The Awful Truth

You know, I was going to write a post about how terrible I am to immigrant beavers (they knaw; I get pissed off), but I just haven't got the time nor the inclination.

And I need to let somebody know about how I have this ridiculous affliction whereby every time I look in the mirror or try and fiddle with my hair, I end up biting down on my lower lip. Now would have been a good time to do this, a brilliant time in fact, but I have to bathe, and I have to sleep, and I couldn't be more tired and unblogworthy if I tried.

So I'll do some cutting-and-pasting!

Mr Watski Esq has submitted his acceptance speech on nice ruled and hole-punched A4 paper, the gent, which means I have to type it out. Shit.

"I'd like to thank Tim and the Swampy Awards Committee for bestowing this honour upon me, but the the truth is that I made it up. Yes that's right - I made the whole thing up with the aim of getting a Swampy. You see, I was so determined to get a Swampy that i racked my brains for something to write about, and what do people want to hear about more than the small guy kicking the big guy in the shins? Ask Nicky Campbell."

"So for the last year I have travelled around the world hoping that the travel agents would cock the holiday up for me so I could complain, then feature it in my blog. But alas, no one cocked it up - which ruined it for me, much more than the £20K overdraft did. So I had to make it up. There is no Opodo, there was no holiday and there was definitely no problem with the flights. I am truly sorry."

"Oh hang on. It did happen."

"The bastards."

I can never tell when people are lying. In fact, I don't think he can tell whether he's lying either. Who gives a damn; it's entertaining stuff and that's what matters. Art before fact. What a great motto.

Here's an ace picture of a woman with a gherkin:



And it's my bathtime.

Adieu.