As I write this I am sat on a train that hasn’t moved in an hour and 45 minutes.
Apparently some twat’s done something twatty on a bridge and we’re waiting for another twat to check that the previous twat hasn’t completely twatted the whole twatting thing.
The queue at the buffet car is crawling with twats and the twat serving is such a twat I want to twat him in the twat. But as I stand here on the verge of tears staring out the window I find myself thinking that I have always wanted to go on one of those holidays that all the twats go on; you know the sort of thing, Faliraki or Magaluf. There is something about the Neanderthal hoards of inebriated morons that intrigues me. I would like to watch from a safe distance as they defile each other’s infected orifices, all uniformed in their matching t-shirts emblazoned with nicknames across the back, ‘Swallows’, ‘Bangers’, ‘Fuck Pig’ or ‘Twat Badger’, you know the sort of thing. If you ever see the people who print and sell those t-shirts they have the same vacant stare of a 50 year old Vietnamese prostitute. The images of a thousand swig-faced fucktards forever burnt into their retinas.
I’d like to go to one of those meat market clubs promising more axe wounds than a Viking raid. I could don a jonny upon entering and see how many of the willing victims I could mate with before it disintegrated and my penis fell off, smashing into tiny pieces on the ground like a champagne flute full of frozen guts, then ‘Jimmy 3 balls’ and ‘Hairy nips’ would start worshipping me. Yeeeeah, then I’d be the man. Then I’d be the fucking man!
Taken from my column in IDJ mag