Fuck You Very Much

Do you drive? Do you? I do. I drive. I like driving. I don’t drive to work, because I live in Fucking London, and that would be absurd, but many weekends I drive to places that aren’t Fucking London and it’s all good.

But there’s more. My car is special. More special than most – though it’s not unique, there are others out there like it. I’ve seen a few.

What makes my car special is that on the corners there are little orangey-yellow lights. And when I feel like turning a corner or changing lanes, I can flick a lever inside next to the steering wheel and make two of the lights flash! The way I do it is I make the ones on the left side of the car flash if I want to turn/drift left, and the ones on the right flash when I want to turn or drift to the right. It’s brilliant! A few other cars have the same feature, and it’s almost as if there’s some sort of code of the highways that we follow that means we all do the same thing, so we know what each other is doing or about to do. It works quite well.

Sadly, most cars seem not to have this feature. They look like they have the same lights, but theirs don’t flash when the car turns or changes lane, so they must not be the same thing.

Shame really. It’s well fucking handy to know what every other ton-and-a-half of speeding metal is thinking about doing, when travelling at high speed.

Right. Fucking sort it out.

When I go to the fucking supermarket for gin and meat, I pay by fucking card. When I stick my card in the machine, I fucking KNOW what to do next. You don’t need to fucking tell me to enter my PIN. I fucking KNOW. The reason I haven’t done it yet, is because the screen – which you, sat dribbling behind your checkout, cannot see – STILL SAYS WAIT.

I’m fucking standing here, eyes nailed to the display, hand poised over the first MOTHERFUCKING number, waiting for the CUNTING picosecond that the display changes and says “Enter PIN”, and I don’t need you to tell me to SHITTING enter it a full three HORSE’S COCKING second before the display updates, you NUMB-CUNTED SHIT-GARGLING GOBSHITE.

Honestly. I can manage.

Neither are you the only person in the fucking world. No, really. Sorry to break this shit to you.

So maybe, when you emerge onto the tube/train platform in the middle of rush hour, you might want to move along a bit. See there are probably people behind you who also want to get onto the fucking platform.

Or do you maybe get some little sexual pleasure from people bumping into the back of you, as you stop dead, head rotating like a fucking lighthouse gawping at all the pretty lights.

GET OUT OF MY FUCKING WAY, CUNT.

Sorry, what exactly was soooo funny about a man in a coat running? The coat? Or the running?

If you can find such hearty amusement in someone nipping back to their desk to retrieve something quickly so as not to annoy those who are holding the lift for them, then I truly don’t know whether to pity you for your utter and complete lack of wit, or to envy you in that you must be in an almost permanent state of near fucking hysteria.

Fuck me.

Why? For Bog’s sake, why?

Why am I surrounded by such a dribbling ineffectual braying herd of gits, shits, pricks, cunts, fucks and more fucking pricks? Was I Hitler in a former life or something?

Jesus Suffering Fuck.

Fucking brilliant. No, that’s great. Thanks. Cheers.

Actually could it hurt a bit more? I mean, it’s not like I’m fucking busy or anything. Great. That’s splendid.

EVERYONE’S WELL FUCKING IMPRESSED.

Cunting fucking teeth. They just give you gyp in the end. Rip them all out and drink soup, I say.

FUCKWADS.