according to an anonymous call received very late yesterday evening, this blog can exclusively reveal that there's currently a few serious sparks flying in the duncan smith household...
the unknown source, who was described by staff as being 'fairly emotional', was disposed (and indeed desperate) to give our news-room editor the following insightful telephone interview:
ok ya one's had it up to here with the lord of the dunce ya...this morning one was untimely wrenched from an absolutely appallingly surreal yet somehow totally indecipherable nightmare (about being so poor one was compelled to use a 25000 page petition on which to wipe one's bum) only to be treated to a personal recital of the latest chapter in his epic saga of love on the sponge, as sensationally serialized in the daily wellygraph every sodding sunday.
no, he did not live with one illegally in a bedsit in the early eighties, the randy rat used to sneak round from dossing in his bosom buddy's room at the pratt's club for a quick consolation shag whilst getting over his depression at playing an integral rôle in losing two bollocking great big bits of the bloody british empire in succession - because you see for some strange reason which ultimately eluded one ya, he found the (all-too-erratic) erotic experience 'afforded him deep psychological comfort'...ahh...
...and then before breakfast ya one used to boot his useless arse straight back out onto the street and tell him not to disturb one's janet reger's again until he'd found himself a real job with real money - obviously ya, one thought he never would get any proper employment and that one would never see the pathetic penny-pinching prick again, but hey the best laid plans of mice and sado-mastic women and all that...and then blow one's farmyard fanny if he didn't land some poxy dead-end position (through some dodgy ex-army mate) and return to haunt me...
...well after all one had said, one obviously had to give the stupid tosser another chance ya, and seeing as one didn't actually possess a television set at the time ya, it seemed like a good idea ya...and so anyway ya, eventually he wormed his way right up into one's trendily down-at-heel chelsea studio-room and then one's haute-couture silky french knickers, permanently ya - basically after the daft old bag who ran the place took pity on the spare-brained pillock when he nearly electrocuted himself changing a light-bulb or plug or something...
...and ya to cut a long and altogether harrowing story short...one blasted disaster then led to another and one supposes one could probably well say that in a certain manner of speaking the feckless failure-prone ponce has still got his fingers in his landlady's socket even unto this very most dark and despondency-inducing of days...if one gets the general drift of one's meaning ya...
one just wonders who that lady was?
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