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Regular updates of sarcastic and irreverent nonsense.
I don’t care what the advertising blurb says; a Starbucks gift voucher would make a really crap Christmas present.
John G, Manchester
Shoppers: fed up with tax-dodging supermarkets getting free advertising at your expense? Simply turn your ‘complimentary’ plastic carrier bags inside out next time you pack your groceries up. That’ll teach the robbing bastards.
Sarah F, Bolton
I don’t know about anyone else, but I find the misspelling of the word ‘Sods’ highly distracting. Not only that, it sets a bad example to young, impressionable children and future generations will look back on this as time of decadence and illiteracy.
Dave, English teacher at Highbury secondary school
To the driver of the number 60 bus who decided to drive off, just as I got to the bus stop after sprinting 50 yards to get there on time: you’re a wanker.
Adam R, Rochester
A well peeled baby carrot serves as an ideal prop to fool people into thinking you are eating a human finger from a distance.
To the English teacher complaining about the misspelling of the title, I think you’ll find it was used as a way of keeping the alliteration consistent.
Michael C, England
If you’re bursting for a shit mid-way through a long shift, simply rush back to the depot as quickly as you can.
Driver, number 60 bus
Hello there, Mrs Claus here. Or Green Claws as the kids in school used to call me when they caught me picking my nose. An elf had the cheek to call me that when I was putting a load of mistletoe up one year and I soon wiped the smile off of her face, the skinny little bitch. I don’t tolerate sluts in my household and she was one of the worst, always strutting about in those tight red legging of hers. Always giggling and stroking her thin ears and pronounced cheek bones around whenever a man was within earshot – let’s see what a month of barn duty with the reindeers does for her complexion. Dasher’s digestive system goes to hell if he isn’t given his medication in time.
This evening I have to make sure that Santa’s costume is kept warm on the radiator before he goes out. I swear he never listens to me and one day he will catch the death of cold if I am not there to make sure he is wrapped up tight. One year he went out with odd socks on! Can you imagine it he looked a right state. Good job that it was in the days before iPhones and Androids so there were no snotty little brats to take pictures of him. I tell you, it is divorce time if some clever dick catches him looking like a scruff and makes a George Bush video of an Iraqi throwing shoes at him.
I used to wait up for hubby each night, worried sick about what might happen to him as he flies over enemy territory such as Russia, Iran, and the South Pole. I tell you, those penguins down in Antarctica hate him for some reason and I don’t care how cute they look on TV. David Attenborough, typical man, thinks he knows it all on those BBC nature documentaries but the moment his back is turned, those waddling birds go back to plotting dastardly deeds against us.
He better not go anywhere near that Easter Bunny; I’ve seen the way she looks at him. Sometimes, I just wish he would crash into a wall and leave me in peace.
What is it about this time of year? Normally people hate getting up on ladders to decorate the exterior of their houses. The very idea of pebble-dashing their semi-detached home themselves fills them with dread. What if a stray stone scratches their Volvo? What if a tiny pebble pings off into their pond and gets swallowed by the salmon? What if a woodpecker comes along and thinks they are ants? No, they would much rather pay a scruffy man wearing a Chelsea football top to come and do it for them. I hesitate to use the word ‘professional’ in this case as there is nothing professional about either being scruffy or being a Chelsea supporter, two attributes that pretty much go hand in hand anyway.
However, come Christmas time and everything changes. It’s as if something happens within them the moment the Christmas crackers start appearing in the supermarkets towards the end of October. The pressure slowly builds up and up until they can stand it no longer and before you know it they are rooting around in the garden shed looking for the ladder that hasn’t been used for almost a year. The husband leans it up against the front of the house and starts climbing. Everything is old, rusty, and creaking and that’s just the state of his knees, the ladder itself is in an even worse state.
This proud man, who would normally scoff at the idea of putting up bunting or curtains at any other time, risks life and limb just to string a few flashing lights across his drive. His eyes are brimming with tears of desperation. He looks like a heroin addict trying to get his fix yet it’s the adrenaline that keeps him going. Come mid January, when he takes the lights back down, he won’t have anything like that – it will be up to his baying wife to bully him into taking down the God awful mess.
The family down my road have taken this to the extreme with each window adorned with an extensive array of lights. The guttering is draped in multi-coloured bulbs of flashing nonsense. There is a three-foot Santa hanging down from the roof. There are glowing inflatable snowmen littering the front porch. By day, it looks like Fungus the Bogeyman has sneezed on the house. By night, it looks like a Redlight Zone for the cast of Toy Story.
I hope they get burgled.