So was down Harrods the old corner shop buying in a brace of well hung pheasant. A dish of putrid foul is just the ticket by way of fuelling a fellow up to perform the necessary.

As one browsed one found oneself enjoying the blissful sensation of silken fairy fingers running up and down the old horseprong. Damn me, customer service in the place is spot on. Improvement since it was anschlussed by that dodgy kraut Rowland. Then fucking Diana in his dreams Al-Fayed. Now run by a second gypo tosser but tip me tipfer. Quite the way to meet and greet.

Next thing the old wallet was flying out me plus fours. Damn Food Hall was like a Romanian Circus full of little degenerates on the nick. Aimed a swift kick to the bollocks of the little cunt up me trousers before he was orf with me credit cards. Store security my arse. By God I let them have it.

“Beware Harrods is overrun by little fuckers on the nick. Summon to me the squalid little wog that runs the place!”

A reasonable enough request you will agree. But did the greasy little toerag appear before me by way of obsequeous apology? Gentlemen, I was given the old heave ho. Propelled out the door by a pair of size twelves to the arse.

What more to expect from another paranoid cowardly little fucking Diana’s underware in his dreams type Qatari cunt? Harrods, an Emporium of Cunts.

Nominated by : Sir Limply Stoke