» I don't understand the attraction

Fucking X Factor and all the twunts who keep putting it on their Fuckbook status
I don't give a flying monkfuck who these fucking twins are, get a fucking life and USE THE REMOTE CONTROL TO SWITCH OVER. You c*unts. Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. Bastard sons of goatwhores.

*breathes*
(Sun 18th Oct 2009, 22:38, More)

» God

More Witnesses
The Jehovahs went a-knocking on the door of one of mine and Mr Twaddle's good friends, one bright and sunny Sunday morning. Unfortunately, it took quite some time for our mate to answer the door, as he had partaken a sizeable amount of jolly water the previous evening and was renowned for rising from his pit when the rest of us were about to hit the sack. Anyway, finally he staggered to the front door and opened it to the happy, smiling faces of Mr and Mrs Witness.

"Yes?" enquired our still pissed pal.
"Good morning sir, would you like to read our leaflet today?"
"Would this have anything to do with God, perchance?"
"Why yes!" beamed the chirpy Mr Witness
"Ah, the God who knows everything about us, and the world around us," said chum, struggling to suppress a large belch.
"Yes, that's the God, if you put it like that," replied Mrs Witness, with a self satisfied smirk.
"Well, he DIDN'T fucking well "know" that I was still asleep, did he?"

Belch? Yes, and absolutely no apologies for length and quality.
(Sat 21st Mar 2009, 21:11, More)

» Public Sex

Again, early 1990s...
Before I met Mr Twaddle, I was a horny young minx who was indulging in a bit of extra marital knee trembling with a very horny mechanic. At every available opportunity, in any available place. Including my place of work - a small, visual entertainment rental place with an even smaller back office. He came in one evening, a bit of dirty talk and one full on snog over the counter later and we were at it like the hammer and tongs that everyone talks about, in the tiny back office. With the door open. If you were a member coming in to hire or return a movie that night, you were most likely served by a manically smiling Ms Twaddle, who was commando, and quite possibly bra-less. And also mid shag. Well, the "customer comes first" was a bit of a farce that night.

What a fucking turn on!
(Fri 24th Apr 2009, 21:08, More)

» Pet Peeves

Oh now you've got me started...
What pisses me off? Got all year? Rub your eyes and pull up a comfy beanbag.

You chavvy munters who wear those fecking huge hoops in your ears. They do not look nice, they look like something you'd rest your ankles in while shagging. Urrgh.

No, I do not want to listen to your horrible shouty gangster/thrash/whatever combination of themes is in fashion this week, through your tinny speakered little chav phone. Twots.

Oi, you little bastards who think it's funny to ride your scabby little mopeds three abreast up and down my road all day - you wouldn't think it funny if one of you was knocked off by the speeding chavscumsuckers who use the road as a practice run for Silverstone, now would you? Besides, it disturbs Mr Twaddle (who is already disturbed...we won't dwell on that)


Old people who congratulate me on having such a beautiful little girl. I do have a beautiful girl, she is 21, and if you bothered putting the right fecking glasses on, you would see that the beaming cherub of which you have such a high opinion, you would see that he is a little boy! Who would quite rightly kick you in the chuff if I trained him properly.


The fucking job centre. For sending me on New Deal courses where all we do is exchange filth, visit B3ta and sleep. Not very inspiring. Leave me alone so that I can find my own job ie, one that pays me more than the price of a tin of beans per week. You bastards.

The Odeon cinema in my town who refuse to show Oscar winning films because "they're not family friendly". Fair enough, if they have a 15 or an 18 rating. But why are you not showing "Twenty One"? Because you're twunts, that's why, who know bastard all about anything.

The bastard child who scratched my son's face the other week. And his bastard mum who didn't even bother coming over to apologise or even see if the whimpering toddler (mine) was ok. No. She just picked up her obnoxious little brat and kissed him better! Hope he grows up to be a Tory minister with a fetish problem.


I love everybody. No really.......
(Fri 2nd May 2008, 22:28, More)

» I'm your biggest Fan

Mary Whitehouse Experience on tour early 1990s
Let the record state that Rob Newman was a shy, retiring lovely young chappy. And he was more than happy to chat complete bollocks with the stoned, young Ms Twaddle and her equally mentally challenged mate when they "accidentally" met at the stage door. Which explains why I salute Mr Robert of Newman and call David Baddiel a twat. Because he was, and still is.
(Tue 21st Apr 2009, 21:38, More)