Jokes over, release the damn Summer

Curse this grey shitty weather.

I’m still waiting for Summer to kick in, we’re past the first two weeks of June for fuck’s sake.

I suffered the Winter. I want some blue skies. I feel cheated. Cheated by God. (Not the first time I’ve been cheated by God. I asked to be blessed with a foot long penis, and I’ve only got a paltry ten inches. That stingy bastard).

I don’t mean gorgeous weather from Monday to Friday. Fuck, I’m so miserable during the working week I wouldn’t notice if it was raining dead babies let alone rays of Sunshine. Nah, I mean the weekends. I want a few sunny weekends. Everybody is happier, more alive on a nice warm weekend.

I remember sitting in Clapham Common this time last year (when the weather was a damn sight better than it is now) having a few beers, when a bunch of guys carried a Pool Table from their house all the way down into the park. Plus a couple of Rocking Chairs, which they sat in sipping beers while their mates played pool. Fuck those guys were cool. If I had a daughter, I’d want her to marry a guy like that.

But I don’t have any daughters, only a son. Little Beef Jr.

And I really should stop dressing him up as Parappa the Rapper before sending him off to School, as apparently the other kids have started making fun of him.

But I just can’t resist.