Fuck You Very Much

A foolproof test has been designed to enable you to work out if you’re a cunt or not. You may wish to take it now, it’s easy, quick and free. Here is the method:

Go outside and count the number of St George flags attached to both your car and your house. Add them all up and consult the following table.

0: not necessarily a cunt.
1 or more: cunt.

You’re welcome.

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.

Ho cunts. What did I miss?

I’ve been off wanking into BA Robertson’s toaster, chucking women at the pope, bugling away my third nose and garrotting budgies for the Czech mafia.

I only remembered I had this cunting website when a cunt on Twitter flicked my ballsac with a wet towel, saying “Since there’s no email address on your website, I’ve had to sign up for this shit.”

Over there on the right, you are intended to see some text labelled “Fucking Contact“, which – in case for some reason you can’t see it, or you’re a cunt – says:

“The domain is idiotsplayground.com and the username is theidiot. If you can’t figure it out from that then I don’t want to fucking hear from you anyway.”

This remains as true now as it was when I shat it onto the keyboard.

What’s that you say? You’ve booked a meeting for 1pm? Well that’s lovely, but you’ll be having it without me, won’t you?

See, that’s FUCKING LUNCHTIME. And I will be either in the pub, buying useless toss, watching a trampfight in the park, or otherwise not at fucking work.

Arsehole.

You there. Wanker. Yes, you. Wanker with the laptop on the front carriage of the 19:20 eastbound from Camden Road. Your bag is not a passenger, regardless of how important you imagine your “work” to be. Therefore it shouldn’t have its own seat.

Cunt.

Look, cunts, it’s really simple. Really REALLY simple. So simple a fucking TV chef should be able to understand it.

When you walk away from your desk, either:

1. Take your fucking phone with you, or
2. Put the fucking thing on silent.

That’s it.

I mean… there are indigenous tribes deep in the Congo who have independently arrived at this conclusion. It’s not just common sense, it’s… well. Words, for once, fail me.

Basically if you haven’t figured this out yet, then everyone around you thinks you’re a cunt.

I have a proposal for a new law, or perhaps local bye-law. I think it should be a legal right to be allowed to punch squarely in the face someone who bumps into you because they aren’t looking where they’re going.

And if it’s because they’re texting on their phone and walking along looking down at that, you should be allowed – nay fucking obliged – to give them a fucking thump in the guts as well.

Arseholes.

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.