Finally finished counting all the bloody socks, boxer shorts, handkerchiefs and fucking longjohns. Took a bit longer this year due to extended periods of 'eye of the needle' anal aerobics. Must have been something that I ate although solid food hasn't been too high on the agenda in the last 2 days. As per usual my Christmas Day and Boxing Day fayre mainly consisted of fine wines, twiglets, champagne and a selection of single malts.
Ahh yes, I can see the problem there, too many fucking twiglets.
Woke up this morning, still wearing my safety gear, thinking "thank fuck that those 2 days are over".
This was shortly followed by a sudden sense of panic.
Had the Monkey been?
Bollocks!
I had a pounding headache so things didn't seem too promising.
Then I checked the mouth. Oh dear the signs were there alright.
I ran downstairs to check the bottles. All empty.
The wallet? Devoid of all cash.
"Everything ok? Are you alright?" said Pigsy, in a 'you look rough as fuck' kind of way.
"That bastard Monkey must have crept in during the night", I replied ruefully.
"Oh I see" she said, trying and failing to disguise that 'serves you right' grin that she has in her armoury. "Over imbibed again have you?"
I couldn't answer. I hate that fucking Monkey.
Whilst I was slumbering he must have removed my safety helmet and clouted my head with a mallet. Then he must have lifted my safety goggles and rubbed bogies into my eyes, shortly followed by an urge to deficate into my open mouth. As if that wasn't enough he must have tip toed down the stairs and emptied all my beloved bottles of joy into the sink. Finally the bastard must have removed all the cash from my wallet.
"Fire up the perculator Pigsy!"
"Expresso No.5?" she asked knowingly.
"Yes please"
Almost forgot to mention the Boxing Day Hunt that visited the manicured lawns at Twat Towers.
Unfortunately my blood pressure won't allow me to discuss this subject in depth. All I can say is 'Hunts'. What does that rhyme with?
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