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Bugger me: is it Christmas again already? It barely seems five minutes since I was last this cold, depressed and downright fucking angry.
Christmas, as we all know, is a time for quiet contemplation by the fireside, surrounded by your loved ones. You can forget about that for a start: there are open fires in four bars in this miserable no-horse town, and they're all constantly hogged by complete fucking cocks.
But should you find a relaxing spot in which to while away the festive hours, then perhaps you may wish to join us in the following:
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A moment spent reflecting on the destruction, vomit, idiocy, violence, stabbing and outright murder witnessed by our fine city over the past twelve months. Good King Wenceslas looked out, closed the curtains and phoned the fucking rozzers.
A few minutes pondering which of your favourite traditional hostelries will be the next to be gutted to form another frigging "luxebar", replete with all the design-school pissflappery you never realised you were missing.
Several tortuous hours musing on just how many shades of dismal grey there actually are in the pub designer's handbook.
Whatever you do this holiday season, we'd like to share our commiserations that for you - as it so clearly is for us - the prime of life has quietly passed by. You're another year older, greyer, saggier and bitterererer, and "opportunity" is but 7 down in the Mirror's simpleton crossword. You're less popular than you were twelve months ago, less witty, less charming, but increasingly, transparently desperate. Oh, and your breath is really starting to be a cause for alarm. But hey! It's not all bad news: the number for the Samaritans will appear at the foot of this page.
Those lights getting on your tits yet?
Compliments of the season
The Burglar's Dog
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