Friday, 5 February 2010


Bonfrancesdelatourdoorjour, my poor fucks. I'm back once again and I'm gonna type your fucking brains out. Woo-hoo!

RIGHT. Nothing has been pissing me off recently, in fact I haven't really had a lot to say at all about anything. Alex won Celeb BB, as I predicted, got hitched to the massive junga'd one, and in a fortnight or so there'll probably be some story bandied about the tabloids that she is out getting pissed and her tits are falling out onto some letchy fucker's face, causing all manner of 'Isn't she appaling,' and 'Oh, I can't believe her,' comments backed up with grainy photos that could quite frankly be a dog on a treadmill eating a cake for all anyone knows, but it'll be enough for people to have her 'villified & pilloried in the stocks of common gossip,' as Tom Stoppard wrote in 'The Real Inspector Hound.' Damn, that is a good play. I was in that play, years ago, and we did a bloody good job of it if we do say so ourselves. Of course, that was when I had long hair. Which is where the nickname 'Axl' comes from of course. Yup, Axl isn't my real name. Believe it or not, my real name is Escargot deMontfort Tubular Psychosis Renegade Smithington-Hyde III. Yeah, here I lie on my bed of slaves, eating chocolate coated raspberries hand picked and prepared by panda bears. Nothing tastes quite as good as senseless exploitation. Oh yes. I wash them down with my Aunt Yenga's breast milk. Aunt Yenga was a tiny lass in her childhood days, but grew to seven foot four in her 20's. She is the only woman I know who can write with both feet. Aunt Yenga once told me 'If it aint broke, don't fucking break it, whatever you do, or I'll fucking cane you, you little shit.' Aunt Yenga used to feed me from the many bottles of homemade wine that she had floating around the place. Many a time would me and Aunt Yenga get blotted on radishes and cabbages and talk about the news and weather. She preferred itv's news coverage, whereas I was more inclined to trust the BBC. A friend of mine once worked for the BBC, fluffing the Blue Peter presenters before they had to do serious items. If they had to whimsical items, then someone else would do the fluffing. My friend you see, specialised in bringing out the worst in a person. I remember I had to stop going out with her after finding that a bottle of wine at a dinner out we were having had been replaced with something altogether less appealing. Anyway, she once invited me to a recording of Blue Peter. Richard Bacon was a lovely chap. Konnie Huq also made me feel more than welcome. She had this strange habit of touching her right knee whenever she knowingly lied.

That's all I have to say right now I'm afraid.

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