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Everything posted by Albion

  1. Apparently Belgium's entire health care system is only a week away from collapse. Will anybody help them out? Germany maybe? Dunno. Bruge is a beautiful city. Either way, it's gonna take a fuck load more than reruns of Tin Tin on the telly & chocolate dildos to get the public interested. I can see them being the first European country to accept a total 25 year lockdown. The Joseph Fritzel treatment.
  2. What a thread, Matcha. It has absolutely everything. I was squealing like a Japanese tourist all the way through. Reminds me of my 2nd favourite movie, The Never Ending Story. Well done.
  3. Just like Kabul earlier today. Maybe they've even flown the same crisis actors over to Vienna, eh? Double bubble.
  4. Caught him at Gorilla in Manchester a few years ago.
  5. Ano. And Jim was the best thing about em.
  6. Say YES to everything and you will see what I mean, Jack. In the words of Enya. Sail away, sail away, sail away. Saying NO in my experience leads to vulnerability. And occasionally even a Whitney Houston, Brittany Murphy type moment.
  7. Always take up the offer. Saying NO in a dream can often lead to some sinister situations. Always go with the flo, Jack. Always.
  8. I think old people in care homes should be the first to receive top quality VR, providing they can handle it, of course. Simulated memories of the things they loved most, like making love to Vera Lynn at Normandy, or devouring bread and dripping on a Sunday. Christ knows. But anything has to be better than staring at the wall all day and worrying about which resident has stolen your walking stick/pension book.
  9. Currently working in retail, in the countries latest Covid hotspot, Manchester. Having to ask for T&T details and for people to wear masks on the premises daily is a ball ache but so far I have met absolutely zero resistance. I'm at the point of wanting someone to tell me to fuck off. So either the majority of the public are completely complaint about all of this. Or a huge amount of people talk a good game about rising up, but completely crumble when challenged.
  10. Music is a big part of my life, and I often dream about the artists I find attractive. I once dreamt that I got off with the lead singer of Skunk Anansie in a greasy spoon, and that I made love to everyone in The Corrs on a canal boat. Both wonderful dreams that I treasure. Does anyone else ever make love to singers or actors in their dreams?
  11. Any thread I enter into containing reasonably factual content from Comedy Time reminds me of the beautiful Autumn of 1994, when I had to take a job at Wimpy to tide me over during my dark days of alcohol and poppers addiction. I was just like Comedy Time, always balancing the tills, never a penny short. I could not be challenged. Whilst all the people behind me were constantly getting the orders wrong and burning all the fucking burgers. Is Wimpy still going I wonder? Probably not with staff like that. But what if the staff in the back were doing all they could do, and it was simply down to faulty headsets? Much to ponder.
  12. Alex Telles. Manchester United. This lad first came to my attention back in the scorching summer of 2004, when he was only 12 years old, and I was taking a break from touring Brazil in search of the most depraved prostitutes South America had to offer. I watched on in amazement as he scored no fewer than 23 goals in only a 60 minute friendly. He was incredible. He scored from all angles, reducing the opposition to a puddle of tears. And that’s when I noticed it. The large foreheads. All 11 of Telles's opponents had huge fucking foreheads. Like that Rocky fella from the Mask. Turns out Telles's team were only playing against a team of mentally challenged youngsters. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t diminish Alex's achievements somewhat. But you can only beat what’s put in front of you. So what if the goalkeeper spent the entire game trying to catch a wasp and sniffing his own farts, Telles was magnificent. And I make him one to watch this season.
  13. I’ve always been absolutely amazing at predictions. Some would say I have an almost paranormal gift for prescience. A bit like Karl Mollison, but without all the intergalactic Nazis. So here I am, putting my employment and homelessness issues to one side to create a stunning preview of what's to come in the Premier League this season. 1. Liverpool. Successfully managed by Heinnrich Himmlers grandson, they’re once again the team to beat. 2. Manchester City. Having no fans in the stadium will effect every team in the league except for Man City, who are used to empty seats. A complete nothing club who won the lottery. 3. Chelsea. Lampard's returned, but things are never the same the second time around. A bit like when they brought Only Fools and Horses back. Complete shite. 4. Arsenal. Managed by that Cov-idiot, Arteta. They remind me of a slag who loudly shouts behind her face nappy that she’s off to Mark's & Sparks to do her weekly shopping, then slips into Aldi when no fuckers looking. Absolute stuck up trash. 5. Manchester United. Watching the world's greatest football club play without Sir Alex Ferguson at the helm is like listening to The White Stripes without Jack White. Ole is Meg. Nothing but a sanitary towel on drums. 6. Tottenham. They need to keep Harry Kane fit. No one man team can afford to lose their one man. He might have a lisp and a face like a water damaged sausage roll, but the boy can play. 7. Everton. Fuck it, I'm hungry. Time for tea. I'll leave it to the David Icke community to fill in the rest.
  14. Cracking read. A tale of tenderness and valour. One of triumph over brutality and ignorance. And from the way you sell it, you definitely handled Adolf and the fog much better than you handled your weekend in India. If we can learn anything from this tale. It's that age pampers us.
  15. If Covid had emerged pre 2015 then I would have been going berserk but I'm much more of a calm person these days, and much of that is down to the wonderful Chief Fortuity. I struck up a rather beautiful friendship with the Chief in the warm spring of 2015 after crossing paths with him in one of the more sinister corners of 4chan. Initially we clashed after he posted a very offensive, photoshopped picture of Cliff Richard, a table leg smoothed in peanut butter, and a Tory MP, but we soon put that behind us and embarked on one of the most brillaint relationships I’ve ever been part of. Through the teachings of the Chief, a general calming has descending upon me in recent years, helping me to become a rather more benevolent, forgiving person. I can even forgive you for confusing He-Man with Thundercat in that last post of yours, whereas 5 years ago I would have felt the urge to remove your shoes so I could beat you about the face and neck with them.
  16. You sound like you have a grudge against Indians, mate. But we all have them, I guess. The first grudge I can remember having as was in the mild summer of 1986 with a shopkeeper named Nanda Patel. Nanda caught me off guard in his shop one afternoon, and attempted to smear my reputation after catching me in the midst of one of my hazy daydreams. One in which I was holding, and rubbing, one of his particularly shiny purple aubergines. Anyway, Nanda suddenly told everyone in his pokey little establishment to stop what they were doing, and look in my direction. “Takey lookey at this little puffy.” he shouted, “He’s pretending that aubergine is a biggy blacky willy." As chunks of bhaji coated saliva began flying around the room with laughter, I wanted to die. And to be fair, I was thinking about roughly that. But it still cut me deep. Anyway, that's all in the past now. I'm more of a forgiving individual these days, and much of that is down to the teachings of the wonderful Chief Fortuity, of the Safi Tribe in Moss Side, Manchester. Do you have any grudges against Africans?
  17. What's all this about them wanting to cancel traditional trick or treating this year? I've remained calm throughout all of this Covid bollocks but if my right to dress up as Mumm Ra and scream, "Ancient spirits of evil, transform this decayed form to Mumm Ra, the ever living" is threatened, then that ThunderCunt Boris is going straight into the pit of my sarcophagus.
  18. So you spent 3 full days and nights in India then decided it was a complete shithole, did you? Dear oh dear. I've never been to India, but during the summer of 1990 I did become sexually involved with a skinny, yet beautiful young Indian lass named Sumara. Our relationship was turbulant, volatile and deeply erotic. A bit like Fred and Rose West but without all the badness. Anyway, one night during a particularly theatrical bout of intercourse, I ran full pelt towards Sumaras puny frame with my plonker propelling mid air like some sort of salacious Bollywood whirlwind. She looked terrified at first but her horror quickly dissolved into pure ecstasy as I feasted on her naked flesh like some sort of rampant Bengal sex tiger. What Sumara didn’t know, however, was that the previous evening I had sat down with a chilled glass of Pimms to watch India play a cricket match on the television. And that during the match a teenage boy by the name of Sachin Tendulka scored over 100 runs for India without being given out, before running towards the camera and jigging his humongous junk into the lens of a billion smiling Indian faces. It was an instantly iconic moment, and one that I knew would inspire me the following night in the bedroom as I made sweet, sweet love to my brittle Indian mistress. Because India has the power to do that to a man. She has the power to alleviate boredom in the bedroom. And the power to completely reinvent ones approach to interracial lovemaking. Dismissing her simply because she produces smells that would make a pig retch is nothing short of disgraceful imo. I suggest you think again.
  19. Ok, we'll call this one a draw. Tbh I can see the upside of celebrating the arrival of our Lord and saviour twice a year. All that drinking, eating and generally living it up like a pimp for an extra 30 days of the year sounds good to me. I'd get to go to two Christmas office parties for starters, meaning I could close the deal with Maggie from Accounts a few months earlier than usual. Alexa, I take it all back. I'm sending you a photocopy of my junk first thing in the morning.
  20. Anything pre 2000 isn't worth worrying about imo. I mean, thinking back, I'm pretty sure I took part in quite a few sexual assaults throughout the 90s. Although back in the day I simply considered them to be extreme flirting. One example would be the scorching summer of 1991. I'd just started a new job in a tiny office on the outskirts of Stockport, selling vacuum cleaners through them shite sunday supplement magazines you would often get free with the papers. The women in the office knew all about my sexual potency from day one. I just had to flash my legendary smile, and point to the outline of my plonker in my pants, and they'd be frothing down below like a faulty Littlewoods washing machine in no time. All apart from one female, who acted like I didn't even exist. It required a less nuanced, more obvious approach to trap this lass. So one afternoon I cornered her in the kitchen, and simply began singing, “Ooooh oooh ooh oooh oooh ooh ooooh ooooh, I Wanna Sex You Up”. I made sure to point at her while singing the word “you” and upwards when singing the word “up”. Otherwise I'd have looked like a right twat. Then before you could say “Colour Me Badd”. I was kneading her knockers like a pair of sourdough loaves. I was sure this would do the trick. But once we'd finished our little ensemble together, the mardy cow just walked off. I suspected she was getting ready to report me to HR the following day, so I lied to everyone in the office and said that I'd caught her in the store cupboard with her knickers around her ankles, doing ungodly things to our newest range of dirt devils, and she never came back after that. Alas, this was a battle we were both destined to lose. Women, eh?
  21. Nah. We were never the same after that night. We lost our identity to shock value gimmickry, and Alan became addicted to peach concorde and was crying all the time, so we called it a day.
  22. That's always the way. It starts out great & ends up turning to shite. My last trip saw me waking up flat on my back, in the middle of the road in Santa Clara, Cuba, floundering like a monkey at a NASA space launch. Screams of "They’ve got rocket propelled grenades!” was what I woke up to. It was the voice of my mate, Alan. And he was carrying an obese woman over his shoulders running at pace. Let me rewind for a minute, though, and give you a little slice of context pie. Back in late 2008, my friend Alan and I were part of a 3 piece band called Tracey and the Argonauts. We played straight up calypso funk and we played it hard. But our lead singer, Tracey, decided she didn’t want to continue in a funk trio anymore and we were faced with a tricky decision. Do we totally reinvent ourselves as a Calypso infused funk duo, or do we simply accept our fate and call it a day? The decision took all of 30 seconds, and The El Bastardos of Broughton were born. Moments after agreeing upon the change of name, we were organising a 3 month road trip around South America to immerse ourselves in the rhythms that would influence our fledgling El Bastardo of Broughton odyssey. We swam with Dolphins in Peru, we drove a motorcycle across the salt flats of Bolivia, and had a foursome with the most enchanting pair of midgets I’ve ever laid eyes on in Argentina. We felt like road warriors, crisscrossing the scorched earth. Then we arrived in Santa Clara. You"ll see things in this place mate that you’ll see nowhere else on the planet. I saw one kid there who was basically just a torso and a head. I tried to grab hold of him to have a bit of a play, but he was far too fast on his skateboard. My love affair with the city came crashing to a halt, however, the very next night in the north area of the city. To say this bar was a shithole filled with deplorable individuals was an understatement. Anyway, after polishing off a few cocktails and a big bag of shrooms we were ready for the dancefloor. We never made it, unfortunately. As we Moonwalked our way over to the centre of the room towards a bevy of prostitutes, I accidentally bumped into large burly bloke, spilling the last of my Mojito over his leather slacks in the process. “Quer mu Frutados” or summat, he shouted, before flicking open a blade and licking his lips. My natural instinct in such situations has always been to stab my car keys into the person’s throat and run. But the mushrooms had taken their toll on me, and my instincts were not as cat like as usual. So I decided to stare him out and use my gift of the gab as an alternative weapon. I looked him straight in the eye and with a deliberate slow rhythm I said. "YOUR MOTHER HAS HORRIBLE FACIAL FEATURES AND I BELIEVE HER SEX ORGANS TO BE UNCLEAN.” The anger in his eyes was instant. “What the fuck you say, gringo?” Turns out he spoke English. I shit the bed. The next few minutes were a bit of a blur. Punches got thrown, tables were overturned. Apart from that, all I can clearly remember is pulling Alan out of penetrating the most obese woman I'd ever laid eyes on and, under a hail of bullets, somehow managing to drag him out of the bar and onto the street. Once we got outside I sprinted down the streets towards relative safety, but when I reached out behind me for Alan, all I could hear was, “I love her mate. I don’t even know her name and I don’t even speak her language, but I fucking love that Cuban hog back there.” and before I could even argue with him, he turned on his heels and headed straight back into the boozer. I just fell to the ground in complete exhaustion at that point and blacked out in a shroom coma. When I awoke, Alan was running towards me with his new love draped over his shoulders. But I was more interested in what rested on the shoulders of the 2 muscle bound bastards that were behind him. They were both carrying a pair of potent looking RPGs. Somehow, through a combination of cunning and adrenaline we were able to evade the two assassins, and escape with our lives. All 3 of us spent the night hiding in a bin out the back of a slaughterhouse. Amidst all the cow carcasses and bits of rotting beef, I was forced to curl up into a ball and trip my bollocks off in a darkened dumpster, listening to Alan furiously penetrating an obese Cuban lady next to me, as bloody thirsty henchman patrolled the streets outside looking for us. I don't think I've ever truly recovered tbh mate.
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