Fuck off last minute stuff
I hate when things happen at the last minute to deny me a great achievement.
Like earlier this evening I was in the back garden doing keepy-ups with a football. I was 4 away from breaking my all time record, which is a number so high that it wouldn’t fit on this blog, when Bastardface decided he was bored of lying there watching me dink the ball from left foot to right foot to head to thigh to hell to back of neck and so on.
He leapt up and nicked the ball from me and went “Nrrggrrrrr, rrrrrr, arararararararar” across the garden before nudging the ball under the shed.
I love my dog but he’s a right cunt sometimes.
I remember another time when I was driving down Aungiers Street and I saw Brendan Grace crossing the road.
‘Hurrah! My chance has come at last’, I thought, but no. The fat fucker looked back and realised he’d dropped something on the pavement and went back and got it thus avoiding the front of my car. Tarnation.
Not all people hate last minute stuff. Take my chum Lucky Luciano for example. Take some quotes from him as we watched the Italy v Germany World Cup semi-final in Ron’s last night.
“Grosso? His a name a mean ‘fatty’ in Italian. Is a big a fatty. Do a something you fatty shit.”
“Del Piero, you a make a me sick. Miss a the goals in 2000 against a the France. Vafanculo, Alex!”
Italy score two goals in the last minute of extra-time to put them in the semi-final.
“Bravo, Grosso! Bravo, del Piero. Optimo! I a love you a you both.”
Some people just like last minute things. Sometimes.
