beach end up in Australia. I could see walkers checking that the tide hadn’t suddenly withdrawn and fucked off out to sea, my elephant like landing causing some sort of mega Tsunami.
i sprinted on, and by sprint I mean I walked a bit faster than usual and exaggerated my arm swings. Finally I saw it…The missing Welly.
“Therrrrrrre iiiit isssss” I cried, my voice deep and also slow motion, again not through the cause of any dramatic effect, just I was having some sort of exhaustion stroke now.
I grabbed the missing Welly, pulling it from the grips of the sand, I saved it’s Sole..I turned, and headed back to safety out of the war zone.
To even my surprise we arrived once again over the dunes, away from the battle and the safety of the car in sight once more.
Then, suddenly to my horror I realised something else was missing. Where’s the camera, we came with the camera?!
“Leave it Daddy, it’s not worth it!” Cried Logan…
I paused, weighing up the situation. “Aye, you’re right son, let’s go to McDonalds on the way back”
This is beans, in a tomato sauce, served on a bed of toasted bread.
Firstly, buy some beans, there are many own brand beans but most of them taste like shite. I always go for Heinz.
Once you get home, it’s time to start preparing your meal, it should go without saying that attempting to prepare beans on the bus home will most likely be frowned upon and you could be at risk of bean thrown off the bus as well as risking incurring some small feinz.
Most modern cans will have a ring pull on them, however, if you’ve been at the bargain baskets in your local corner shop you may find you need a tin opener. It’s also probably worth checking the date on the can, if your can of beans is a special edition celebrating the birth of Jesus Christ it might be an idea not to be such a tight bastard and get yourself a new can off the shelf.
Pull the ringpull upwards to open your can, again if your can is an older one and you are using one of those cheap silver tin openers, you may find you need to reattach your severed fingers or attend a month long course of physiotherapy to mend your torn tendons.
With your can open, get yourself a pan on the oven. I find electric ovens work best. Gas ovens can often see yourself turning on the gas and spending a life threatening 30 minutes pressing the ignite button only to be greeted with an unsuccessful clicking noise but no flame, if this happens I find it best just to continue to fill the the house with dangerous levels of gas and continue to press the button for a good hour, rather than just getting a match and saving yourself the risk of a Hiroshima style barbeque. Indeed, had my previous oven been a helium oven, I’d now be living the rest of my life talking like the love child of the Lisa simpson and Grandpa Smurf, all for the sake of a match.
With the pan ready on your oven, gently pour your magnificent beans into the pan. It wont take long for the beans to start to heat, it’s important to stir the beans regularly.
A wooden spoon is recommended, however if you use a regular spoon, you deserve the inevitable searing fuckpig of a spoon handle blister your will receive after thinking it’s ok to heat a metal object in a pan for ten minutes and then try to pick it up.
Now comes the multi tasking, with your beans heating it’s time to get the toast on the go. I come from quite a well to do family so we have an electric toaster. It’s one of those new ones where it actually has a setting to burn your toast. I can only assume it’s designed for artists who like to sketch with as well as eat their breakfast/lunch.
SPECIAL TIP: A top tip, unless your butter is of the “spreadable” variety it is best to take it out of the fridge to allow time for it to soften to a spreadable consistency, for example, for a block of Lurpak in the silver foil packing- I find it’s best to take it out of the fridge approximately seven years before you intend to use it. Failure to do this will result in you angrilly shredding your toast with hard chunks of butter, tearing great holes in them and even shattering your plate as you refuse to admit defeat, leaving your toast unrecognisable and not entirely appealing to look at.
You should now be ready to serve your meal. With your toast on the plate get your beans and drizzle them over your bed of toasted bread. It’s best not to swamp your plate as things can get a little mushy.
If you have beans left over, it is highly recommended you put them back in the can and put them in the fridge, you are guaranteed to have one family member who will take great pleasure in announcing you shouldnt store beans in a can in the fridge as it’s “dangerous” . It’s a well known fact that the mass extinction of the dinosaurs, the birth of Hitler and the assasination of JFK was actually the result of someone storing beans in an open can in the fridge. If they insist on you doing this, find the largest pyrex casserole dish you can find and put the remaining 12 beans in this and into the fridge, just to give them something else to piss and moan about later on.
You are now ready to enjoy your beans in tomato sauce served on a bed of toasted bread, your hard work has finally paid off.
One last tip is whilst you are eating your meal, ensure that your spill some of the beans on your top. This will absolutely guarantee that when you pop to the shops later on and forget about this you will be certain to bump into someone you really fancy, or an ex girlfriend, who upon seeing your tramp like bean juice stained attire will leave her feeling comforted in the knowledge that you are indeed a scruffy cunt and she was right to leave you.
Bon apa tit.
Due to the strange fact that the plethora of alcohol I received at Christmas must have all had holes in the bottles or were somehow faulty as they were now empty I found myself once more perusing the alcohol aisle at the local supermarket to replenish the stocks for the New Year celebrations.
Next to me were two pretty lady things, clearly dressed for a night at the local discotheque and were looking for something to get “Tanked up” prior to their evening of dancing.
Being a bit of a nosey fucker I picked up a bit of their conversation and soon gathered that the drink they required was on the top shelf they couldn’t reach it.
“I can do this” I thought. “I can help these poor damsels in distress”. I’m tall, I can reach, and I’ll look cool as fuck, bearing in mind the last time i could say I was cool as fuck was when I had to de-ice the car for the wife in my pyjamas on Christmas eve morning, so cold was it outside my nipples all but tore through my ill fitting bed top to shatter off the ice and my shivering man part retracted and stacked up to resemble one of Makkapakka’s antennae.
“Can I get that for you?” I asked, my voice the velvety tone of a confident hulking man hero.
“Yes please can we get two” Delight at this unexpected knight in Burtons armour.
“No problem” I said “One of the advantages of being tall”
Unfortunately for me I mistook “Being tall” for being a fucking giraffe on stilts. Not only was the drink on the top shelf it was also right at the back. I stretched, reaching in a panic now that I was going to look like a tosser. It was too late, tosser would be a polite description and another problem was now more pressing.
I’d left the house wearing my normally already quite snug leather jacket, with the Christmas festivities it now probably looked like someone had hurled a massive turkey at a sheet of warmed and melting bin liners. As I stretched further into the shelf my leather jacket had somehow managed to rise up and traverse over my impressive belly, it didn’t stop until it nestled itself under my moobs, displaying my apparent complete festive pregnancy for all the shop to see.
Like a really shit version of that plastic twat from Fantastic four, (this was more fatastic), I somehow managed to extend myself and retrieved two of the bottles. Victory! I retracted back to normal height like a lard slinky being let go from the top of the stairs.
Purple faced and clenching a bottle in each hand I dismounted the fixture. Unable to pull my jacket down I stood arms stretched out offering the bottles. I probably made things worse by acting like there was nothing wrong or weird in the fact that a purple faced panting stranger wearing a tiny leather crop top with the physique of an inflated weeble was handing them drink.
“No problem” I said, even though they hadn’t thanked me, too stunned even to speak, they clearly didn’t know where to look and for some reason chose my shimmering marshmallow kite, my belly button staring them out like Cyclops, it even give them a cheeky wink as I coughed for their attention to take the bottles.
I strolled away quickly, but cooly, pulling down my leather jacket, it squeaked on its journey back down to waste line.
Not all heroes wear capes, I thought as I strutted out of sight, they wear tight leather belly tops.
So today I had my first experience of the early morning “Next Sale”, and by early morning I mean I was up at 4am and in the queue at the local retail park at 5am. Obviously this was the lovely wifes choice of how to spend a boxing day morning not mine, had I had my own way I’d be still fast asleep enjoying a nice dream, probably involving me saving the planet Endor from the evil clutches of the darkside whilst munching on a kebab and a bag of chips served by Megan Fox at the same time.
Upon arriving I was astonished at not just the length of the queue but also the states at which some people had clearly rolled out of bed and staggered to the store. Bargain hunting skiprats littered the walkways and it resembled an audition queue for a remake of the video for Thriller.
The doors opened and the queue of Zombie’s lurched forward, like a flock of hotching wolves after a lone lamb they scrammbled inside.
Large clear shopping sacks we’re handed out as you walked in, in a scene resmebling a day in the life of an elephants family planning clinic the shoppers grabbed their giant contraseptives and began their attack on the sale rails.
Inside the air was rife with the smell of morning breath and the unwashed. I headed to the mens section whilst the wife attempted to wrestle with the bulk of the sale locusts as they flocked over the crop of end of line bargains.
At first I was more interested in who else was actually mad enough to turn out at this horrid hour, which on a weekend, really shouldnt exist on any form of timekeeping device.
Bed head was definately the choice of hairstyle, and many faces still bore the crease lines of a pillow or the glimmer of morning drool that hadnt quite had time enough to dry up yet. Eyes were filled with huge rocks of sleep, so large that it looked like some of the shoppers had just gone down on a bag of cinder toffee and misjudged the location of it’s honeycomb genitals.
I decided I’d best take a look at what was on offer and began my perusal of the men’s area (By that I mean the clothes department, not rifling through a strangers under crackers).
For all of my pissing and moaning and complaining at having to get up so early, it wasn’t long before I was taken over by the same lust for cheap clothes as everyone else.
I began filling my bargain sack (And by that I mean shopping bag, not cheap replacement scrotum) with anything I was even remotely considering that I could wear. I was, like everyone else out of control, hurling shirts, jeans, shorts, anything into the bag. People didn’t care what they picked up, “it says reduced so must be worth having” racing through everyone’s head, including mine. You could hear people saying “Even if you only wear it once it’s worth it”. Yes of course, disposable clothes, now there’s a good idea.
It wasn’t long until I couldn’t fit anything else into my T-Rex condom and clothes were spilling out of the top of it. “What’s happening to me” I thought, I didn’t like it, I was normally so controlled, so uninterested in such things, but here I was hurling clothes into my shopping bag like they were going out of fashion, which they were. Even if they weren’t my size I still grabbed at garments left right and centre, “I’ll get into them once I’ve lost all this weight, in the year 2056”. Indeed, the last time my wardrobe had seen anything with medium written on it was when a flyer for a fortune teller fell out of my coat pocket.
To my surprise the wife came upstairs, her bag only half as full as mine. She looked drained, and informed me she’d had enough of the chaos downstairs and we soon joined the enormous queue for the checkouts.
The queue was like something for a Disneyland ride, it snaked around the room like a whales willy after a night on the pop. We stood inching along for what seemed like day’s, the smell of morning breath was now so strong in the shop the staff were forced to walk around with bowls of mints to try and combat odour of the many rancid customers. I wondered if when we got nearer the checkout people would be hosed down or offered soap.
We finally made it to the front of the queue and were next to be served, an assistant came and took all of our shopping out of the bags and hung it on a rail for the rest of the shop too see, like Gok wan proving his latest guest had shit fashion sense. He picked up and moved a ladies vest top along that the wife had chosen and asked “Is this one one of yours as well?” “No that ones the wife’s” I quickly replied, pleased with myself, maybe I could entertain the queue and be paid for it, I looked around for my applause but was greeted only by a hundred unimpressed glances that all spelled out COCK.
The assistant picked up the bulk of shirts to carry over to the checkout, “And these are your shirts?” It was a loaded question and he said it in a way that suggested “Really? Good luck getting into those lardy, let me know so I can leave the region and flee the inevitable projectile buttons that you will be firing in all directions when you try them on”. “Yes they are” I replied, the well groomed fuck. Now take them to the checkout quickly before you snap your manicured stick like arms. His hair was of the precise shaven at the sides and high and swept over on the top look, I’m not sure of the correct name for the style so I’ll call it cunt.
We were served efficiently, and I was hypnotised by the speed at which our shopping was scanned through and bagged up. The price came up on the screen and after momentarily dropping my guts at the sight of it, we quickly paid and left. “Keep the change” I said, even though we’d paid by card, they’d soon catch whiff of what I meant.
At the entrance the security alarms we’re going off constantly and customers came back in to have their bags searched. As I approached the door I ,like everyone else, did my best impression of an innocent person who hadn’t stolen anything, even though I had nothing to hide I felt the need to “not look guilty” it was like an episode of the cube and I was relieved to get through the gates without triggering the siren.
We packed our purchases into the car and climbed in. As I turned the key to the ignition I passed comment on how it was only 6.30 and we’d already been shopping. The wife tentatively asked, as if expecting a no, if there was any chance we could call into the next Next store down the road. To my amazement I said “Yes, yes we can”. I was speaking involuntarily, my voice an emotionless drone “For there may be more cheap clothes that I cant get into and will never wear”. And off we set.
And so, as I type this, from the queue of the Next Sale, I warn you all to take cover, as soon I will be trying on some slimfit shirts and medium sized shorts, and at some point those buttons are indeed going to pop and fly, you don’t need to be a medium to know that and you seriously do not want to be standing next to me when they do.
Christmas, a time for celebration sharing and the joys of the supermarket gridlock.
Those of who enjoy meandering to a standstill and parking their trolley horizontal in the aisle whilst they stop to consider the discount on spinbin full of fucked Whoops sticker loafs, whilst a tailback of a hundred other frantic shoppers mentally project the words “Move you daft fuckmonkey” in their direction. Or perhaps deciding that now would be a really awesome time to have a catch up with a family of fifteen that you’ve not seen since last Christmas, yes let’s get Ashingtons answer to the Walton’s to form a fucking rugby scrum on the cereal aisle just because it’s Christmas and no ones in a hurry.
A time for the wise to open the freezers up to grope every single frozen turkey in there to weigh up which one is the biggest, when it’s quite clear the fattest turkey in that freezer is the reflection of the cockmunter holding it open whilst letting out enough cold to give the store it’s own weather system and entice a swarm of confused penguins into the pizza aisle.
The time to use the fast lane with a basket so full the handles are stretching so it’s trailing along the floor, threatening a near avalanche of groceries to tumble forth “Yes, I agree, you should have got a fucking trolley” instead you engage in your own festive game of grocery Jenga and cause the already stressed out robotills to blow a fucking circuit when you slam down your mountain of Christmas tat and proceed to scan through a years worth of shopping in an area the size of a phone booth whilst poor R2ShopD2 has an electronic hernia trying to cope with it all.
A time to ask the checkout operators “Has it been busy?” Whilst a queue the size of a small moon snakes around the store behind you.
A time for said checkout operators to ask “Will you need bags?” As you push three trolleys full of grocery’s towards them. “No thanks, I’ll just balance the whole lot on my fucking head, and if I get really stuck I can always ask Yoda to use the force and float the fucker over to my car, which incidentally I’ve had to park so far away I’m going to need my fucking passport to get back to it”.
A time for Charity collections on the EXIT so that when you are visibly struggling with a hundred bags in each hand, arms stretching like Mr Tickle, they shake their boxes in your face “Yes of course I will, lucky for you I’m a fucking octopus so I can not only carry all this shopping I can also rummage around for some change in all of my pockets at the same time, and yes, I do want a fucking sticker”.
A time for other cars to park so close to you, you have to break open the Chrismas goose fat just to lube up your thighs and kite so that you can slide into the car before executing a 436 point turn to exit whilst an impatient mingehead behind you shakes his head while he waits for your space “I’m sorry, not all of us fly a fucking harrier jump jet and can manoeuvre out with such ease”.
Happy Christmas, it’s going to be great.
One of the cons of the dark nights – The night before bin day.
Every week I fail to remember what bin it is that goes out on the Tuesday. It’s like I have bin amnesia. So every week I sneak out and stealthily tip toe to the neighbours drive to see what one they have put out, them being a bit more organised than myself, except its so dark I practically have to press my fucking face on the bin to see what colour it is. It’s like watching snooker on a black and white TV. Except instead of balls, its bins, and instead of a snooker player, it’s a forgetful cunt. So the folk across the road either think I’m having an affair with Oscar the fucking grouch, or that times are hard and it’s scraps again for tea.
So if there’s ever a rumour going around that every week disgusting Dave can been seen all over the trash from down the street – It’s not what you think, I’m just a bit rubbish at bin organised.