Knew a guy in Poland.
Great guy.
Was from ireland.
Spoke about the troubles.
He told me about a wee arsehole who pulled rank at every opportunity.
The Wanker was a postman.
His turn of phrase was "I know your postcode".
Different days.
I am on a train.
I an penned in .
Left hand side is a pseudo biz woman on a laptop.
Right hand side is a pseudo biz woman on a phone.
I am penned in, replete with a can of beer.
(A can of beer from Somerfield - not designer)
She wants to send some money to John Foster.
She wants to get travel insurance.
She has an Orange bill of 61.41 pence.
She tells me how often she has had an orgasm with her boyfriend.
She gives me everything.
She is going to Alaska on a cruise.
She gives me all her numbers.
She gives me everything.
I wish I was a criminal (in principle, only)
I wish that i could transfer money using her number.
Anyone with a scanner could 'do her' for a an amount.
I just wanted to fuck her.
A smart Vicky Pollard, dangerous with a phone.
I despair.
I really despair.
I really, really despair.
Sharon Christina Hill, enjoy your holiday - but I know your postcode.
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3 comments:
If I don't have your postcode, I've got your number. So watch out if you find yourself sitting next to me on a plane this week.....
Yes. Why must we get involved in any other one's life because of these awful objects called mobiles?
You see them here out in the streets, how they weep, cry, insult and love via satellite.
Shocking, indeed, there is no more privacy in the world.
It's safer by satellite. Mobile users do it promiscuously.
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