Ha ha, no, i’d actually been up since around 5.00 today, but first chance i’d got to clock up the old count I was half hoping he’d already be gone by 7.30 this morning, but no, he has to hang around like a bad smell
Today, as we try to explore the possible underlying reasons for the current impasse, we turn the clock back many years to a scene in a small toyshop in Belgium.
“Give the ball back.” A small boy is sitting on the floor of the shop with his arms clasped tightly round a big ball. His mother and father are looking down at him. His mother crouches down and says patiently: “ Now, come on little Rodo, give back the ball, there’s a good chap.” “Shan’t!” mutters Little Rodo. His father gives a huge tut. “ Now look, just give the bloody ball back, you little bas—-“ He is interrupted by the mother who gives him a stern look. “ KEITH!!” She says crossly. “ You know how sensitive little Rodo is! He thinks the ball is his. What we have to do is gently explain to him about possessions and ownership, and other people’s feelings.” Keith stares at her for a moment. “Oh ffs.” He mutters, and wanders off to try and find a Johnny 7 gun to look at. Meanwhile, mother tries again. “ Rodo, can mummy have the ball now? You’ve had a very long turn with it, it must be someone else’s go.” “I don’t care about that!” “ Now, Rodo, it’s not REALLY your ball, is it?” The boy glares at her and thinks for a moment. “ Give me £50!!” he says. “ What?” “ Give me £50 for the ball!!” “ Now, now Rodo, mummy hasn’t got £50.” explains mother. “ WELL, FUCK OFF THEN!!” says Little Rodo, holding the ball even tighter. Father returns. “ Is that little turd still holding that bloody ball!!” He exclaims. “We’ve been here two and a half hours!” Rodo looks up at him. “ You smell of vinegar!!” “You little git!!” yells his father. His mother looks at his father sternly. “ KEITH!!” she fumes. “ this boy is going to grow up to be a fucking genius! Give him £50!!” The father stares at her in disbelief. “ Whaaat? But that ball is only worth £5.99!” He says. “ GIVE HIM £50!” She yells. Little Rodo smirks. And waits for the money. And a Visionary is born.
Today, as we try to explore the possible underlying reasons for the current impasse, we turn the clock back many years to a scene in a small toyshop in Belgium.
“Give the ball back.” A small boy is sitting on the floor of the shop with his arms clasped tightly round a big ball. His mother and father are looking down at him. His mother crouches down and says patiently: “ Now, come on little Rodo, give back the ball, there’s a good chap.” “Shan’t!” mutters Little Rodo. His father gives a huge tut. “ Now look, just give the bloody ball back, you little bas—-“ He is interrupted by the mother who gives him a stern look. “ KEITH!!” She says crossly. “ You know how sensitive little Rodo is! He thinks the ball is his. What we have to do is gently explain to him about possessions and ownership, and other people’s feelings.” Keith stares at her for a moment. “Oh ffs.” He mutters, and wanders off to try and find a Johnny 7 gun to look at. Meanwhile, mother tries again. “ Rodo, can mummy have the ball now? You’ve had a very long turn with it, it must be someone else’s go.” “I don’t care about that!” “ Now, Rodo, it’s not REALLY your ball, is it?” The boy glares at her and thinks for a moment. “ Give me £50!!” he says. “ What?” “ Give me £50 for the ball!!” “ Now, now Rodo, mummy hasn’t got £50.” explains mother. “ WELL, FUCK OFF THEN!!” says Little Rodo, holding the ball even tighter. Father returns. “ Is that little turd still holding that bloody ball!!” He exclaims. “We’ve been here two and a half hours!” Rodo looks up at him. “ You smell of vinegar!!” “You little git!!” yells his father. His mother looks at his father sternly. “ KEITH!!” she fumes. “ this boy is going to grow up to be a fucking genius! Give him £50!!” The father stares at her in disbelief. “ Whaaat? But that ball is only worth £5.99!” He says. “ GIVE HIM £50!” She yells. Little Rodo smirks. And waits for the money. And a Visionary is born.
I must point out that when I 'LOL' your daily posts 3blokes I'm not loling the fact that he's still here but the fuck of the day.
Yes occasionally I let out a sort of maniacal hysterical cackle that the old fool is still here, wasting his money, but other than that it’s to the fucks and to him still being here.
Day 1418. He’s still here, our very own beast from the east. Oh well-you’ve-got-to-do-something-to-keep-warm-when-you’re-stuck-in-snow-on-the-A303 fuck...
“Good morning and here is the weather. It looks finally as though the long period of depression that has engulfed a small part of London may be finally lifting as the 3 fronts that have caused it appear to be on their way. One front has already drifted northwards where it is expected to continue to cause havoc, but the other two stubborn fronts remain, for the time being at least, in the SE7 area. And what a pair of fronts they’ve been. The main front has been responsible for an awful reign which has left a community devastated and struggling to pick up the pieces in its wake. Cold distant disruptive blasts have mixed with localised hot air and the seemingly never ending reign, to form sheet ideas resulting in mishaps, accidents, heavy falls from grace and all round organisational chaos. Some people have even been forced to seek refuge in laundry baskets. With new patterns moving in hopefully in the next few weeks, it is hoped that the community can start to rebuild once again when this Beast from the East really has fucked off.” He’s still here. Oh fuck...
3blokes, I hope your counting will be over soon and your mental health can be restored. You have taken on the mantle of Terry Waite and John McCarthy by being metaphorically chained to this thread despite the roller coaster of emotions when it has appeared the Douchebag would depart only for more due diligence to occur. The wicked witch of the east has gone to mid week (Wednesday) but the old Warlock is still casting his evil spell on all things Charlton athletic. As days became weeks, months and years, you have never let your manacles stop you from waking up at the crack of dawn ! I salute all 3 of you and hope you work shifts. Oh fuck, he's still here, keep counting.
Comments
I was half hoping he’d already be gone by 7.30 this morning, but no, he has to hang around like a bad smell
The beat goes on.
He’s still here.
Oh fuck..
Oh fuck.
He’s still here.
Oh fuck...
Another Thursday, another bin day. The world turns round.
He’s still here.
Oh fuck...
He’s still here.
Oh Friday fuck..
Today, as we try to explore the possible underlying reasons for the current impasse, we turn the clock back many years to a scene in a small toyshop in Belgium.
“Give the ball back.”
A small boy is sitting on the floor of the shop with his arms clasped tightly round a big ball.
His mother and father are looking down at him. His mother crouches down and says patiently:
“ Now, come on little Rodo, give back the ball, there’s a good chap.”
“Shan’t!” mutters Little Rodo.
His father gives a huge tut.
“ Now look, just give the bloody ball back, you little bas—-“
He is interrupted by the mother who gives him a stern look.
“ KEITH!!” She says crossly. “ You know how sensitive little Rodo is! He thinks the ball is his. What we have to do is gently explain to him about possessions and ownership, and other people’s feelings.”
Keith stares at her for a moment.
“Oh ffs.” He mutters, and wanders off to try and find a Johnny 7 gun to look at.
Meanwhile, mother tries again.
“ Rodo, can mummy have the ball now? You’ve had a very long turn with it, it must be someone else’s go.”
“I don’t care about that!”
“ Now, Rodo, it’s not REALLY your ball, is it?”
The boy glares at her and thinks for a moment.
“ Give me £50!!” he says.
“ What?”
“ Give me £50 for the ball!!”
“ Now, now Rodo, mummy hasn’t got £50.” explains mother.
“ WELL, FUCK OFF THEN!!” says Little Rodo, holding the ball even tighter.
Father returns.
“ Is that little turd still holding that bloody ball!!” He exclaims. “We’ve been here two and a half hours!”
Rodo looks up at him.
“ You smell of vinegar!!”
“You little git!!” yells his father.
His mother looks at his father sternly.
“ KEITH!!” she fumes. “ this boy is going to grow up to be a fucking genius! Give him £50!!”
The father stares at her in disbelief.
“ Whaaat? But that ball is only worth £5.99!” He says.
“ GIVE HIM £50!” She yells.
Little Rodo smirks. And waits for the money.
And a Visionary is born.
Yep he’s still here.
Oh fuck...
Oh and he can fuck right off right now, twat.
He’s still here.
Oh imminent snow fuck...
Reaches for Google translate.
"Shit to a blanket..."
He’s still here.
Oh snowman making fuck...
He’s still here.
Oh slippery fuck...
Well it deffo sounds like progress, but he’s still here.
Oh blizzardy Emma fuck...
Because he died in 1876 and was pickled in a jar of formaldehyde, he is not even freezing his nuts off with the rest of us!
Le twat
He’s still here, our very own beast from the east.
Oh well-you’ve-got-to-do-something-to-keep-warm-when-you’re-stuck-in-snow-on-the-A303 fuck...
“Good morning and here is the weather.
It looks finally as though the long period of depression that has engulfed a small part of London may be finally lifting as the 3 fronts that have caused it appear to be on their way. One front has already drifted northwards where it is expected to continue to cause havoc, but the other two stubborn fronts remain, for the time being at least, in the SE7 area.
And what a pair of fronts they’ve been.
The main front has been responsible for an awful reign which has left a community devastated and struggling to pick up the pieces in its wake. Cold distant disruptive blasts have mixed with localised hot air and the seemingly never ending reign, to form sheet ideas resulting in mishaps, accidents, heavy falls from grace and all round organisational chaos. Some people have even been forced to seek refuge in laundry baskets.
With new patterns moving in hopefully in the next few weeks, it is hoped that the community can start to rebuild once again when this Beast from the East really has fucked off.”
He’s still here.
Oh fuck...
Maybe only a couple more.
The snow has gone.
But he’s still here.
Oh back to normality fuck...
He’s still here.
Oh fuck..