The End Is Naai.

Enough. Finished. Forget It. Officially don’t care anymore. You can take your Zimmer and shove a rubber-bunged steel leg up your flaccid rectum you bloody fogey! I am sick to the bleeding teeth of this sh*t. If I have to witness one more wet fart mid-casserole, decant one more urine sample into a freshly washed out Nescafe bottle, hear you wheeze one more nasty word about me on your ancient 19-voetsek phone to your equally decrepit and cabbage-scented cohorts only to pull out a saccharine smile as the handset hits the cradle, or fetch you another f*cking glass of f*cking water I’m going to f*cking bludgeon you to within an inch of your f*cking sad and intensely lackluster life and hang you from your shower rail by your f*cking emergency pull-cord thingy-ma-flab. Hence, in the interests of public safety and to save the Oxford Dictionary people a lot of money by not inventing cause for the entry ‘Geriatricide’ I have decided to quit. And I’m not a quitter. I’m really not. 8 years of 20-a-day proves that. But this? This is absolutely f*cking ridiculous. I want out and I want out NOW. My suitcase is zipped.

**Once again, apologies to the British Police Force for my dramatic and completely fictitious ramblings. I wouldn't do it. Promise.