Michael Cargill

Regular updates of sarcastic and irreverent nonsense.

Tag Archives: paedophile

The 2012 London Olympic stadium does your horoscopes

Hi there, gang! I tell you I’m sLondon-Olympic-Stadiumo glad that this sports malarkey finally got going as it gives me a chance to stretch my legs. For the past seven years I’ve had all manner of smelly builders climbing all over me sticking their bits in my nooks and crannies. Some of them don’t even wash their hands after going to the loo and the amount of hairy arse-cleavage on show was enough to make me heave.

Pisces, Taurus, Gemini

Oh dear, I’m all nervous now. Stop looking at me like that, you’re making me go all shy. Okay, that Bulgarian female weightlifter has put her clothes back on now – all that hair and testosterone was making me feel ill. Do any of you have tickets? If not, just say yo’’re with the Jamaican bob-sleigh team. There was a documentary about them once they had a riot of a time. I wonder if that mad one has still got his lucky egg? It’s probably best to avoid the Germans though, they’re a bunch of dicks.

Cancer, Leo, Scorpio

Erg, have you been looking around in those awful charity shops again? That dress is hideous. Look, I know it’s been nicknamed the ‘austerity games’, but really. And why is your husband wearing faded green socks with those awful sandals…? Is he trying to look like a German paedophile tourist on purpose? Shoo, shoo, away with you! Tout your tickets for three times their face value and never return here again, not even when I’m nothing more than a forgotten, rotting husk once the Games have finished. Olympic legacy? Olympic leprosy more like.

Capricorn, Aquarius, Libra

Ah, little Sammy! I remember you writing me that letter last year asking if you could bake me a cake. I had a bit of trouble reading your childish scribbles but I got there in the end. So, did you remember the cake? Oh, it’s a mud pie? Well, I guess you have to make do with what you have and your mummy won’t let you use the oven yet. Okay, see that security guard over there? Throw the cake at him! He is always whipping his willy out and going for a piss up against my walls because he can’t be bothered to walk to the gents toilet. Kraut bastard, I bet he has a really fat wife.

Virgo, Sagittarius, Aries

A quick tip for you guys: bring a cardigan as the weather hasn’t been as warm as it should be. Might want to bring some wellies and a brolly as well just in case it rains. Bear in mind that it’s summer, so shorts are ideal if it gets hot. The food is shockingly expensive inside so hide some biscuits in your socks. Oh and the security is a complete shambles so if you’ve got your own explosives sniffer dog, bring him along just in case. And a gun if you have one.

A stag beetle reviews the Australian cricket team

stag beetleG’day, mate! Hehe, I love that Ozzie accent. Let’s slap another shrimp on the barbie! Oh man, I just couldn’t resist it that time. Them Ozzers are just mad. So lively. So loud. So utterly and compellingly racist. I guess that’s what happens when you are stuck down there on a crappy island in the Pacific Ocean with nothing but deadly insects and rubbish sports to keep you entertained. Not that there is anything wrong with insects of course; in fact, if I’m honest I don’t mind cricket too much either. And the whole racism thing – who isn’t just a teensy bit territorial and suspicious of outsiders? I tell you, if a woodlouse snuck into my hole under the stairs and tried to cosy up in my lump of belly-button fluff I would tell him to clear off.

Right then. Ever since Shane Warne quit as Australia’s best bowler so that he could spend more time getting plastic surgery done on his face, the Australian cricket team just ain’t been the same. Where are the characters? What happened to all the fun pranks like setting fire to the team bus and then shagging your own sister in the middle of the road? Back in the day I used to love crawling out to the middle of the field after a game had finished. When they removed the stumps from the ground there was always a nice round hole for me to sleep in. Obviously I had to be on the lookout for owls ‘cos they’re greedy buggers who love to gobble up little bugs for a quick snack, but once I was there I was happy as a Larry on shit. Sometimes the woodlice would ask if they could come in as well but I just told them there was no way they were getting anywhere near my hole. No way hozay, no way.

Anyone remember Merv Hughes? He was a legend back in the 1980s although he couldn’t actually bat for shit; people only liked him because of that crazy moustache of his. It sort of made him look like a sex pest but boy did he look fierce!

I was always paranoid that a bowler would mistake me for a cricket ball and send me flying through the air at Merv. My concern was not so much about having my guts splattered all over the place but because Merv was rubbish. The hairy oaf would probably miss and then I would land slapbang in the middle of his hairy lip – the mere thought of those testosterone-filled tendrils scrabbling around my backside gives me the creeps.

Mind you his scent would be good for warding off woodlice.

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