Well you big fat lying lard arsed cow! We believed in you Fern and you shit up our backs, in fact you shat on the doorstep of all of your fans, fat and thin.
So you used surgery to shift your considerable bulk whilst hoodwinking us, your adoring public, into believing you shed the pounds with eating less, cycling and walking the family dog. It’s all well and good you giving it the big one by saying that you owed no cunt an explanation about your helping hand from under the knife. I spent a small fortune on those wafer biscuits you were advertising. The fuckers stuck in my throat every fucking day, once for breakfast, once for tea, and all because I thought you were with me. “If Fern can eat these, I can eat these,”- I thought to myself.
Meanwhile that effeminate wee husband of yours, Vickery, was filling your restricted heinous fucking gut with all manner of goodies.
The strange thing is I’d have rode the hole clean off you Fern when you were a big un. You had an air of confidence about you Fern, the air of a women who was at ease with herself physically, spiritually and sexually. I bet you put a great turn on as well. I can imagine you looking at me over your shoulder, eyes wide and innocent, with index finger seductively placed between your lips.
But no, that wasn’t enough for you was it Fern, you had to keep pushing it didn’t you? I blame that cunt John Leslie, a poisoned chalice that bastard. You play with fire and you’ll end up getting burnt and from where I’m sat I can smell the pork crackling away
Go on Fern, get to fuck away from me whilst I decide where we go from here.
First Published in The Mudhutter 16, July 2008
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