Then, just when you expect it least, usually at the most inconvenient time, the fucking thing develops a fault.
Well that's just what happened to the bloody dishwasher tonight!
Ok, it's over 25 years old and so what do I fucking expect but Pigsy has absolutely refused to wash the dishes tonight. Apparently, she is sick and fucking tired of me not paying attention to what she is saying (selective deafness I call it) and as a result she can no longer guarantee to do the washing up on a regular basis until I 'mend my ways'.
Mend my ways! Mend my fucking ways! Try talking to me about something interesting and then I'll fucking listen! Something that doesn't sound like 'blah blah squeal, yatter twitter yatter, blahdee fucking blah', might help!
Me? A male chauvinist and a grumpy old twat?
On a good day I can be quite a pheasant plucker!
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