What's wrong with a push down bra and push up knickers?

We put rum in our faces and beer and finally white wine. We all felt like the shite in the morning. Except Monica who felt like the shite in the afternoon. Rhysaurus actually went and did something in the morning, I just felt a bit gloomy then wasted the rest of the day in the living room. Rock and roll.

To go with the hangover and the memory of not being able to play cards because I couldn’t keep a third of the whole pack in my hand I discovered that last week, when withdrawing money from the back, at the till rather than from the cash machine, they had given me £40 less than I asked for!! Of course I didn’t count it, I’m a fuckwit. So now I will spend a futile few minutes in Barclays tomorrow for them to be able to tell me there is nothing they can do and it is entirely my own fault. Cheers.

But hell, who cares? It’s only money, money that buys food! I shall have to go busking, maybe even dust off the old safe breaking kit and get back to my first and favourite occupation: safe cracker extraordinary. You know the fellow in the black and white films who the gangsters get to do the fiddly stuff with the vault? That wasn’t me, because they are always weedy rat like fellows who are terrified of something. Ham, or maybe shelving, I don’t know, I always fall asleep in films that concern crime. I was more of a debonair sort of hood; imagine the Fonz wearing a stethoscope and you’ll just about be there.

I’d do Barclays first, only for about £40 though. OK £50, for wear and tear and labour. Of course I might be doing them an injustice and they will say “of course Mr Ross, how dreadful it must have been for you to discover you had not been given the correct amount. I shall bring you the head of the cashier who served you straight away.“ And I’ll get a severed head presented to me along with a cheque for £40, which they will have stapled to her forehead to ward off the spirits of the unhappy dead. I can use the head as a paperweight I suppose, or to practice my putting.

We saw a documentary on the infamous bestiality porn film known as “Animal Farm” last night. Apparently it is all Denmark’s fault. And we got to see Germaine Greer’s fuzzy ham pocket and smelly pen holder too. Thank you Channel 4, you big shits.