Is your name really Ed? Or is it something like Trevor, or Kevin? If that's the case, then why don't people write letters to Trev, or Kev? I've never been able to comprehend that - despite having a loud and rather authoritarian voice. It's one of those things which have dogged me from early childhood, when I inadvertently witnessed the master of the house, performing an act of exquisite strangeness with a gerbil in the warm glow of a roaring log fire. On a furry hearth rug.
So, then, is it Trev or Kev? Own up or be damned man!
My name is Earl - Ed.
I just heard on the local radio today, that a young five year old boy had been assaulted on a bus by a middle aged man. And apparently, the local Old Bill are actively looking for witnesses.
If I may be so bold as to suggest - the local constabulary should concentrate their efforts on finding a five year old gobshite. With a bottle blonde chav of a mama, whose ample girth by far exceeds the capacity of her lycra trousers.
And some bloke who's finally just got pissed off and lost his rag.
I objects to that, I does. Does Herman Boring not realise that children are our future? Show them all the beauty they possess inside. Give them a sense of pride. It's all about self expression. Surely we can't deny the nippers that? That would just be so wrong. I was on the bus the other day when this crusty got on, and he took real offence, when my thirteen year old - Plasmascreen - tried to pull his nose hairs as he sat down on the bus. The miserable old prick. When he protested, I told him in no uncertain terms that old bastards ought to take their responsibilities to society more seriously and get out working and paying their bastard taxes. Irresponsible fuckers. They shouldn't even be on buses at 11am on a Tuesday - they should be grafting. No wonder this country faces a massive social security bill when the old farts don't even have the good grace to face up to their responsibilities. Somebody has to support my twelve kids and their baby mommas.
Have these people got nothing better to do than regale you with their own pathetic views on life? Bloody social security scroungers and ASBO subjects. If you ask me, these wasters would be better employed constructing coastal defences, or working on weapons of mass destruction or something. The bloody chattering classes have always been the same. Clueless, misguided, and reliant on the system to hold their noses above the diahretic waters which threaten to engulf us all. They're all scum! Scum I say! They should be taken out, horse whipped, boiled in oil, stretched out on a rack, put in the stocks, hanged drawn and quartered, and then burnt at the bloody stake. Ooh! They make my blood boil!
Major T Percival
Major - I'm not called Fred, or Trev, or Kevin. You sound like an angry man. The thing is, that if you don't want to shore up the top heavy welfare system, then why not do what I do? Stop paying taxes. It's easy - just make frequent trips abroad and smuggle tobacco, claiming the dole while you're at it. It works for me. Only last week I bought a new transit van out of the proceeds. I've heard that if you smuggle drugs or guns, the rewards are even greater. Fuck Theresa May and the horse she rode in on.
Giles (The Editor.)
What a con these accident claim companies are. I contacted one after breaking my hand punching a Leeds fan in the head and they just didn't want to know. It seems there's one law for the rich, and another for football hooligans. Bastards.
Re tobacco smuggling. It's all well and good you glamourising tobacco smuggling, but that's all pretty small time compared to smuggling heroin from Thailand, where the rewards are much greater. Mind you, it doesn't always have a happy ending. I got caught and handed a life sentence. Now I'm just about everybody in the prison's bitch, and my life is a living hell. Still, you can't complain.
These back street cosmetic surgeons are a bloody disgrace. My wife went to have her arse enhanced for £38.99 including VAT at some flat in Hackney, and subsequent tests have shown that the so-called 'surgeon' injected a gallon of axle grease into her arse, and somehow sewed a cuckoo clock into her left buttock. She now faces years of corrective surgery to repair the damage. If I don't get my £38.99 back, there'll be fucking trouble, I can tell you.
I personally don't give a toss about the Greek debt crisis, but if they think they're getting the Elgin Marbles back they can go and fucking whistle. We nicked them fair and square and they're ours.
It seems to me that squatters get pretty bad press these days, but I'd like to point out that they aren't all bad. I've got one sharing my loft with a snow leopard and a colony of fruit bats that I adopted, and he's lovely. He's as quiet as a mouse, and he keeps the snow leopard and the fruit bats happy by stroking them and teaching them how to do Frank Spencer impressions. Only problem is that he hogs the gravy boat of a Sunday teatime - but nobody's perfect!
I just don't get why these protestors are squatting outside Saint Pauls Cathedral. I know it's a beautiful building and all that, and an iconic feature of our national heritage, but the point is that it's a church, and to be honest, there's not a lot going on. Surely they'd have had more fun occupying Madame Tussaud's or the Brent Cross Shopping Centre.
If you're a bit mental and want to sound off about something, why not contact us at the usual address. We'll probably ignore you because we've got better things to do. But hey - that's life! - Ed.