Stephen I was at the theatre two nights ago. The National ... OUR National theat ... our Royal National Theatre. I saw a play, yes alright it was only a play. Oh brilliant, so now I'm to be judged and whipped and mocked and scorned because it was only a play. Great. Thanks very much indeed. Alright, yes it was only a sod-buggering play. No, MacEnroe wasn't in it, nor Lendl or Noah or any of the big stars. So it wasn't stuffed with top names. Christ, what do you want from me? Hm? Hm? Hm? My God, I go, I at least bloody bother to get off my fat, wobbling, lardy, smelly, huge, festering carpet and actually go to the theatre and suddenly I'm Adolf Eichmann. Well I'm bloody sorry but ... WHY WON'T THIS FRIGGING TOMATO SETTLE BLOODY DOWN!!! (He is having trouble slicing a tomato.) God! What is the earthly use of trying, just for once in your life, to make an honest salad, just trying, without help, without any other motive than love and an honest desire without the CRUDDING ARSING thing falling apart in your bloody hands. God! Anyway, I saw a play there, by Shakespeare as it happens. And I started thinking. Thinking about Shakespeare ... O damn and BLAST this cucumber ... why does it have to be like this ...
Hugh I walked into a shop the other day. Bloody hurt, I can tell you.
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