Tuesday, 30 May 2006
Another fun-filled half hour with Britain's finest madcap Poet.
Shitty weather. Not fit for bloody animals. More strikes. Don't know why we bother. And I ripped my trouser leg with a bicycle clip in that stupid bloody churchyard. Bloody pissflaps to it all.
Came home to find that bloody Tara Fitzgerald sprawled out on the bed in her naughty knickers again.
After a shag, as per. Bloody women. Oh, it's alright at the time. But then there's the bit after it - that's what I can't stand. The humiliation. The sense of shame. The tawdriness. The vague feeling that one has been slightly soiled as hopeful expectations are dashed on the cruel rocks of bitter experience. Still, if she will force me to wear her bloody negligee while I'm on the job, what does she expect?
Finally got rid of her with a promise to dedicate my next slender volume to her. "To Tara - thanks for the good pokeing. You went like the clapers - P.L.", she dictates. She might be a wizard in the sack but she can't spell for bloody toffee. Eventually I get to sit down with a nice cup of Rosie only for the bloody racket to start up next door. San-bloody-tana - 'Samba pa ti'! Bloody foreigners. Why can't they play a nice bit of trad. for a change??
Sod the lot of yer!
Love on y'all,
© 2006 Swipe Enterprises