Cats, Canaries & Nothing in Particular

Today I saw a cat at Canary Wharf. It was the single most mind-boggling thing I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen a grown, fat, bearded man fuck himself with a strap-on whilst crying because a cunt with a ‘k’ called him a cunt with a ‘c’.

What could it have possibly been doing in Canary Wharf? What would a cat be doing there? Buying shares? Buying falafel? Where did it get all it’s money from? Where did it get any money from, let alone enough to go gallivanting around Canary Wharf? I work there and can’t even afford to Gallivant there.

That’s right. I work now. and I’m back in London. It’s amazing. Being back in Wales was really starting to piss me off. It’s hard living in a country that doesn’t have gas cookers or the colour purple. You don’t realise how much the little things count. The coalition government have recently donated one of Manchester’s old VHS players to us though, so the future for Wales is starting to look a bit brighter. We’re also allowed music and sweeties but only twice a week and we have to wait a fortnight for our fist VHS cassette to arrive. I think they’ve ordered us The Matrix: Reloaded. Whoever complains about this government just don’t know what they’re talking about. Hopefully after the next election this country will be 100% Tory.

Joke! Hopefully they’ll order Wales a few more VHS cassettes (Three Men & a Baby, hint hint) then they can all suck a big dick and die the death of a wild dog; wet, cold and alone in the woods with nothing but regrets of having never felt the warmth of real, human love.

What was this suppose to be about? I’ve forgotten. I’ll be back in a bit.


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