Cumfy As Fuck

I swear to God, I could not feel any more comfortable if I tried. I just woke up there at 8 beside Tara on our massive L-shaped couch, which is basically the size of a bed. Tara must of gone into our bedroom during the night and got our amazingly embracing duvet (15 togs, thank you very much, that’s, like, the highest level of togage.). I feel that slightly pleasant hangover, not the kind with headache or anything but hungry, thirsty, stretchy, funky kind of hangover. I checked the time and I immediately remembered that Match of the Day rerun is on, fucking savaushta!

I get to watch Man City take giant shit on John Terry, Chelsea and all that support them. I'm not going to get into the booing of Wayne Bridge; I will actually fuck my laptop across the room if I do. Also if you back to my tip for Arsenal to win the league, it is not looking to bad now. A week ago, they were 10/1 and now, 11/4. They are 3 points off the top.

As Match of the Day ends, I set my sights firmly on the Coronation Street omnibus; this Gail story is fucking savage. It wasn't on for an hour so I nip over to Centra to get some brecky rolls for myself and Tara, well, the makings of two brecky rolls. The people in charge of making rolls couldn't be worse at making rolls, if I could tell all of them what career not to do, it would definitely be within the sandwich arrangement industry. . . . . . . . . . I think I'm being a bit harsh with them. It's just I have an extremely high standards when it comes the construct of a mouth watering sub.

As I get home, I find Tara still on the couch breaking her shits laughing to herself. 'What are you laughing at, ye mad yoke?' I say. 'Nothing,' she says, 'It's just I'm so fucking cumfy.'

I make up two of the tastiest motherfuckers you ever likely to put into your mouth, the tea is on the money as well, want to know my secret - 2 tea bags, trust me. And as the Corrie theme tune starts, I am back under the duvet with my roll, my cupa and my bird who is also nibbling away.

Gail is fucked, the situation is like this. She and her new husband head off to Cornwall on a lovely, Valentine’s Day weekend. The husband, Joe, is up to his tits in debt and he doesn't have many options when it comes to clearing it so he says to Gail that he is going to fake his own death. He will go out onto the lake in his boat, abandon the boat in a dingy, Gail is to report him missing and he won't be found, they collect on the insurance. Gail, of course, freaks and tells him he's a sap but he just jumps onto his boat anyway, leaving Gail weeping on the river bank.

Jesus, she seriously cannot get a fucking break when it comes to getting a husband. The first guy, was constantly doing the dirt on her and then eventually gets murdered by a mugger, the second guy, Martin, if memory serves me well, I believe he was dipping his wick in other peoples oils, and then there is the third husband, Richard, who ended up being a psychopathic killer, who not only claimed several characters on the show but he also drove Gail and the whole family into a fucking canal and now there is this cunt.

Anyway, Joe, who Tara is convinced the skin on his face is similar to that of foreskin, is in the middle of abandoning the boat, and the fecki ejjit slips, hits his head and drowns. So Gail, unbeknownst to her he is dead, decides to not play along, gets her son, David, to come out, find the boat on the lake and get her home. They still think Joe is alive and that he will have to come home when he realises no one has reported him missing. They tell everyone on the street including his daughter that he got work out by the lake and that he won't be home for a few weeks. 2 weeks go by and what happens but Joe's body starts to floating to the surface of the lake and, of course, is found and reported. Gail and David are told by the police and all shit breaks loose, Gail tells the cops the truth and they are very suspect about the whole thing. The actors that are playing the 2 detectives are gas, they look like they are about to get locked, glass someone and head to The Den to scream racist chants at their opposition.

I then kind of pass out for about a half an hour, just because I am that comfy. I wake with realisation that the Spurs - Everton game is about to start. With a lovely chuff, I flick to ESPN. Tara goes, 'If I wasn't so fuckin comfy, I would deck you for that quack.' It doesn't matter anyway, my farts for some reason these days don't smell. They are loud but not smelly.

Aw, The Carling Cup is after it as well, savage. I'm gonna go back to my oul'pairs for a roast at about 6 and to finish it off, the Real Sounds thing in the Shaw. Oh my God, I am love loving this shit. Get in there!