The cycling obsessed...

...twat, has just handed me this note:




Mo Reminisces

Aye, I can remember when all this board were green, lad. Apart from the huns of course, but they were only pretending to be huns, to annoy my mighty staff and I.
I mean, everyone knows huns lack opposing thumbs, so there’s no way the captain could fly a helicopter if he was a prod.
And huge respect to bewls, not once did he come out of character and say anything sensible.

Then there was the Friday night quiz. I would lie face down on the bed, my mighty staff twitching with anticipation, leafing through the training bra advertisements in Jackie, waiting for the quizmaster to post the entertainment.
Mrs supermo used to say, it’s not normal for a man of my age to wear bras, but she’s just jealous of my magnificent love jugs. That first bra is the best investment I’ve made.

The quiz would commence and I’d cheat like a bastard, but still never win. That Falkirk cunt would be on his third bottle of wine and so pissed he could only focus to type with one eye shut, and he still rag-dolled me.
I even paid an app developer to make Shazam to give ma an edge, but the result was the same, humiliated by a man never sure of his bowel control past midnight.

And then there were the times when that fucking stenny supporting weirdo would roll in from the bowls club and proceed to give me an arse feeling too. This was often followed by him posting some obscure tunes I’d never heard of, just to make my staff and I look stupid.

Sometimes late on a Friday night, the lovely Absolut would appear. If it was a particularly good night I could read two of her post in a row without my mighty staff exploding all over the place, but it mostly went off as soon as I saw her log in.

I also recall the time when I tried to introduce the rule that they called me Lord Supermo, but that was short lived as they took it in turns to post “fuck off you short arse, baldy cunt”. I’ve never encountered such disrespect.
Even Gentleman Jim, the highland rogue, has taken to abusing me, and he was such a polite boy.
I can only rely on sev’s respect, a true member of the Celtic family, if a borderline simpleton.

Finally there’s my nemesis, that fucking hun cyclist. He would belittle me without fail and mercy and make me look a right cunt. But who’s laughing now? He’s hiding under the stairs crying and I’m parading around the Merchant City in the finest bras money can buy.
The cunt is my favourite though.

  

Apart from being unnecessarily and inaccurately harsh on Sev...

...that's got a whiff of 'Post of the Season' about it.    

  

 

  

 

Thanks for the fair appraisal faither, apart from anything else, i refuse to rise to his blatent and unneccessary cruel jibes, he has something inside so wrong.