I was going to write a funny sitcom type sketch about Wayne and Coleen similar to the one I did about Posh and Becks when he fell out with Lord Gorbals. But then I found out how loathsome the pair are on Wiki and my heart went out of it. Anyway, the scene is a fur and snakeskin lined living room in Prestbury, Cheshire. Wayne’s lying on the sofa with the toxic end of his mobile stuffed in his mouth and he’s whining pitifully that he’s been dropped.
“Without me footie am nothing, luv. Am finished like.”
“Give me that fookin phone.”
Five minutes later.
“You’re playing tomorrow, Man City, half a million a week. Now shut yer fookin trap and walk the flamin veimaraners.”
So this is what I found on Wiki: “Coleen Rooney has offended animal lovers with her wardrobe of fur and snakeskin items. Claiming that the animal lovers are overlooking the animals primary reason for existence to make clothing, she asserted that “these animals were put here for a twatting reason, and if yer don’t understand that, then fook off to Primark, because you’re probably just jealous”. Lovely. It’s a glaring English ambiguity. They, the English tabloid-reading public, are wholeheartedly behind Osborne’s cuts to “scoungers”, but they hate Wayne making a mint. They can’t have it both ways.
Look, let me explain yesterday’s poem. Hobson and Hobson. It’s not that difficult. The overall conceit is that it’s a house falling down when really we’re talking about the bloody country. Right! And what you do is switch Surveyor for Banker, or Chancellor of the Ex-bloody-chequer. It’s really quite simple. Anyway that’s enough in the voice of Ed for a while.
In this household, it usually falls on me to press the button of the white machine that washes clothes. It’s the one with the window. God it’s not rocket science. Call it paranoia, but wherever we’ve lived in Britain recently, I’ve had a sneaking suspicion that the neighbours are watching me when I press the button. This place is no different. It’s because the bastards think I’m claiming DLA and they’re going to use it in evidence to call Osborne’s swat team and laugh while I’m dragged away by brownshirts and searched for traces of fabric conditioner.