grate

By piqued

I’ve discovered that we get the decision on the contract next Friday; it’s a bit like knowing the test results for some terminal penis disorder, will it come off or will it stay on? Actually, it’s worse than that, I don’t need my penis, I need money. Man doesn’t live on penis alone, that’s in the bible that is.

In the interim things at work couldn’t be more desperate. It’s quieter than Jill Dando in here, a strange sense of dumb acceptance to the decline in business has settled into the office like some sort of regressive dust, before the day is out all the female staff will be playing with dollies and the blokes will be seeing how high they can wee without getting piss in their fringes, or someone else’s. Perhaps I need that penis after all.

To make things considerably worse IC is going on holiday until fucking September from Monday, whilst I accept with good grace that she deserves it and what have you I’m destined to face August, essentially, the rest of the bastard summer, moaning about it. In fact I’ve started already, I was already cheerlessly winging about it when we were away last weekend, I did a good job of harping on about it last night and when I see her this weekend I fully expect to reduce any conversation to a series of belligerent grunts.

I spent Wednesday evening with the post holiday blues (and pre IC holiday whining) slouched in front of the end of season one of The Wire drinking Claret. Despite my malaise it did a good job of absorbing me into it’s netherworld bosom, with this in mind I feel that a combination of The Wire, wine and lashings of pornography are the only way I’ll survive the rest of the summer.

Yesterday I trundled east to see IC who was looking all fucking lovely having had her haircut and she’s still very tanned from last weekend; this did nothing to assist my mood. She could at least have the decency going away looking all ill and pale. I never should’ve allowed her to go into the sunshine last weekend. Think I might bring a pair of scissors and a dose of herpes with me on Saturday.

Next time you read this crap I’ll be in a foul mood, worse than the bloke in the wheelchair in today’s jolly tune. Have nice weekends, mine is going to be shit. Oh, hurray, the Friday list. Hurray.

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7 Responses to “grate”

  1. Napoleon Says:

    Still, musn’t grumble. I’m down your way (STOP SNIGGERING AT THE BACK, WATKINS!) next week so we can have an argument and maybe even a fight. That’ll take your mind off an ENTIRE MONTH without your missus, no doubt.

  2. piqued Says:

    I’m looking forward to it immensely

    I’ve a gun, by the way

  3. Napoleon Says:

    A gun? Fuck. I thought I’d only need a baseball bat and a set of knuckle-dusters. Buggeration!

    *goes off to the gun shop*

  4. Swineshead Says:

    I hope you’ve downloaded that software, Napoleon. We’re going to need it.

    I’ll bring Scotch Eggs.

  5. John Q Wagonwheel Says:

    Quite the three-way. Quite the three-way. Twice.

  6. Clarry Says:

    Here, explain to me what that list is…

  7. Clarry Says:

    P.S I too am ‘home alone’ as my other half has selfishly gone away for 7 WHOLE weeks on a training course. Bored fucking rigid.

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