A special seasonal message from former* B and Q stores  Meet n' Greeter Billy 'Santa' Downey.

*9.23 am 28.11.06 to 9.27am 28.11.06


Arright my fucking mates! Billy Fuckin Santa Bastard Downey here!

Been a bit down in the dumps lately. Lost me fuckin' job at B an' Fuckin Q. Told the fuckin' supervisor to fuck off, didn't I?

He told me to be a bit more polite to the fuckin' punters! The cheeky cunt. No-one tells Billy Cuntin' Downey what to do. The spotty little prick was abar' seventeen, an 'all.

Am supposed to stand there telling fuckin' mug punters "Welcome to fuckin' B and Q." I  fuckin' told him: there's a fuckin' big B and fuckin' Q sign above the fuckin' door. Are they fuckin' stupid or wha'? I fuckin' told him that the modern customer doesn't want to be patronised; they're sophisticated consumers who understand basic semiotics and want a relaxed shopping experience. My faux-American style greeting would simply irritate traditionalists and intimidate the more introverted B and Q customer. "Why gild the lily, my young friend?" I postulated with (what I thought) all reasonableness.

"While you're a B and Q employee, you'll follow B and Q policy and procedures," he replied with (what I thought to be) unnecessary and quite pointed vitriol.

My reply was (I believe) both trenchant and apposite:

"Well you can FUCK RIGHT OFF and shove your bastard job up your fuckin' hole!"

Aggie fuckin' battered me when I got home. I was on for me hole that night, but I got fuck all. If I can be candid for one moment, it was a bit of a relief. Love making has been awkward of late; it's as if a late frost has almost imperceptibly descended on our relationship leaving both of us emotionally cold and spiritually frigid. Only last night, Aggie had deliberately farted in my face as she climbed over me to get to the shitter.

I got fuckin' barred from the fuckin'  Bow an' Arrer in Canny Farm as well. Just for shittin' me kecks! I told them: if you can't shit your fucking kecks at Christmas, when can you fuckin' shit them? The miserable fuckin' bastards! No job, balls the size of melons and barred from me fuckin' local gastro pub, all in three bastard days.

Still as me old mate Robbie Neville once said: "Sailor Fuckin' Vee!"