Here's an idea.

Why don't you take a phone call from a "supplier" who in fact works solely for you and has done for almost two sodding years.

Listen half-heartedly to question regarding payment of invoices pre-expensive popular winter religious festival held annually.

Respond that only half of the owed money will be paid.

And that you're not quite sure when that will be.

And then fuck off back to your comfy house with its fairy lights on the garden hawthorne bush, you absolute cunts.

I may have had one or two shandies too many last night, but then you know that already.

I may have overdone it on the lime pickle and the red onions, too - but then you know that, too.

Oh yes.

Oh yes.

Join in, now...

I may be late for work,

I may be in a hurry,

I may be about to fill my pants with internally processed curry.

My face is getting redder,

Because you're a fucking traffic light and you're Just Plain Mean.

You stand on every corner,

You're everywhere I look!

But of my smooth traverse to work you couldn't give a fuck.

You stay on red for ages,

Even though pe-des-trians are merely fucking dross.

You're tall and bright and flashy,

Annoying on all fronts,

Yes you AND your Belisha mates are a twattish bunch of cunts.

I really really hate you,

Instead as per fucking usual my collar will be felt.

'Cos you'll grass me to the coppers,

Send them a colourful snap,

Then wonder why dogs just look at you and immediately take a crap.

Traffic lights I hate you,

And anyone who dis-agrees is a snivelling Green Party shit.

December 12, 2006

Used to be nice, now they're, well, less nice.

Not as chewy.

Bastards.

Here's an idea, you utter bastard:

Drench the outer sides of my desperate brain in some kind of fluid that, through the miracle of osmosis, eventually seeps through the grey viscous until both ends meet in the middle, thus producing a reaction not unlike that when electrical contacts find that all-important spark.

PING! go the Greed Lights, flickering and flashing on, like strobelights, all around my skull.

HURRAH! What will I buy for myself?

What kind of house?

What kind of car?

In fact, how many cars?

Gadgets?

Furniture?

And what about my family friends?

Where shall we all go on holiday?

How popular will I be?

How much sex will I get?

*gurning with excitement, dry in the mouth*

God, I can finally pay off this, and I can pay off that.

And I can pay off their debts, too.

Because that'll make them love me.

And I can get my eyes lasered.

And buy that suit.

And one of those watches.

And a London apartment. And one in New York.

And a yacht.

Oh, yes. I need that fucking yacht.

And helicopter flying lessons.

And a season ticket.

And my own restaurant. Inside my own hotel.

*gibber gibber gibber*

And then I can SING to the mirror without a care in the world!

SCATTER fifty pound notes from my penthouse balcony!

PISS in my bed!

SHIT in my sink!

PUNCH my own butler!

I CAN! I CAN! I CAN! I C -

"And here's your host, Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaale WIN-tonnnnnnnnnn........."

And then you remind me that I'm 50p short of a pint of Black Soup.

You absolute cunt.

Just fuck off