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He used to hangout with the Gallaghers. What more reason do you need?
It was a beautiful stagnant morning. I looked out of my window to see the postman shitting in a burnt out tyre just outside my door. He gave me the v’s when he caught me looking and this experience really set me up for the day. I knew I was bulletproof and nothing could soil my sunny disposition. I reached into the value bin bags ,where I keep all my best clothes, for my favourite tracksuit and striped t-shirt ensemble that enhanced my gunt to perfection. Acres if gunt goodness protruded below my waistand. I admired my reflection and fought the urge to knock one out, shedders, that’s how hot I was. I reached for my faux leatherette bomber jacket and pulled my hair into a scalp crucifying ponytail. I was just about to leave the house to have a look at the burnt out tyre that the postie had crapped in, when Stefan Dennis starts walking down my estate. He was all neckerchieved up and his slashed jeans showed an abundance of hairy leg. He says “G’day” to me and I pretended to pick the scabs off my knuckles. He persists, the mealy mouthed fool that he is. “I said G’day” he ventured. “Oh I hear you” I obstreporously replied ” but I thought I told you you’re not allowed to come near me as decreed by the papal bull issued in 1704. You tried to invade France remember? You admired their national preponderance of wearing neckerchiefs and their backpack wearing sensibilties. You wanted to sexually posess them as a nation, you sick fuck”. “Yes” Dennis blurted excitedly, “but I heard that there’s a great burnt out tyre to shit in outside your gaff and I couldn’t fight the urge any longer”. His eyes were writhing in his head and I noticed a distinct v shaped sweat stain on his t-shirt. Depsite the terrible atrocities Dennis had commited in France, such as installing discrete tombolas in every home and making the French sing “Don’t it make you feel good” every time they washed their hands (even after a wee!) there was no denying that preventing Dennis from seeing the burnt out tyre was barbaric and a punishment far weightier than his French atrocities. “There it is” I sighed, pointing at the burnt out tyre fatalisitically. “Knock yourself out” I turned away as Dennis lowered his trousers. I let him have his moment.