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Regular updates of sarcastic and irreverent nonsense.
Cowabunga dudes! It’s Piersy Morgers here and I’ve decided to tell you all about moi. I’m a big fan of cats and have an entire shed dedicated to them and their mysterious ways, one that I built myself using a combination of blood, tears, and self-satisfied smuggery. I decided to name the shed Sheba and appoint myself as its queen, which of course makes me The Queen of Sheba. I like to wear a robe and fill the pockets with kittens so I can listen to them mewling in honour of their gracious kingy-queen and I even have authentic photographs to show as proof if you don’t believe me.
I also like holidays and my favouritest holiday was when I popped over to Iraq back in 2004. I got kidnapped by a gang of Iraqi criminals who threatened to kill me unless I gave them lots of money. When I told them I was a celebrity they soon changed their tune and it wasn’t long before they were begging me all day and night for my autograph. When I was rescued by some British soldiers their translator informed me that my captors thought that I was the gay wimpy one from Four Weddings and a Funeral, but it still counts, right? Celebrity by proxy is still celebritiness and yes, I have 100% authentic photographs that I can show you as proof.
Some time last year I bought myself an owl and named it Twitter. I could tell right away that I was doing well with Twitter as it kept responding to every ‘twit’ I made. “Twit-twit-to-WOO!” I would say and it would do a twitty right back at me. If I leave Twitter alone for too long I get worried that it has forgotten about me, so I make sure that I unleash a mighty T-bomb at him every now and then. Occasionally he flies around and does lots of little Twit-shits on me, but, well, I kind of like the attention and it gives me a real feeling of legitimacy among all the other Twitter owners out there. But make no mistake, I’m the master of Twitter.
I have authentic photos of all this you know, especially the Iraq stuff. They definitely aren’t fake as I can tell by looking at the pixels and from seeing quite a few Photoshops in my time.
57-year old Gerald Markford told of his “Utmost shame and embarrassment,” when he realised that he had run out of paint whilst marking out a 3-mile stretch of road in Devon. The experienced road-worker, who was first employed by the local authority in 1958, said that he had been thinking about his niece’s Christening that was taking place at the weekend when “I looked down and realised that there weren’t any bleedin’ paint in the roller thing. I’d been walking for 300 yards, overalls and all, with not a drop of goodness coming out of my thinger no matter how hard I pulled and tugged on it.”
The road, which has since been repainted fully, was missing numerous important markings which “Could have caused a terrible accident if one of them wonky knocker-lorries had come busting down the road” like they sometimes does. They might have crashed into something big and spilt all them nice apples all over the place.” This would be particularly shocking as Gerald is “very fond of apples, ‘specially them fresh ones. My dear old Marjorie says that she likes to polish up a big red one until it looks like it’s going to burst its sweet goodness all over her face. Chance would be a fine thing, I says!”
Gerald has promised to make sure that this never happens again by “Taking an extra tin pot with me, a practice that I had abandoned back when Saddam started the Gulf War. He was a terrible bugger he was. Scared me stiff whenever I thought of the things he could be doing to me if I was tied up in his chamber of dirty. Marjorie would have a fit if she knew about the things that go through my head sometimes.”
Speaking about his fear of being called up by the army and sent out to fight in the Iraqi desert, he said “If they captured me all I would ask was that they let me keep my overalls on. They are special to me, just you ask my Marjorie!”
“I got years of secrets hiding in the folds of them things.”