For the past week, I have been holed up in my room, repeating details to idiots in call centres. All so I can boot Britain for a bit to escape the foul stench of Mount Cameron as its waff cloud spreads throughout the nation. It's his long, podgy, shiny, red face and the fact that he's such an unbelievably smug prick.
But wait. Stop. No... What's that sound in the distance? You can hear it, can't you?
Gang...
Van...
Gang... Van... Gang. Van. Gang. Van. Gang. Van. Gang. Van. Gang. Van. Gang. Van. Gang. Van. Gang. Van. GANG. VAN. GANG. VAN. GANG. VAN. GANG. VAN. GANG. VAN. GANG. VAN. GANG. VAN. GANG. VAN. GANG!VAN!GANG!VAN!
CONTACT PLAY COMING TO A EUROPE NEAR YOU! (As soon as Rachel from the Alnwick branch of NFU Mutual calls me back about that fucking quote.) But on a level check this weird bitch, wearing a dog.
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