Voy Por Ustedes

The temperatures have started to drop and jack frost has been nipping at my spuds, so today it was time to unhook the winter coats. I've always said there's only one thing in life sweeter than a mars bar with one end dipped in sugar and the other end dipped in the pink fleshy sex of a loose housewife, and that's finding money. As I stuffed my hands in my winter jacket pocket this afternoon my hand felt the silky texture of a £10 note which had nestled in their for the past eight months and I saw that it was good.

No wait... finding a tenner isn't sweeter than the mars bar thing, I meant it the other way round. It is good though and it paid for my lunch with a bit to spare. I had a McDonalds' sammich and coincidentally, a Mars bar; the dude at the drive-through window asked if I wanted any dips, I laughed hysterically and shouted COR, DO I EVER!!. He was close to calling his supervisor or the police as I roared off laughing. Bless him, he had no idea what delicious images were projected on the walls of my filthy mind.

Yes, so erm...anyway, I digress. Finding money I felt was a good omen with a game at the Fox on the cards this evening and so it proved to be as I ploughed through the field with relentless aggression. Grown men begged for mercy, and the tournament was at mine. I then took a wrong turn and shitcunted most of my chips away unnecessarily and ended up having to settle for third place. One hundred of our English monies and a bunch of points, but really, to quote Napoleon at the battle of Trafalgar, the victory should have been mine. Or theee victorwee shoot av been marne.

Another final table and what not, but really consistency is for people with sensible trousers and a side parting. The kind of people who always have a pen and don't ever fuck their wives. I want to win god damn it! I want to wear silly trousers and have two superbly defined side partings. I don't have a wife, but by the grace of god I'd fuck her on the hour every hour if I did; except for if she got fat obviously.

Oscar Wilde may have been a thundering whoopsie and anyone born in Dublin who dies in Paris ought to have their own section of hell waiting for them, fenced off and warmed up, but I like him, I admire his wit and philosophising and I shall venture to Walsall this weekend for the English APAT championship game, with his loathing of consistency in mind.

One must take ones chances in life. Whoever sets the agenda controls the outcome of the debate. Quite right, Noam. This of course, assumes I do get a seat. Elsewise I'll just tackle the tricky looking 1000 piece jigsaw I saw today propped up in the window of the spastics and christians charity shop in town. Woooo!