(This nom pic – it’s so fucking puerile and random that I couldn’t resist – DA)
(Rumble…grumble…) *fruuumph!*
Well here we are again in the time-honoured fashion. It’s Boxing Day, and I’m racked with flatulence.
It’s my own fault of course, stemming from traditional overindulgence on Christmas Day. Curry with all the trimmings, washed down with liberal amounts of bottled beer. Then Christmas pud, followed by port and stilton, rounded off with mince pies and coffee. A recipe for Boxing Day disaster.
(Burble…) *quack!*
Christ, sew a button on that.
I knew I was in for trouble when the old Boxing Day log arrived prematurely at about 11.15 pm on Christmas Day. Since then, I’ve been blasting off like Mount Vesuvius; it’s so bad that I’m on a yellow card from the wife to put a cork in it (naturally she never breaks wind, but merely ‘exudes’ delicately and fragrantly).
(Gurgle…) *braaaap!*
For fuck’s sake, my poor old ringpiece! Where did I put those Wind-eze tablets?
Nominated by: Ron Knee
(Good to see you back, Ron, you crotchety old cunt – DA)



