- pavement nazis

What is it with those fcuking bstads who can plainly see you coming towards them, and the fact that you have - being a decent human being, as we should all be - made an effort to move to the side, or swerve your body to the left or right, depending on their direction, thereby taking into account their own fat bstd trajectory. And then they just continue walking in a straight fcuking line? I mean, what the FCUK is wrong with these ignorant bstds? Oh, there, I said it: ignorance - and clearly it is bliss for these festering arsebandit dogturds. God, I wish they'd just p*ss off.

In fact, normally I don't say anything because I'm too afraid of being hit, which is funny, because I'm built like a cow's shithouse - I mean MOFO huge. But then, I can't defend myself, so I'm always careful about what I say and to whom....you can begin to see the reason for this spleen vent blog, right? Meanwhile, I delicately tippy toe through the streets, as if a lead cast member from Swan Fcking Lake, zigzagging and twirlygigging and apologising for people standing on my clodhoppers and bumping into me.

Anyway, moving on: on this one occasion the other day, as I was waddling my fat arse (it was still laid out for dinner for twelve, including crockery and cutlery - so yes, dear reader, you now know I'm not kidding when I say 'fat'; okay, okay, it's an understatement [why is it that people never, ever use the word 'litotical'? Hm, yes - I think I've just answered my own question]). Anyway, so I'm chundering up Bond Street, having a pleasant time, goggling away at the window displays at all that outrageous wealth of jewellery - and then I see this posh b*tch is coming towards me, and she's still holding up her umbrella over her head, even though it has clearly stopped raining.

I'm watching her, and thinking, she's coming right towards me. God, I'm thinking - she better bloody not dare to walk straight through me. She better not. Meanwhile, juggernaut of gentleness that I am, I'm already beginning to move to the side. But does she? Nope, and then - p-DING! Her fcuking brolly jabs into my fat head and she bashes against my arm. And all of a sudden, I'm booming, YOU STUPID FCUKING COW - WHY DON'T YOU WATCH WHERE YOU'RE FCUKING GOING! FCUK. Jeeez. Embarrassing when I realised it was my mum under the 'brella. Not really...That's the last time I tell my mother. No, no - but seriously: Of course she wasn't - just checking if you're still reading my ranting spittle flecks.

Anyway, clearly after a lifetime of never saying anything, all of a sudden I'm having a major psycho toxic reaction to this SMUG COW in fur (but of course) who really should be instantly flayed alive, poked (with a sharp stick) and have someone p*ss in her fat, rich eyes.

Unfortunately, my reaction is so LOUD, and so violent in tone and expression, and my arms are flapping like some maniac that, before you know it, this posh fat b*tch is boo-hooing! I mean, JESUS. I must have been Eva Braun in another fcuking life, sucking Hitler's shitjozzle. And, just to add the icing on this turd of a cake, there has suddenly formed a miniature jostle of people people aahing, and poorthingying her and looking at me, and one fcuker says - yes, yes, you guessed it dear reader - how rude. As if I just shat in this woman's mouth. I mean, JESUS. I can't win.

Am just going to pop off and get a horse-sized Rennie tablet to swallow, to smooth my internal delirium. And perhaps a saw for my head. See you later. Keep on passing the open windows (I fell out of one the other day; not nice - for some reason, I had a delirious idea that the fat posh b*tch would lighten my fall. Hey ho. One day, one day, I shall get my revenge...in the meantime, I think just one more Rennie's...).