...and the heifers are a-stamping around the High Street, panic buying Bob Martins Dog-Chocks, shoplifting Creatine, and casually punching their repugnant three year olds in the face as they wail for their ten-minutely Big Mac. Ho ho ho.

Jesus waded unto the temple like a bouncer on meth, twatting stall-holders and latterday Aramaic Pikeys alike, shocked and disgusted by the naked greed, avarice, and pony Kappa gear on sale. You gotta hand it to the bearded twit - he was a damn sight more bob-on the money than Nostradamus when it came to clocking societal dynamics. Chew on that, you dusty cunt.

As my aging, non-verbal gran would have said - fuck christmas and every spoilt-arsed wanker who has any truck with it. Fuck your smoking credit cards, your porcine and flabby clutching paws, your vermin offspring  AND your ability to spend your entire child allowance on plastic shit that even the poor Taiwanese peasants who make it regard as second only to the cludge-grease of a tramp woman. (She had a way with words, bless...)

Two days, the food shops are shut... two whole days and yet a creaking great army of swivel-hipped pie-badgers feel the need to wire two trolleys together and fight, bare breasted if necessary, over split packets of Chicken Fuckits and cheap, bendy,  five litre kegs of own brand Irn Bru. Well you can see their point - they might have a red mist and guzzle everything in their biscuit-stinking hovels including their no-chin retard of a husband and where would that leave them? Heaven forbid they shed the first thirty stone before Asda 'miraculously' opens on the fucking 27th...

Speaking of Asda, they pioneered the marvellous concept of pre-prepared fresh produce. How many disabled people, pirates and those that form the backbone of the Betterware sales phenomena cheered 'pon the introduction of ready-grated carrots, 'washed' new potatoes and (I'm freestyling here...) cakes already processed into tidy turds? How many? Fucking tons, thats how many. Fair play - if you're too fucked up to even contemplate grating a carrot then this was a MASSIVE step forward! But woe - the legions of doughy-faced X-factor obsessives caught on double-quick-sharp and before you know it the first eighteen aisles of your favourite supermarket are jam-packed with the sort of fodder that merely allows these halfwits to spend twice the time standing in queues, noticing half-thoughts of indulging in sybling sex and scratching their odourous packets in fucking Poundstretchers... I arks ya...

Me? I'm striking a blow for the common man, Brighton style, so out go the cheese footballs and 'gin-flavoured alcohol drink' and its a warm welcome for sun-dried tomatoes, pinot fucking 'g', and a large helping of 5rhythmic dancercise.

See you at Bust the Box...