Tag Archives: Lesbian three-way fuck-orgy

Surprise, Surprise, My Life is Shit Again or; Why I can’t Join ISIS.


Working in Berlin is a funny one, eh? It turns out the only reason employers give you a job is so they can fuck you over in the shittest possible way as soon as you think you’re comfortable. I don’t mind losing a job, as long as it’s for a decent reason. Well, to be fair I didn’t lose this job. I quit. But I quit because my hours were cut from full-time to 4 a week because the person I replaced decided they didn’t like their new job and wanted to come back. The fucking prick. So what do I do now? I’m poor and jobless again. Oh! And homeless, because I can’t afford to move into my new flat today anymore.

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Drunk Bums and U-bahns or; Why I’m the Role Model You Didn’t Know Your Children Needed.


So I did this thing the other day I’ve been putting off doing for a long, long time but it seems to be the norm for comics in Berlin so I’ve bitten the bullet and done it. I’ve made myself a Facebook ‘like’ page. I’m not going to lie to you, but it isn’t a good feeling. I have 1,549 ‘friends’ but it turns out only 126 of them actually like me. How sad it is to learn. I knew not all those 1,549 people were actually my friends, but I thought they at least kinda liked me. Maybe they just barely tolerate me. Facebook should let you make a ‘barely tolerate’ page. They’re missing a gap in the market there.

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Tomatoes, Tea & The Most Disgusting Thing I’ve Done Since Saturday.


First of all I’d like to find out if anyone else knows what the fuck is wrong with the bakeries in Berlin. Half a slice (that’s right, half a slice. As in a thin semi-circle of tomato) is not enough for a baguette. And, on a similar subject, four inch-thick cuts of cucumber (four slices at an inch each, not one slice at four inches. That would be thicker than the baguette, you fool) is far too much to be in the same baguette. It’s just not fucking cricket. I want the vitamins in the tomato. I’m ill (physically ill not Beastie Boys ill) and I’m trying to be responsible about it but staying in bed and eating healthy things but sometimes I feel like the bakery by my house just want’s me to die from a fibre and cucumber overdose. And while we’re at it, sort your fucking cheese out. What you sell isn’t cheese, Germany. It’s just thin slices of stiff milk. Also your crisps suck and paprika isn’t a proper flavour and it’s called a bell pepper not a paprika.

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Ich Bin Ein Berliner, Self-Harming & Bringing Rap Back.


Oh, hello! How are you all? It’s been a while since anything happened in The “Wonderful” World of (Spencer) Miles Lloyd, hasn’t it? I bet you were hoping I had died, weren’t you? Well guess what! Fuck you! I didn’t die and I’ll never die. I cut some of my thumb off, though. Nearly bled to death. Check it!

Silly me.

This was after just 3 hours of consistent bleeding!

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Where I’ve Been, How I’ve Been and Why I am.


Well this is something I haven’t done for a while, eh? I’ve been busy though. I was working full-time selling wine and it kind of sucks the life and creativity from you. Not like when I use to spend all my time drinking wine. Those were the days. You might be pleased to know I don’t work anymore so I can get back in the swing with this gibberish I spew. I’ve also been planning out my life. Trying to make it less shitty.

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The Funny Thing About Terrorist Attacks or; Why I decided I Didn’t Want to Be God Anymore


So Muslims don’t like satire much, do they? I can see why though. It took me a while to get into it. I wasn’t a fan of either Have I Got News For You  or  Private Eye until I was well into my teens. Still though. When I didn’t like it I never shot anything up. Maybe because I never owned a gun, maybe because I’m not a fucking nutter. Who knows?! God. God knows. That’s who.

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Let Me Help You Help Yourself With Me, Miles Lloyd


A self-help book, by me, Miles Lloyd.

Words. What are words, anyway? They are just bits of letters really. Bits of letters all joined up to make a word. But some words aren’t words. Like nine. Nine is not a word. Nine is a number. Like 4 or 8. Or 48? No! 48 is not a number. 48 is not a word. 48 is a very naughty boy. 48 stole milk off of a woman and accidentally knocked a child of his bike whilst fleeing on foot. He should have fled by car. Not only is 48 naughty, but 48 is an idiot, too. Whenever you commit a crime, you must always get away in a car. It’s quicker and if you do happen to hit anyone, they were potential witnesses anyway, so you are better of for having killed them.

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