Operation Don’tbeaf******miserable****

Yesterday I was a miserable bastard.

I don’t being a miserable bastard.

So I initiated Operation Don’tbeafuckingmiserablecunt.

First up was a shopping spree:

Then a quiet beer:

Then I treat my tastebuds to some absolute beauty:

Then I wrote to Happy Socks to tell them that I wasn’t happy:

Am I any less miserable?  A bit.  But then I realised…whoa!

Finally, I promised you some tits.  As I am still not totally un-miserable, I enclose just one nipple:

Oh, you were expecting a sexy lady, weren’t you?

ps It isn’t me.  I’m not that fat.

But tonight I have beers with old colleagues, tomorrow my dearest Italian friend is making me a meat feast pizza, Saturday I have leaving drinks for a good friend, followed by a roast on Sunday and meeting a Twitter buddy in the process.

And next weekend, each day is with one of my very favourite immigrants, plus I have booked two days holiday for next week (only because it will be too hot in the office – 35’C is possible outside) and it is just two weeks until I switch my fucking computer off and go snort loads of crack off the backside of the fattest gay Guardia Civil bloke I can find.

Yes.  Ibiza.

It was worth reading all of my utter drivel, wasn’t it?

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