Humans are apes who have broken their instinctive programming patterns. We can easily override what natural selection has spent several billion years perfecting. We are the product of evolution, environment, nurture, nature and what’s on offer at Morrison’s.
Every now and then our baser instincts get tested to the limit, but by tolerating the stupid and not giving in to anger we make our human qualities better.
To make myself a ‘better’ person I like to test myself. I do this by listening to a short arsed mystic who seems to find it rewarding to stand aloft a sturdy wooden box in the middle of town while bellowing his witchcraft. I believe his book of spells is called the Bible…? My test is to see how long I can resist the urge to shout “Twat”. My current record is 4.8 seconds but I’m confident I can numb myself to his rambling bollocks and get my time to well over five or even six seconds by the end of the year.
“You sir, are you a sinner?” he shouts.
“Yes I am!” shouts a local completely deflating the little gobshite.
Yes he was a sinner, and proud, which is probably why no one was starring at him and thinking ‘freak’. The cards were heavily stacked against a looney with a soap box. First of all as I mentioned he was short, hence the wooden box. Secondly, he was ginger. Jaffa is the dominant gene that proves even nature can get it horribly wrong sometimes. Next up, he was wearing glasses. Finally, he was yelling the word of “our Lord”. Now everyone in this country loves an underdog but the Right Reverend Stumpy Gingafoureyes had crossed the tolerance line. He had one spanner-characteristic (spackeristic) too many. Even though I admire his gun sticking I think he would have had way more success/an audience if he’d shouted out Harry Potter instead.
Thanks to some seriously subtle penning, you might have noticed that I don’t really do religion. I have a Catholic upbringing to thank for this. The only religious saving grace is Hinduism, which acknowledges that the universe oscillates and is several billion years old. You’ve got to doth your cap for working that one out.
Life in junior god squad was dull, I did all the usual: First Holy Communion, First Confession, First Naked Polaroids for the Bishop etc However, this worm turned at the point of Confirmation. When you’re young Confirmation is just a way of getting a middle name and some lame-arsed present to say well done you’re officially a Catholic now. To be confirmed meant extra bashing and no one wanted that. As some of my fellow pupils had already been confirmed the teacher at the time went round one by one and asked us who was being “done” this year. For some reason I was at the back of the classroom and last too be asked. I’ll never forget the look on my class’ face when I instinctively said ‘no, not me’. Without saying a word and in perfect unison the entire un-done class span round and gave me a look of “WE HAD A CHOICE????”. In hindsight I have to thank the reptilian part of my brain. In a fight or flight on-the-spot kinda moment my dino-brian did both. It’s yet more proof that I’m subconsciously awesome. Either way from then on life slowly got easier. I've gone off the lapsed Catholic scale and become a coma'd Catholic.
I'll probably have to spend enternity in hell but I've been to Blackpool so it should be alright.
Wednesday, 3 August 2011
Monday, 11 July 2011
Camping....part two
After leaving a ruin in ruins we headed back to the campsite to rough it in our portable big top. The kettle, DVD, dry clothes and air con were put on in that order. I say air con, it’s more like a mesh window with its own flappy bit of tent material that controls the flow of air. It’s a floppy Velux really. When I opened it the warm damp humid air was instantly exchanged for much cooler damp humid air and some rather coarse language. But this was no time to moan, there would be plenty of time for that later. After all we were in a paper thin grandiose wigwam sheltering from teeming rain and a typhoon in a soaking wet field in the arse end of Devon. Life was good. With grumbling tummies we watched the bears catch salmon from where the car park used to be and our attention turned to food. The grizzlies were eating all the game fish and we were saving the venison for an emergency snack. The scallops in vintage soy sauce, assorted mushrooms and okra in lime cups were ready but the Krug was nowhere near chilled enough.
Only one course was open to us, we’d have to pub it.
We dinned and then dined heartily on burgers, chips, gammon, more chips, chicken nuggets, beans and a few more chips all washed down with several pints of lager and some Fruit Shoots for the wife and I. The more than reasonable prices meant we would have to buy more crisps and chocolate on the way back.
larger lout
Once our bellies were full we ambled, grunted, sighed and burped our way back to the unshapely chalet. Bloody good thing it was mostly downhill. The rain had eased a little and the bears had moved down river to buy ice creams. We reflected on the day in the living area and planned the next days adventure; the zoo. On the promises of lions and tigers the kids bolted and vaulted to bed like Thompson gazelle while the wife and I said prayers to Teflon, the god of waterproofing. Just one more night, that’s all we needed.
The zoo was a mere Howitzer shell away from the campsite so we had enough time to demolish an entire variety pack of cereals. I mixed some Corn Flakes with some Frosties together because I’m crazy and renegade like that. We had arranged to meet Granny and Granddad at the zoo car park at 10am before it became too busy. Meeting inside the zoo was too risky as first thing in the morning Granddad has the appearance of a tweed wearing silver back. Apart from the clothes the only thing that separated him from one of the primate attractions was a vague wiff of mothballs and Marmite.
We arrived at precisely 10am while the relics finally made an appearance at 10:02am. As a penalty for gross time keeping they agreed to pay our entrance fee. We waited patiently in the queue while Granddad filled out the necessary re-mortgage paperwork. One arm and one leg later we were in!
The hours flew by as we starred at empty enclosure after empty enclosure. With a little help from a tower and the Hubble telescope we did see a tiger. Well I say tiger, at that distance it might as well have been a sheep in a costume.
Just a note to all zoos out there: nocturnal animals, why have them if you’re only open during the day? rare fox my arse! it's a few random holes in the ground and you know it.
An escaped monkey
Fortunately this particular zoo had clued up on its typical audiences attention span and placed an adventure playground every two hundred feet.
Colditz with wood bark
As we progressed the adventure playgrounds became ever more like an SAS assault course and there were no end of opportunities for parents and carers alike to have heart attacks while they watched.
By the time we got to the tourist trap at the end the kids were too knackered to bother with fluffy pink elephants or replica rhino turds. Result.
To be continued………
Only one course was open to us, we’d have to pub it.
We dinned and then dined heartily on burgers, chips, gammon, more chips, chicken nuggets, beans and a few more chips all washed down with several pints of lager and some Fruit Shoots for the wife and I. The more than reasonable prices meant we would have to buy more crisps and chocolate on the way back.
larger lout
Once our bellies were full we ambled, grunted, sighed and burped our way back to the unshapely chalet. Bloody good thing it was mostly downhill. The rain had eased a little and the bears had moved down river to buy ice creams. We reflected on the day in the living area and planned the next days adventure; the zoo. On the promises of lions and tigers the kids bolted and vaulted to bed like Thompson gazelle while the wife and I said prayers to Teflon, the god of waterproofing. Just one more night, that’s all we needed.
The zoo was a mere Howitzer shell away from the campsite so we had enough time to demolish an entire variety pack of cereals. I mixed some Corn Flakes with some Frosties together because I’m crazy and renegade like that. We had arranged to meet Granny and Granddad at the zoo car park at 10am before it became too busy. Meeting inside the zoo was too risky as first thing in the morning Granddad has the appearance of a tweed wearing silver back. Apart from the clothes the only thing that separated him from one of the primate attractions was a vague wiff of mothballs and Marmite.
We arrived at precisely 10am while the relics finally made an appearance at 10:02am. As a penalty for gross time keeping they agreed to pay our entrance fee. We waited patiently in the queue while Granddad filled out the necessary re-mortgage paperwork. One arm and one leg later we were in!
The hours flew by as we starred at empty enclosure after empty enclosure. With a little help from a tower and the Hubble telescope we did see a tiger. Well I say tiger, at that distance it might as well have been a sheep in a costume.
Just a note to all zoos out there: nocturnal animals, why have them if you’re only open during the day? rare fox my arse! it's a few random holes in the ground and you know it.
An escaped monkey
Fortunately this particular zoo had clued up on its typical audiences attention span and placed an adventure playground every two hundred feet.
Colditz with wood bark
As we progressed the adventure playgrounds became ever more like an SAS assault course and there were no end of opportunities for parents and carers alike to have heart attacks while they watched.
By the time we got to the tourist trap at the end the kids were too knackered to bother with fluffy pink elephants or replica rhino turds. Result.
To be continued………
Thursday, 30 June 2011
Holiday
I’ve been camping!!
No no, not the kind you’re thinking of. This involved pitching a tent, looking at who had the biggest and things going bump in the night. Despite the weather arsing it down for 72hours straight we still had an awesome time. This was largely due to the fact that our temporary abode was borderline palatial. There aren’t many occasions where you can proclaim how proud you are of your erection without much embarrassment, but this was one of them. Me, the missus and the sprogs slept in the north wing. The carpeted living room, kitchen area and south wing were used as a dumping ground for the wife’s vital essentials.
We had gas powered heating/cooker, electric, TWO tv’s, four beds, four chairs, two tables, and a larder. We were proper slumming it. Drinking water came via two five litre water holders which were filled from a tap about 25metres away. It was like being homeless or something!
(behold, the Ritz)
The only glimmer of luxury were the toilets. You’ve never seen clean like it. Confused men kept wandering out to check they were in the right bog. The potpourri and “soap” were really quite intimidating. The showers, crappers, urinals and sinks were cleaner than a royal wedding. The mirrors were so clean you could see your face in them! Despite my best efforts to draw willys and boobs in the condensation they never lasted more than a day. There was even piped in music.
I’m going to recommend them to the tourist board.
Other than the wc’s the campsite itself was barely acceptable. It only had two heated swimming pools! The crazy golf was nowhere near crazy enough although gaffer taping knives to the windmill and putting piranha in the water hazard did help a little. The shop was very good but their sensible pricing meant they lost massive points on the captive audience front. We had to spend nearly twenty quid on chocolate and crisps before even felt a little bit ripped off. The onsite soft-play was clean as well. None of the balls in the pit smelt of wee or anything! I can’t comment on the tyre swing as I was asked to leave before I could measure the tread depth. I felt this was a tad unfair as I was both “over 3 years old” and clearly “taller than the bunny ears”. I’ve left the exact details with my solicitor. A long time was spent at the outside play area with its wooden fortress and connecting slides, even the kids enjoyed it.
We decided that the rain shouldn’t ruin our camping adventure. We should let it ruin our excursions as well. With the sat-nav route set to “B-roads only” and “popular with caravans” we ventured out. Instinct and flood warnings guided me to a nearby castle. Small boy plus real castle equals a quiet afternoon. The castle in question had been there for six hundred years. I can’t imagine what it had seen and endured over that time but I’m pretty sure it’s biggest test was my son with his stick sword. You could feel the six feet thick stone foundations move as he charged the ramparts and shouted through every arrow slit. Hell have no furry like a three year old fuelled up on Hairbo. The noise he makes at full gusto could split atoms.
(he's smiling because five minutes ago there used to be a roof....job done)
No no, not the kind you’re thinking of. This involved pitching a tent, looking at who had the biggest and things going bump in the night. Despite the weather arsing it down for 72hours straight we still had an awesome time. This was largely due to the fact that our temporary abode was borderline palatial. There aren’t many occasions where you can proclaim how proud you are of your erection without much embarrassment, but this was one of them. Me, the missus and the sprogs slept in the north wing. The carpeted living room, kitchen area and south wing were used as a dumping ground for the wife’s vital essentials.
We had gas powered heating/cooker, electric, TWO tv’s, four beds, four chairs, two tables, and a larder. We were proper slumming it. Drinking water came via two five litre water holders which were filled from a tap about 25metres away. It was like being homeless or something!
(behold, the Ritz)
The only glimmer of luxury were the toilets. You’ve never seen clean like it. Confused men kept wandering out to check they were in the right bog. The potpourri and “soap” were really quite intimidating. The showers, crappers, urinals and sinks were cleaner than a royal wedding. The mirrors were so clean you could see your face in them! Despite my best efforts to draw willys and boobs in the condensation they never lasted more than a day. There was even piped in music.
I’m going to recommend them to the tourist board.
Other than the wc’s the campsite itself was barely acceptable. It only had two heated swimming pools! The crazy golf was nowhere near crazy enough although gaffer taping knives to the windmill and putting piranha in the water hazard did help a little. The shop was very good but their sensible pricing meant they lost massive points on the captive audience front. We had to spend nearly twenty quid on chocolate and crisps before even felt a little bit ripped off. The onsite soft-play was clean as well. None of the balls in the pit smelt of wee or anything! I can’t comment on the tyre swing as I was asked to leave before I could measure the tread depth. I felt this was a tad unfair as I was both “over 3 years old” and clearly “taller than the bunny ears”. I’ve left the exact details with my solicitor. A long time was spent at the outside play area with its wooden fortress and connecting slides, even the kids enjoyed it.
We decided that the rain shouldn’t ruin our camping adventure. We should let it ruin our excursions as well. With the sat-nav route set to “B-roads only” and “popular with caravans” we ventured out. Instinct and flood warnings guided me to a nearby castle. Small boy plus real castle equals a quiet afternoon. The castle in question had been there for six hundred years. I can’t imagine what it had seen and endured over that time but I’m pretty sure it’s biggest test was my son with his stick sword. You could feel the six feet thick stone foundations move as he charged the ramparts and shouted through every arrow slit. Hell have no furry like a three year old fuelled up on Hairbo. The noise he makes at full gusto could split atoms.
(he's smiling because five minutes ago there used to be a roof....job done)
After several hours of charging round like a mentalist he relented and calm was briefly restored while he crashed out on the back seat. His younger sister is much more civilized and decided to do the usual and eat herself to sleep.
To be cont’d….
Wednesday, 8 June 2011
SUMMER, get it while it's hot!!!
The rain is that little bit warmer and I’m down to just five layers of clothing. You know what this means!!!
Summer is officially here. If you’re a bee, wasp, fly or any other winged insect, then you’ll have probably flown through our house recently. Sorry about the state of the place. It’ll be a lot tidier when you reappear stumbling across the carpet in autumn moaning that it’s too cold to fly.
It’s also a time for us cavemen to make fire in a rusted out barbeque and give everyone food poisoning. Thanks to some industrial sized tree pruning I now have an inexhaustible supply of fuel. So much in fact that I’ve had to purchase a hatchet. Surely, it’s one of the all time man-tools of all time? It comes with a lifetime guarantee on all ‘chopper’ jokes. The leather sheath just adds to the man-ness of it all. It has a flat end for battering stuff and a nail puller, but I’m not sure what that bit does.
My little chiminea is now constantly primed and ready to go at the drop of a swan vesta. How can a mini-axe bring so much pleasure? Who cares! Now stand back while I try to cleft this wood and keep my digit count in multiples of five.
Ladies, there’s no point in you trying to rationalise our love of fire. After all we don’t rationalise why you need quite so many shoes, or your love of Glee. Gawd don’t even get me started on Glee. I’ve had to recalibrate the shite-o-meter for that one.
The all time man tool of all time full stop is the knife. Alas though, we’re not allowed a proper one in the house because you girlies will use it as a screwdriver and end up with a free trip to A&E. The sharpest blades in the house are on your Venus razors and you can’t whittle with one of them….I’ve tried. I ended up with a very smooth lollypop stick and not the vicious pointy sabre tooth scarer I was trying to craft.
Summer is short in the UK. Normally it’s two weeks in May and then about five good days spread across the rest of the year. The exception is the south coast, which enjoys endless summer suns. The old and people with a metabolism the speed of a glacier love it down there. However, the prevailing southwesterly wind has meant there is a constant smell of old wee wee and Werthers Originals around Dover. I’d love to blame the French I really would but this one is our fault.The rest of the country enjoys almost continual assorted shades of grey. It’s not always been like this though. Oh know! only a few thousand years ago in Skara Brae (Orkneys), (top of Scotland), (the lumpy bit above Newcastle), (haggis munching kilt wearing wineoland), (yes there), the sea was full of fish that today are only found in much warmer tropical waters. Nowadays those fish have long since vanished, probably down the gullet of the nearest penguin. Go back in time a bit further and you’ll find Birmingham under a mile of ice. Happy days. The UK is obsessed with the weather because we get so flipping much of it. In the two minutes it’s taken to construct this drivel it has rained, blown a gale, been nice and sunny and finally settled on rain again. Last week it was hotter than Miami. Today it’s colder than a vengeful polar bear drowning some kittens for fun. I don’t know whether to wear shorts or skis. I’d cover my arse and wear both but the colours would clash horribly. Maybe if I had a different pair of shoes to match every single item of clothing I own and then sub-divided them into say ‘winter’ and ‘summer’ outfits I wouldn’t be in this mess…..? It would take an organisational genius and a mammoth wardrobe space to figure that one out. Ladies, over to you.
Summer is officially here. If you’re a bee, wasp, fly or any other winged insect, then you’ll have probably flown through our house recently. Sorry about the state of the place. It’ll be a lot tidier when you reappear stumbling across the carpet in autumn moaning that it’s too cold to fly.
It’s also a time for us cavemen to make fire in a rusted out barbeque and give everyone food poisoning. Thanks to some industrial sized tree pruning I now have an inexhaustible supply of fuel. So much in fact that I’ve had to purchase a hatchet. Surely, it’s one of the all time man-tools of all time? It comes with a lifetime guarantee on all ‘chopper’ jokes. The leather sheath just adds to the man-ness of it all. It has a flat end for battering stuff and a nail puller, but I’m not sure what that bit does.
My little chiminea is now constantly primed and ready to go at the drop of a swan vesta. How can a mini-axe bring so much pleasure? Who cares! Now stand back while I try to cleft this wood and keep my digit count in multiples of five.
Ladies, there’s no point in you trying to rationalise our love of fire. After all we don’t rationalise why you need quite so many shoes, or your love of Glee. Gawd don’t even get me started on Glee. I’ve had to recalibrate the shite-o-meter for that one.
The all time man tool of all time full stop is the knife. Alas though, we’re not allowed a proper one in the house because you girlies will use it as a screwdriver and end up with a free trip to A&E. The sharpest blades in the house are on your Venus razors and you can’t whittle with one of them….I’ve tried. I ended up with a very smooth lollypop stick and not the vicious pointy sabre tooth scarer I was trying to craft.
Summer is short in the UK. Normally it’s two weeks in May and then about five good days spread across the rest of the year. The exception is the south coast, which enjoys endless summer suns. The old and people with a metabolism the speed of a glacier love it down there. However, the prevailing southwesterly wind has meant there is a constant smell of old wee wee and Werthers Originals around Dover. I’d love to blame the French I really would but this one is our fault.The rest of the country enjoys almost continual assorted shades of grey. It’s not always been like this though. Oh know! only a few thousand years ago in Skara Brae (Orkneys), (top of Scotland), (the lumpy bit above Newcastle), (haggis munching kilt wearing wineoland), (yes there), the sea was full of fish that today are only found in much warmer tropical waters. Nowadays those fish have long since vanished, probably down the gullet of the nearest penguin. Go back in time a bit further and you’ll find Birmingham under a mile of ice. Happy days. The UK is obsessed with the weather because we get so flipping much of it. In the two minutes it’s taken to construct this drivel it has rained, blown a gale, been nice and sunny and finally settled on rain again. Last week it was hotter than Miami. Today it’s colder than a vengeful polar bear drowning some kittens for fun. I don’t know whether to wear shorts or skis. I’d cover my arse and wear both but the colours would clash horribly. Maybe if I had a different pair of shoes to match every single item of clothing I own and then sub-divided them into say ‘winter’ and ‘summer’ outfits I wouldn’t be in this mess…..? It would take an organisational genius and a mammoth wardrobe space to figure that one out. Ladies, over to you.
Friday, 20 May 2011
Thursday, 19 May 2011
Wednesday, 4 May 2011
The end of terrorism.
Osama Banana Laden was a very naughty boy. The more righteous among you will no doubt be saying that we shouldn’t be celebrating the murder of an individual. I wonder how many of those sanctimonious people breathed a sigh of relief when they heard the news? The killing of human is never nice but how many are quite happy to send thousands of heavily armed soldiers, RAF and Navy overseas with the sole objective of seeking out and killing terrorists before they kill them?
It’s kill or be killed out there. It’s natures way and it works. I doubt if Venus flytraps get a bit mournful when they’re digesting flies and we shouldn't regret either. A few hundred years ago, people had regrets about killing the low down scum of the Earth so what did they do? They put them on boats and sent them to the other side of the planet. Et voila, Australia! Gee thanks for that, well done. Slow handclap anyone?
If you want a perfect lawn expect to kill some weeds.
Would I kill Osalami Bin Liner? Yes I would, mainly because he would have no trouble whatsoever killing me. Did he lay awake at night concerned for the welfare of his victims and their families? I think not. I suspect his major ball ache was coming up with a way to top 9/11. After all he’s just convinced a group of individuals to learn how to fly and then put two passenger airplanes into the Trade Centre Towers on the promise of really kick arse afterlife. Charles Manson look and learn!
There are better ways of getting your point across. You could start a Facebook page and encourage likeminded thinkers to follow. You could dress up as a super hero, scale a monument and then put the pictures on a social networking site like Facebook. You could organize a march and bring it to the attention of a larger audience through something like Facebook for example. You could even write a letter to your MP, they might even be on Facebook. One thing you don’t do is convince nutters to hijack planes and commit suicide. Any pictures taken would be vaporized along with the camera in the explosion resulting in a really boring text only Facebook page.
Nutter don’t think rationally so you can’t expect rational methods to work on them. If you live by the blade then you should expect to die by the blade. If you live by McDonalds then you should expect to die from McDonalds. If you live by the AK47 then you should expect two shots to the head as standard.
There’s no denying that Olama Binge Lacquer was well organized. A little too well organized for my liking. If it hadn’t have been for the appalling dress sense I’d say he was gay. The many wives and kids might have just been a cunning rues to throw you off the CKone scent. Alas though he was not the only coordinated shit in the world. Human rights protestors will tell you of thousands of atrocities happening all over the planet right now. Barbaric crimes are committed against innocent people everyday by sick individuals (some of them puffy) driven by greed and hatred who need to be wiped out like the giant turds they are.
We need the world’s press to bring these sickos to our attention, after all it was them who turned Oklahoma Bean Larger into a symbol of pure hate and the reason for so many wrongs in the world. Journalists had placed him at the very top of a pyramid of evil. What they didn’t realize is that to be at the top he was standing on two peoples shoulders.
Robson and Jerome.
We need Apache gunships over Tyneside RIGHT NOW. There are 140,000 troops in Afghanistan, that’s just enough to circle Newcastle and seal it off. Their middle of the road depraved poisonous melodies are enough to make the Spanish Inquisition look like a bunch of hippies. They’ve been grooming pensioners for years, convincing them to hand over cash in exchange for nefarious covers. The wealth they’ve amassed can only be for some sort of evil too atrocious for mere normals to even contemplate.
Let us nuke the North East before it’s too late!!
It’s kill or be killed out there. It’s natures way and it works. I doubt if Venus flytraps get a bit mournful when they’re digesting flies and we shouldn't regret either. A few hundred years ago, people had regrets about killing the low down scum of the Earth so what did they do? They put them on boats and sent them to the other side of the planet. Et voila, Australia! Gee thanks for that, well done. Slow handclap anyone?
If you want a perfect lawn expect to kill some weeds.
Would I kill Osalami Bin Liner? Yes I would, mainly because he would have no trouble whatsoever killing me. Did he lay awake at night concerned for the welfare of his victims and their families? I think not. I suspect his major ball ache was coming up with a way to top 9/11. After all he’s just convinced a group of individuals to learn how to fly and then put two passenger airplanes into the Trade Centre Towers on the promise of really kick arse afterlife. Charles Manson look and learn!
There are better ways of getting your point across. You could start a Facebook page and encourage likeminded thinkers to follow. You could dress up as a super hero, scale a monument and then put the pictures on a social networking site like Facebook. You could organize a march and bring it to the attention of a larger audience through something like Facebook for example. You could even write a letter to your MP, they might even be on Facebook. One thing you don’t do is convince nutters to hijack planes and commit suicide. Any pictures taken would be vaporized along with the camera in the explosion resulting in a really boring text only Facebook page.
Nutter don’t think rationally so you can’t expect rational methods to work on them. If you live by the blade then you should expect to die by the blade. If you live by McDonalds then you should expect to die from McDonalds. If you live by the AK47 then you should expect two shots to the head as standard.
There’s no denying that Olama Binge Lacquer was well organized. A little too well organized for my liking. If it hadn’t have been for the appalling dress sense I’d say he was gay. The many wives and kids might have just been a cunning rues to throw you off the CKone scent. Alas though he was not the only coordinated shit in the world. Human rights protestors will tell you of thousands of atrocities happening all over the planet right now. Barbaric crimes are committed against innocent people everyday by sick individuals (some of them puffy) driven by greed and hatred who need to be wiped out like the giant turds they are.
We need the world’s press to bring these sickos to our attention, after all it was them who turned Oklahoma Bean Larger into a symbol of pure hate and the reason for so many wrongs in the world. Journalists had placed him at the very top of a pyramid of evil. What they didn’t realize is that to be at the top he was standing on two peoples shoulders.
Robson and Jerome.
We need Apache gunships over Tyneside RIGHT NOW. There are 140,000 troops in Afghanistan, that’s just enough to circle Newcastle and seal it off. Their middle of the road depraved poisonous melodies are enough to make the Spanish Inquisition look like a bunch of hippies. They’ve been grooming pensioners for years, convincing them to hand over cash in exchange for nefarious covers. The wealth they’ve amassed can only be for some sort of evil too atrocious for mere normals to even contemplate.
Let us nuke the North East before it’s too late!!
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