- The worst thing. The absolute worst fucking thing are the fucking tennis matches. Squash, badminton, whatever. A pair of balding, middle-aged cunts - both suspiciously similar in appearance to the author and his smarmy fucking author friend, I might add - battle it out on the court. Sweat dripping, bright white trainers screeching, Evian gulping, witticism brandishing bollocks. If ever there was a more blatant case of lazy writing... You know they have a 'bad sex award' in novels? That's bullshit, however bad it is, at least the sex gives me the occasional twitch in my Calvins. Bad Sport award more like. Cunt comes home from a game cursing his backhand, which, by the way should be superb bearing in mind all the wanking he does, locked away with his trendy laptop in his so-called 'office', and what do you know? Thinly veiled, thinly haired Martin McFuckwit's main character has a problem with his backhand too. It's not writing, it's jizzing onto a keyboard, laughing at the morons buying this shite out of habit. No. Laughing at the morons buying this shite for other morons as birthday presents. Well happy fucking birthday, let me know who wins the cunting match.
- And that's what you wrote on the staff review card?
- Pretty much. Needed four cards in the end 'cos my writing's too big.
- And?
- Stayed there for two days and a morning before a woman complained. She had a necklace featuring a man being tortured, nailed to two planks of wood, and she had the cheek to call me 'sick'.
- Bitch
- Bitch
- Manager?
- Pissed himself, then told me to take it down. He hasn't seen the Richard and Judy bookclub sticker on Mein Kampf yet.
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