Oh, FFS

Tits and Cookies ... and those fucking God Botherers. Sometimes Cookies and God-bothering all mixed up together. But this afternoon, mostly Nottingham Tits.

Big fat ones too, and not all of them perkily Silicone enhanced. In fact some of them heading south at a great rate of Knots. So much so they'll soon be long enough to have knots tied in them, or be tied together, or flicked artistically over opposing shoulders. Anything would be better than having them flopping about like that, dear.

Where was I. Oh this nonsense. And I had a bit of a clear out of the Sympatico, cos some of that was too NICE. No more Next Blog-ing for me for a while.

I'm in a bad mood because the Age is now carrying more details about what was said about whom and it is all too sadly predicable. I would have gambled the house on it being Sex or Drugs or that other thing, but more probably Sex or Drugs given that it involves un-evolved Aussie Rules types. And the worst of it is that the story carries the point that a fully paid up member of Howard's Mini-Me Army is slating the sport's drugs policy and ...

The Law of Big Numbers says this had to happen some time and it has. This is historic. I agreed with the fuck-faced little weasel. No, I've not seen his photo, but he's one of Little Johnnie's Minions so he has to be that attractive, if only on the inside.

Well (Big Sigh, Bigger Breath) I agreed with him. The story should have come with a health warning. It will take me years to recover from this. Bastards. On the bright side I now have another reason to loath the little fucker.