It’s 5 June, 2009. We got hideously pissed last night and spent a fucking fortune, which we completely didn’t need to cunting do. Plus, half the government’s resigned and been replaced by Sir Alan fucking Sugar for some reason. Yes, the man who gave us the Amstrad Emailer is now going to be helping run the country. Fuck a stolen duck.
The only thing for it is to turn back to the juice. Go forth and drink, you marvellous people! Drink until your poo comes out smelling like sick, and you feel like you have an arm instead of a head! Drink until you wake up in a ditch wearing a policeman’s helmet and clutching the front half of a piglet, wearing a ladies’ bra and with your foot wedged in a trombone! Drink until your mum phones you up and you accidentally answer it and you feel bad because she raised you and you’re incredibly pissed and you’re really sorry because you love her but you can’t really talk without being a bit sick and you need to go for a lie down. We love you. WACCA WACCA CHING WACCA WACCA BONG.
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