Comments on: rasslez

By: piqued

piqued — Tue, 13 May 2008 09:48:06 +0000

John, it’s not, I’ve had more yeah. Many more

By: John Q Wagonwheel

John Q Wagonwheel — Mon, 12 May 2008 16:41:41 +0000

Really? Link me.

By: Napoleon

Napoleon — Mon, 12 May 2008 16:39:52 +0000

You’ve clearly not been paying attention, Wagonwheel. The Nigella udders debate went on for ever, if memory serves.

By: John Q Wagonwheel

John Q Wagonwheel — Mon, 12 May 2008 16:36:53 +0000

Incidentally, this has to be the most comments on a single post here ever.

By: John Q Wagonwheel

John Q Wagonwheel — Mon, 12 May 2008 16:35:18 +0000

What, like Piqued pushing something up his arse?

By: Napoleon

Napoleon — Mon, 12 May 2008 16:33:35 +0000

There’s always something to spoil a beautiful moment.

By: John Q Wagonwheel

John Q Wagonwheel — Mon, 12 May 2008 16:30:49 +0000

EXCELLENT! Five minutes’ walk away. I’ll be the one in the black overcoat taking pictures and sweating from the heat of wearing impractical clothing in summer.

By: Napoleon

Napoleon — Mon, 12 May 2008 16:17:20 +0000

Friday … don’t tell the wife.

By: piqued

piqued — Mon, 12 May 2008 16:01:05 +0000

Please

Hang on, just writing all this down…

What day?

By: Napoleon

Napoleon — Mon, 12 May 2008 15:51:12 +0000

4:32. We can go back to yours.

By: piqued

piqued — Mon, 12 May 2008 15:48:51 +0000

Sure, what time?

By: Napoleon

Napoleon — Mon, 12 May 2008 15:46:39 +0000

My dreadful dialect? And what would that be? You’ve heard me, have you? Oh, no you haven’t! Again, you’ve just assumed something. Well done.

As for starving down there? Well I didn’t do the last time I lived in the South, so I reckon I’ll be alright. I know you Londoners are a bit thick, so I’ll just speak clearly and slowly … as if I’m conversing with a brain-damaged child.

Oh, and I’ll be arriving at St. Pancras, by the way. Can you pick me up?

By: piqued

piqued — Mon, 12 May 2008 15:25:48 +0000

By the way, you are aware that on account of no one being able to understand your dreadful dialect you’ll die of starvation a week after arriving at Euston, in Euston.

You are aware of this I hope…

Are you? I hope you are aware, erm, me black puddin’

By: Napoleon

Napoleon — Mon, 12 May 2008 15:13:31 +0000

Loads. And my missus earns loads too. Do they do special gold houses down there? I want to live in a gold house when I’m in London – because I can.

By: piqued

piqued — Mon, 12 May 2008 15:01:34 +0000

(how much do u ern?)

By: piqued

piqued — Mon, 12 May 2008 15:01:17 +0000

…now whose making assumptions for I DO know HOW much you earn, I know, I FUCKING KNOW, YOU AND YOUR MISSUS, EAT THAT! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHA

By: Napoleon

Napoleon — Mon, 12 May 2008 14:37:28 +0000

How do you know what I can afford? Eh? Do you know how much I earn? Erm, no. Do you know how much my other half earns? Oh! No you don’t! You’re making assumptions based, as usual, on fuck-all.

As it ‘appens, we’re looking at some very nice places down there, thanks very much. Far swankier and in a better location than your hovel. Mind you, unlike you, we can afford it because we don’t waste all our money on overpriced food and vast quantites of booze. I shall laugh at you when I’m down there – laugh as I set fire to another fifty pound note.

By: piqued

piqued — Mon, 12 May 2008 14:21:23 +0000

You can afford to live in a palace can you?

When are you coming to London Dickhead Whittington?

*nasty snigger*

You won’t be able to afford the tarp for that skip outside Stratford dump

By: Napoleon

Napoleon — Mon, 12 May 2008 14:07:49 +0000

Fuck you, you drunken buffoon. Unlike you, I can afford to live in a palace – and I do, in a palace, that’s where I live. And anyway, the prize for a full house was £100 – a sum not to be laughed at, especially not by debt-riddled bankrupts such as yourself. I’ll laugh – LAUGH – when you’re in the gutter. Then I’ll break your legs. That’s YOUR legs. Yours.

And I didn’t call ‘Bingo!’, nor did I shit myself. Some old woman won the £100, and there was shit everywhere.

By: piqued

piqued — Mon, 12 May 2008 14:02:45 +0000

I can see you playing Bingo, the expression of muted delight as you hobble back home to your fetid bedsit with a £3.99 carriage clock grasped in your liver spotted paw.

Of course you’ll have had an ‘accident’ when you called ‘Bingo’ you disgusting lump of gristle.