Fuck You Very Much

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.

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.

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.

On my commute to work I am surrounded daily by a truly terrifying quantity of Daily Mail readers. It gives me the fucking willies, I tell you.

Anyway, I’m not sure if it was a Mail-related magazine, or just some HELLO, OK, JUST FUCKING BUY ME type magazine designed to separate “beauty technicians” from their cash, but gazing slackly out at me from several glossy spreads this morning was the doughy face of Jade Goody, as the headlines blazed on about her “Toughest Test Yet” and how she has “always been a fighter”.

Do me a favour, and just fuck off, will you?

Yes, I know she has been diagnosed with cancer. Cervical cancer too, which must be an utter terror for women everywhere. Know what? My mother-in-law was diagnosed with bowel cancer a couple of years ago. The same kind that carried off my best mate’s mum a few years ago and another great friend’s dad a few years before that. They were both fighters, and they didn’t have lucrative TV and press deals to shore up the medical insurance. In fact, they didn’t have medical insurance. And now they are dead.

Cancer will kill a quarter of all people, at least in the UK. Think about that. Look around you now, and pick four people that you know really well. Now kill one of them. That’s cancer.

And yet we are invited to drop everything and care about someone more purely because they went on telly and demonstrated to the world how legendarily dense they are? Go jump off a fuck.

I am in fact sorry for Jade. It’s a fucking shame that anyone gets hit with the cancer stick. But I can feel that without 20-page spreads about her struggle, thanks.

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.

Look, it’s so fucking simple even a television presenter could understand it.

If you give me a delivery date, and use the word “guaranteed” when you do it, and the item is in stock, it is NOT FUCKING ACCEPTABLE to then miss that delivery date.

It really isn’t. Look, here, I’ll look up the fucking definition of “guarantee” for you.

Here: “an assurance for the fulfillment of a condition“. You see? An assurance. As in, you are assuring me that my purchase will be with me on the date you fucking say it will.

OTHERWISE WHAT’S THE POINT? “Oh well the post service can’t always blah blah blah…” Well then you shouldn’t be throwing fucking guarantees around like they’re free, then should you? SHOULD YOU, CUNT?

Just fuck off, Amazon. Really. Just fuck off.

Excuse me, Mr Project Manager, can I just point something out? Thanks.

See, you’ve just approached me at my desk, and started to talk to me about something work-related, haven’t you? Yes, you have, in case you were in any doubt.

Now. Take a quick look at me and what I’m doing, if you’d be so motherfucking good. Can you see what I’m doing? Yes, that’s right. This tasty plate of meatballs and spaghetti is my “lunch” and I am eating it. Do me another little favour if you wouldn’t mind – you’re doing so well! – could you just look at the time? No look there, on your wrist. That’s a watch, that is. Oh dear, let me do it for you. See, it’s 25 minutes past one in the afternoon, or 1:25pm, if you prefer.

Would you like me to tell you something special that can actually be derived from these previous two pieces of information? It’s for free… you would? Ok, here it comes.

I’m on my cunting lunchbreak, you brain-dead workaholic cunt, so JUST FUCK OFF.

There. That wasn’t so hard, was it? Oh stop crying, I barely touched you.