Tuesday

Zen 509: Rejoice plebs! You are graciously invited to take a long weekend to celebrate the nuptials of two posh strangers!

Hoo-fucking-rah.

I'm not quite sure why the prospect of an extra bank holiday to celebrate 'Kate and Will's' wedding has irritated me to the point where I'd happily beat the pair of smug, grinning, twatty woodentops to death with a corgi, but it has.

Seriously. Who the fuck do they think they are? More to the point, who the fuck do they think we are? Yes, thanks for the invitation to indulge in a four-day vomit-fest of warm 'Australian' lager and Iceland party food that closely resembles a tray of heavily battered and fat sodden locusts, in order to witlessly celebrate the nuptials of two of the most stupendously bland yet privileged human beings ever to walk the face of the Earth, and who are not only blissfully unaware of our comparatively pathetic and humdrum existences, but probably view the legions of drooling proles who will no doubt glue themselves to their 82 inch plasmas for all 96 hours of the 'telly event of the century' with the utter contempt that they frankly deserve.

The idea of enduring a four-day clusterfuckathon of simpering, arse-kissing obeisance at the Royal Hem, the like of which has not been seen since that other one redecorated a Paris underpass fills me with such nameless dread I may seriously consider the alternative entertainment of gouging out my own eyes with shards of commemorative mug to the strains of Candle in the Wind.

God rot the lot of them. I'm going to work.


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