I had every intention of going to Mass this morning but amazingly, I slept!
So I have worshipped at the Temple of Premiership Football.
Easy on my Chi, less trauma for the poor priest and as I have been taught G-d is an Englishman, he’d approve too.
The priest always looks as if he is battling with his ‘fight or flight’ instinct when he sees me, he deserves some time off!
The London Marathon took place today.
Why the fuck would any sane person run, for 26 miles, with no good reason.
The first idiot who did it was relaying a message during a war and had the good grace to drop fecking dead straight afterwards.
Don’t even get me started about the numpty’s who do it ‘dressed’ as something.
Televising it is beyond me as well.
I can’t see the point, unless they put snipers around the course and give them a 10 minute head start before releasing savage hounds and assorted snarling beasts.
They’d get those pantomime horses moving, especially the arse end!
Ungrateful Freeloader Number Two, AKA Murphy the Cat, has developed a disturbing ‘Wheeze’.
It’s a cross between a cough, that yakking sound they make when they are going to puke and asthma.
He looks a bit freaked when it happens, but calms down when stroked.
The other Furry Leech always appears and stares at him.
In my head they talk to each other, in voices like two old Jewish geezers.
Ken…… Nu? Anything?
Murff…. Nothing.
Ken…… Oy! Soon.
Murff…. From your lips to G-d’s ears.
It’s all over in under a minute.
I don’t want to take him to the vet if it is nothing.
It’s a traumatic experience for both of us.
His psyche is damaged and my finances are raped!
Then I start worrying that something might ‘actually’ be wrong with him.
My theory is that if he eats, he’s fine.
He’s eating.
I’ve read about Charlton Heston’s funeral, with this in particular catching my eye,
“……A frail Nancy Reagan entered the church on the arm of Tom Selleck. Following the nearly two hour ceremony, Mrs Reagan left with Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger.”
We have a word for that in England and it certainly isn’t, “Frail”.
It’s Slut!
It’s those Ads again.
Woolite, the day I decide to hang massive weights off my jumpers, will be the day I start using your shite.
You can feck off with trying to foist some German advert on me too.
The words are English but their mouths are not making the shapes for forming English.
Pay English actors you bastards!
2 comments:
I know! Who on earth sits and watches the London Marathon? (Or any marathon for that matter). I mean, talk about paint drying.
And golf too, what's the point in watching that? And much as I love the idea of cricket - oddly, I have no idea why, but I think Pimms and sunsets are involved - I don't ACTUALLY want to watch it.
Snooker is another load of bollocks!
Post a Comment