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Post by Deleted on Jan 14, 2016 18:32:10 GMT
I was bitterly disappointed with Elf Man last night. He was nowhere near menacing enough for my liking. I've written a stern letter on the back of a fag packet to Stuart Blackbird today voicing my disapproval.
I was hoping to see Elf Man viciously beat the living daylights out of Fiz and Skinhead, just to let Tirrone know he wasn't messing about regarding this fifteen hundred notes.
It's the least those two fat spongers deserve, they were quick enough to demand money off Tony and Jason the other month. Oh yeah, but when the carrot's on the other foot, there they are dodging what they owe and frittering fivers on magazines. Pure scum the pair of them.
When I think about my poor old Nan fighting in those wars, just so two idle layabouts like those two can go round swindling decent folk.
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Post by Charley Says... on Jan 15, 2016 18:38:14 GMT
I wonder how long it will be before Luke is hanging out of Fiz now that Tirrone has been given his marching orders...
Oh yeah I can see it now... Luke sat a the kitchen table with Tirrone's string vest and slippers on... While Fiz cooks him a full English in that hovel of a kitchen...
And all the while Tirrone is crying into one of Kev's cushions...
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Post by Charley Says... on Feb 2, 2016 7:10:46 GMT
Where do I begin... I'm absolutely livid I am with these two simpletons but Tirrone especially...
Fuzzbox goes and pawns her Engagement ring for a hefty five hundred bar... She turns the heating off to save money... And they organise a budget to help control their finances...
All well and good I hear you say but then... Box Head Tirrone heads off to pub to sponge pints off his mate... More front than Blackpool that one...
Taking hand outs from Kev... Buying cheap Prosecco from Dev's... And now this...
Livid doesn't even come close...
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Post by Deleted on Feb 2, 2016 13:54:11 GMT
I hear you Chas, you weren't alone mate. I was so ruddy angry I was still pacing our hallway at 4am this morning, my blood pressure absolutely through the roof. The missus said I was muttering dreadful obscenities too, which I can quite believe. It was only when she offered me sex that I relented and came to bed.
Honestly the cheek of that cube-headed scrounger, cadging pints off gullible Luke like that. It's time somebody put that leach into the ground once and for all, he's long since forfeited his right to be part of decent society. As has that waddling dragon he's shacked up with.
Makes me bloody seethe when I see folk like poor old Aud, working her fingers to the bone in that salon and having heart attacks well into her nineties, whilst those two fat layabouts laze around in their pig-sty expecting constant handouts.
Crikey, me and the missus would love to be able to afford a bottle of £7-99 plonk to go with tonight's delicious casserole. We positively dream of holidays in Lap Dance, and turning our street into a winter wonderland for the dog. The pair of us would give our feckin eye-teeth for a free house with cool retro cladding on it.
But you won't see my other half shamefully pawning her engagement ring matey. Oh no, noooo, good grief no.
I'd have to buy her one of the buggers first for her to do that like.
Nope, it's high time somebody in that street called those two revolting pigs out for what they are. Scum of the earth the pair of 'em.
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Post by Deleted on Feb 4, 2016 11:26:45 GMT
Frightful-Fiz is just loving all this new-found power over Tirrone isn't she. Absolutely revelling in it. Dolling out the pocket-money pennies to him whilst reminding the dense oaf every two minutes about his crass stupidity. She's in her element.
She could barely disguise her glee last night, handing over three sovs as a whole week's pocket-money. Whilst shortly after, her dismay at discovering Box-head had used it to buy comics for their mute offsprings was palpable. Absolutely ruddy gutted she was, the waddling cur, devastated that she couldn't tear into the sap again for his feckless spending.
Any other mother would be pleased to see their deaf & dumb kids enjoying comics, but oh no, not her. Feckin' seething she was, clearly annoyed that her latest planned nagging-attack had been thwarted. "Awwwwww ... that's nice Ty" ... she whined through her disgusting clenched teeth.
Then she turned her wrath to poor Luke who'd already had his fish & chips dinner leeched off him by you-know-who. Everybody must pay more now because everybody else bar her is at fault for this unfortunate predicament. She's the innocent victim caught up in this ghastly tangled-web of abject poverty and recklessness.
You know, the 'innocent victim' who pissed off to Wolverhampton without so much as a by-your-leave for six months, and then spent the next six thereafter using every trick in the book to dodge going to work.
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Post by Charley Says... on May 16, 2016 18:10:46 GMT
I see Boxhead Tirrone gets his taxi drivers license this week... Don't worry if you get in his cab and don't have enough dosh for the fare... I've heard he takes payment in Bacon Barms... One for every mile he does...
I hope he's squared the time off with Kev... You know the real gaffer... But I suppose if Kev does have a whinge, Boxhead will just set Fuzz on him... Fights all his battles she does...
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Post by Deleted on May 17, 2016 14:29:56 GMT
Kevin is terrfied of her - he dare not argue with the old boot.
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Post by Charley Says... on Mar 5, 2018 20:00:39 GMT
Tirrone get's his revenge on Fat Fiz this week I see... Taters deep with the lovely Gems by the end of the week... I can't wait to see that smile wiped from her ugly gap-toothed grin...
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Post by Uncle Quentin on Mar 16, 2018 17:09:59 GMT
I wouldn't mind seeing this bedroom of Fiz's where Gemma humped Tirrone to within an inch of his life. Given the state of their front room - a place visitors actually see let us not forget - the mind boggles as to the depravity of the place where they lay their fat, boil-ridden, sweaty carcasses of a night, away from prying eyes. So I'm maybe going out on a bit of a limb here, but I'm guessing on Tirrone's bed-side table instead of having a clock-radio he has a George Foreman grill. For when they want bacon during the night. Meanwhile, over on Fiz's night stand there's no perfumes or girly candles, just an empty bottle of red sauce and one of those wart-removing stones. On the fluff-filled floor beneath it is an open jar of Fannifresh with mold growing out of it. The rest of the filthy floor is littered with empty crisp packets, Double Decker wrappers, and some long-discarded Dev-Kebab cartons - one of which bizarrely has a twenty-inch strap-on dildo hanging out of it. The dildo belt is set to Fiz's waist size exactly. The unkempt bed is filled with pubes, crumbs and lice, whilst thrown haphazardly over a nearby chair are their night garments - they're those baggy suits with long hats like what Laurel & Hardy and Wee Willie Winkie used to wear - only theirs never had skidmarks and bogey sleeves. On the opposite wall is a nice 50-inch plasma telly, which coincidentally is remarkably similar to one that confused old dear in Rosamund Street had before Fiz went round to help her with her bunions that time. Wonder what else lurks in that bedroom?
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Post by Deleted on Mar 16, 2018 17:47:42 GMT
Even the rats and cockroaches wear overalls in the Fuzz/Tymoan gaff Ugh. Why Ruby and Hope haven`t been hauled off by social services from living in such a hovel is a mystery to me. I bet the dirty mare hasn`t even cleaned out her chip pan since the day she got it. I always clean my chip pan out the day before I use it, and after I use it. There`s no excuse - none for being such a lazy cow.
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Post by Uncle Quentin on Mar 16, 2018 18:09:40 GMT
While my mam was on holiday last year with her mate, her hubby fried scampi in her lovely, clean chip pan Wav. She didn't even bother trying to clean it, she just threw it in the bin and gave him a massive bollocking before sending him out to buy a new one.
I've tried to get my mam to use an Actifry but she's real old skool I'm afraid. For her it has to be chips, in lard, in a chip pan.
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Post by Charley Says... on Mar 16, 2018 18:49:05 GMT
I wouldn't mind seeing this bedroom of Fiz's where Gemma humped Tirrone to within an inch of his life. Given the state of their front room - a place visitors actually see let us not forget - the mind boggles as to the depravity of the place where they lay their fat, boil-ridden, sweaty carcasses of a night, away from prying eyes. So I'm maybe going out on a bit of a limb here, but I'm guessing on Tirrone's bed-side table instead of having a clock-radio he has a George Foreman grill. For when they want bacon during the night. Meanwhile, over on Fiz's night stand there's no perfumes or girly candles, just an empty bottle of red sauce and one of those wart-removing stones. On the fluff-filled floor beneath it is an open jar of Fannifresh with mold growing out of it. The rest of the filthy floor is littered with empty crisp packets, Double Decker wrappers, and some long-discarded Dev-Kebab cartons - one of which bizarrely has a twenty-inch strap-on dildo hanging out of it. The dildo belt is set to Fiz's waist size exactly. The unkempt bed is filled with pubes, crumbs and lice, whilst thrown haphazardly over a nearby chair are their night garments - they're those baggy suits with long hats like what Laurel & Hardy and Wee Willie Winkie used to wear - only theirs never had skidmarks and bogey sleeves. On the opposite wall is a nice 50-inch plasma telly, which coincidentally is remarkably similar to one that confused old dear in Rosamund Street had before Fiz went round to help her with her bunions that time. Wonder what else lurks in that bedroom? You paint a really descriptive picture there Uncle Q... I read it while having my head in the green bin for the food waste... Taking in huge lungful's of obnoxious odours... It was like I was there...
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Post by wallis on Mar 16, 2018 19:16:07 GMT
I wouldn't mind seeing this bedroom of Fiz's where Gemma humped Tirrone to within an inch of his life. Given the state of their front room - a place visitors actually see let us not forget - the mind boggles as to the depravity of the place where they lay their fat, boil-ridden, sweaty carcasses of a night, away from prying eyes. So I'm maybe going out on a bit of a limb here, but I'm guessing on Tirrone's bed-side table instead of having a clock-radio he has a George Foreman grill. For when they want bacon during the night. Meanwhile, over on Fiz's night stand there's no perfumes or girly candles, just an empty bottle of red sauce and one of those wart-removing stones. On the fluff-filled floor beneath it is an open jar of Fannifresh with mold growing out of it. The rest of the filthy floor is littered with empty crisp packets, Double Decker wrappers, and some long-discarded Dev-Kebab cartons - one of which bizarrely has a twenty-inch strap-on dildo hanging out of it. The dildo belt is set to Fiz's waist size exactly. The unkempt bed is filled with pubes, crumbs and lice, whilst thrown haphazardly over a nearby chair are their night garments - they're those baggy suits with long hats like what Laurel & Hardy and Wee Willie Winkie used to wear - only theirs never had skidmarks and bogey sleeves. On the opposite wall is a nice 50-inch plasma telly, which coincidentally is remarkably similar to one that confused old dear in Rosamund Street had before Fiz went round to help her with her bunions that time. Wonder what else lurks in that bedroom? Probably her stained, discarded, fold-up massage table and half-filled bottles of oils clouded by the bacteria growing in them. Whatever happened to that new business she was building for herself?
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Post by Uncle Quentin on Mar 16, 2018 20:33:23 GMT
I wouldn't mind seeing this bedroom of Fiz's where Gemma humped Tirrone to within an inch of his life. Given the state of their front room - a place visitors actually see let us not forget - the mind boggles as to the depravity of the place where they lay their fat, boil-ridden, sweaty carcasses of a night, away from prying eyes. So I'm maybe going out on a bit of a limb here, but I'm guessing on Tirrone's bed-side table instead of having a clock-radio he has a George Foreman grill. For when they want bacon during the night. Meanwhile, over on Fiz's night stand there's no perfumes or girly candles, just an empty bottle of red sauce and one of those wart-removing stones. On the fluff-filled floor beneath it is an open jar of Fannifresh with mold growing out of it. The rest of the filthy floor is littered with empty crisp packets, Double Decker wrappers, and some long-discarded Dev-Kebab cartons - one of which bizarrely has a twenty-inch strap-on dildo hanging out of it. The dildo belt is set to Fiz's waist size exactly. The unkempt bed is filled with pubes, crumbs and lice, whilst thrown haphazardly over a nearby chair are their night garments - they're those baggy suits with long hats like what Laurel & Hardy and Wee Willie Winkie used to wear - only theirs never had skidmarks and bogey sleeves. On the opposite wall is a nice 50-inch plasma telly, which coincidentally is remarkably similar to one that confused old dear in Rosamund Street had before Fiz went round to help her with her bunions that time. Wonder what else lurks in that bedroom? Probably her stained, discarded, fold-up massage table and half-filled bottles of oils clouded by the bacteria growing in them.
Whatever happened to that new business she was building for herself? Drat! I forgot she was a massage parlour hooker, I could have milked another three paragraphs of smut out of that one.
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Post by LouP on Mar 16, 2018 20:59:57 GMT
Please don’t.
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