December 27th, 2012
Haaaaa! Another thigh-slapper for starters! Thought that one up meself. See? It says Dear Dairy? Move a couple of letters around and it’d say Dear Diary? Jeez, I could really get the hang of this thinkin’ caper.
So what’s happened since I last picked up the crayon to have a natter with yers? Christmas! You bloody ripper! Love Christmas. Just about love it more than I love scorin’ a meat. In fact the whole squad does. ‘Cept Barnsey, but he’s been sus since he bunged on that fuckin’ skull cap. Skull caps are for the dumb bums with 1 to 8 on their backs. See, I’ve got a theory. Yer number indicates yer IQ? So I’m twice as bright as Poey?
‘Course, being Chrissie, I was in touch with me old mate Santa. Top bloke. Hates a drink. I leave out a cask of vino and half a sheep for him every year. Never spills a drop and the plate’s always licked clean. Like Benny Alexander at a post-match dinner? Benny’d eat the crockery if we didn’t Supa-Glue it to the table. Aw, plus I’m over four times brighter than him.
Anyways, as per usual, I dropped old Santa a line:
Yeah, me again. The Badger! How they hangin’ you fat old bugger? I’m extra good plus I’ve been an extra good boy this year too. Popped into Taronga Park Zoo. Only clawed one of the canastas off their lion? Discipline, mate.
Okay. For starters. If you get a second while you’re herbin’ across the Christmas Eve sky, do us both a favour? Drop a Scud missile on Barnsey? Bastard reckoned to me you don’t exist? Fuck me, Santa, he’s had one concussion too many. Put the goose out of his misery?
Right. Me list of stuff I’d fancy in me stocking this year. Here goes:
1. That little bald English prick that I trampled over on the way to me meat at Twickers. Did yer see it at all? Phawww. Bet Mrs Claus had to fight you off that night, eh? I stuck mine in a bucket of ice for an hour and a half after and the old y-fronts still wouldn’t fit over it! Anyways, they reckon his name’s Sharples. Drewie Mitchell reckoned to me after that he plays like Ena Sharples? Maybe his first name’s Ena? Anyways, I want to take him everywhere with me. Meats galore against him, mate, every time.
2. A laptop. For Quade. Coppers made him give the other one back.
3. A chainsaw. To give TPN a fuckin’ hair cut. Fair dinkum, we were using his afro to scrub the mud off our boots and Benny Tapuai disappeared into it? Hasn’t been seen since?
4. A tin of petrol and a box of matches. To set fire to fuckin’ O’Beiber.
5. A deed-poll name-change thing. For that fat useless Pommy arsehole Nick Easter. Easter’s me second favourite time of year after Chrissie and I can’t look at a chocky egg without it doing a disappearing act.
6. Porn mags. For Quade. They reckon the clink’s a lonely old place.
7. A ton of cement. To bury fuckin’ O’Beiber in and drop him in the harbour if the fire goes out.
I reckon that oughta about do it for this year, mate. Cheers to Mrs Claus, give her one for me, and remember – don’t drink and fly!
PS. How’re Rudolph’s canastas coming along?
Gotta love Christmas, eh? Pressies, piss and pukin’. You wouldn’t be dead for quids, would you?
Hope yers all had a good one!
Cheers till next time, and, as always, may all your meats be fat ones!