Get yer windows out for the lads

I fucking love the mass media. I adore the way they drone on, hysterically, about all the diversionary flotsam that in essence means fuck all, but which engenders prurient allegiances and speculation. I am simply bessotten with the gate-keepers, those shadowy powers who decide what is news. But most of all I love beer. Beer is fucking great.

What's the most perverted thing you've ever done? I went to a Little Chef once. I feel tainted to this day, and the memory will be with me forever. How spooky is that fucking sign?

I love being a bit dense because when I look at a globe or atlas every minute I'll be, "No way", and "Oooh", and of course, "Fuck me!" Naturally I haven't looked at Google Earth because I'd faint with surprise. One must know one's limits.

I've been thinking about something a lot recently, a thorny issue that is very complex: when I remember what it is, I will certainly let you know. In the meantime, consider this: rubharb is fucking rank, the normally quite open-minded Devil himself hates that shit. I heard he's worried, and paces fretfully in his chambers at night, rubbing his goateed chin, trying to figure out who the fuck could be more evil than him, that they created rubharb. "Psst. Satan my old son. It was God wot dunnit". God. What an evil cunt. His son was a bit of a wanker too, by all accounts.

Pursuant to that vibe, rude and inconsiderate cunts should die. I don't care how sad or angry you are, just be nice. You make me feel sad, I punch you in the back of the head. Common decency rules the world, and being rude is infectious, so fucking leave it out.

Opera. Shite.

Being beaten on the arse with a bamboo rod fucking hurts, even after twelve hours of caning vodka. The body is evil, it must be punished. Let it be known.

Sirrah!

"I am replete". Hopefully all of us, often.