Its day 31 in the house and as the tension builds to the midnight climax, the supreme Welsh sleuth DCI Rhal E Boyo has been sat in the monitor room for the past two days observing the house guests in a desperate search for clues to the murderer…
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Thank fuck this is almost over thinks Boyo. the last 48 hours have been akin to having someone yank a testicule out through his urethra with a rusty bit of wire whilst being anally invaded a fucking angry Rhino with both horns
He has been sat watching what has to be the most mind numbingly dull bunch of cretinuous morons go about their idiotic routines for the past 2 days. He has come close to just shooting himself, but thank fuck he is not fire arms approved so could only fucking tazer himself if it came to it.
Its the last few hours of the transfer window so depsite not having a fucking scoob about who done it, he is now resigned to the fact that he simply could not give a fuck about these dumbfucks and he would be quite happy if they all joined the Arsehole Gradee and it it remained unsolved as far as he was concened - whatever that might do to his repuation…
Yesterday brought a new low as the dumb cunts drifted to looking at Daley Tom with no cloths on… fatso was tugging away like it was a fucking trial for the Wanking Olympics (might be the only medal we get, but must be a fucking shoe-in for gold in the Handie assisted class).
Bletch was commenting on the artistic merits of the photograph, the pose and the exceptional definition of his gluteus maximus. there was a lustful look in his eye, which did not escape CD who looked as if he would explode with envy.
Slowy had calmed down, there had been no repeat of the outburst from Saturday and together with Soggy they had returned to talking utter fucking bollocks almost continuously - Boyo had seen the dangers of this before, like being drilled in the fucking head with 10mm masonary bit… or arguing with Pap on the brexit thread
Barry was now engaged in his usual misery - Boyo suspected that if Sir Les Eton-Reed signed fucking Madonna or who ever the fuck was the worlds best player these days, barry would find a way to take the shine of the event and piss on the fucking bonfire. These fuckwit ‘scoocer’ fans - bloody twats. Why could they not follow a real fucking game, the beauty and elegance of the Welsh backline dancing with the ball to score a 5th try against the cunting English was truely special)
That CD guy was once again naked with the exception of a small tablecloth. He was on his hands and knees, close to Bletch and was being used by the old queen as a side table upon which rested Beltch’s pink gin
Rusty Hole or whatever he was called seemed to be arguing with Pap about something - Thankfully Pap was now fully clothed again having been able use Arsehole Grandee’s clothes. They were a little large for the skinny hairy arsed Lenin, but at least he was spared having to stare at his dangling scrote clean or soiled…
The various extras were mumbling away as ever, never able to fully articulate anything of any value to any conversation. Boyo was beginning to suspect that may not have been just down to contractual issues…
Thank fuck it was nearly over…
Over the Tannoy Big Bad BT Brother once again calls the house to order - he has given up trying to add humour to his announcments since it has failed on all occasions and now the Arsehole G is gone, he has no concern.
‘’ Willl all the house guests please convene in the the main loiunge’’ the dumbfuck suggests in an attempted Geordie accent, failing to notice the guests are indeed already all together in the one room with the obvious exception of the fat bloke in the morgue.
There is the usual grown at the dimwitted announcer, before the screen goes blank and the audio feed is cut…
The bear was watching…