And on the Last Day of Christmas my truelove gave to me, and I swear somebody is taking the piss, a restaurant full of bed wetting, overly sensitive, most likely vegetarian,
mentalist sentimentalist Coldplay fans.
Are you fucking trying to provoke me?
Are you trying to make me stab someone?
Sake. And I have a shitty cold.
One day to go, one short service full of muppets. I hate Coldplay and all they stand for. Apparently they release yellow balloons filled with glitter during some song or other, Clocks I think. Awh how nice. Cunts. I hope somebody fills them with anthrax, that'd teach them.
I'm so tired. I'm tired of being tired. I'm tired of moaning about being tired. I cant even sleep on in the morning as the Landlord is sending a chimney sweep round first thing to sweep the chimney, obviously. Chimney sweep? What is this, the 1950's?
This post was brought to you with bitterness and exhaustion and a deep seated hatred of Coldplay. I've said this before but it bears repeating, "Coldplay. Music for men who cry when they masturbate." Boo hoo hoo....
I promise a proper post tomorrow, The Well Done Fillet Review of Christmas.