Australia has sold France yet another submarine. "Yeah mate, 55 billion for this one, payment in advance Pierre, you fucken cunt" said lead engineer Trevor Gunston of the Gunston Heavy Industries Consortium.
"This fat cunt comes fitted with 12 of the biggest fucken speakers you've ever seen in your whole bloody life" continued Mr Gunston. "And cos' you'll be out in the middle of the ocean with no neighbours to disturb, you can crank those massive cunts as loud as you fucking like!"
Le HMS Gunston Decibellator.
"This is going to be the LOUDEST submarine in the whole fucken ocean. Guaranteed. GUNSTON FUCKEN GAURANTEE, Pierre."
"But Mr Trevor... we don't want our submarine to be noisy. We want it to be qui..."
"Would you frog cunts please just fucken lighten up a bit? There's no neighbours out in the middle of the ocean to disturb. Just enjoy the sun and surf and crank some tunes".
"Mr Gunston, how do the speakers work once submerged underwater, won't the water ruin the spea
"Uhh, cheque's cleared, no refunds, thanks Pierre, pleasure doing business with ya as always"
Following Australia bailing on a submarine contract with France worth $66 billion last week, a local Wollongong firm of contractors have stepped in to fill the breach.
"Yeah we'll do you froggy wankers a fucken submarine" said consortium spokesman Mr Trevor Gunston. "But it'll cost ya. Price was 66 billion? Gone up to 70 bill now. Payment in advance, you crying escargoted cunts. No fucken refunds either. Here's the blueprint":
Le Gunston Nautilus Rainbow Warrior 2000.
"Excuse me Mr Trevor but isn't that just a picture of an old car exhaust pipe?"
"Nah mate. Fucken submarine".
"Then why does it have holes in both ends?"
"They're called portholes, you drongo. For advanced seafaring. How else are you going to see where you're bloody going? You need to have a window in the front mate. Or else you'll bloody crash. Jesus. Do I really have to explain this shit to you? You sure you know how to drive one of these fucken things? Righto Pierre, thanks cunt, cheque's cleared, no fucken refunds mate".
Garces, Poite and Raynal, the 3 French rugby referees in charge of the big matches on the British and Irish Lions tour of NZ have today all confessed to a profound and deeply-seated hatred of all things rugby.
The trio, who were raised together in a French Convent for Unreasonably Vindictive Children, made a childhood pact to punish the “hugely masculine and devilishly handsome boys” who never picked them to play on any lunchtime touch rugby teams due to the trio’s psychotically vicious anti-social tendencies. “If we cannot inspire love then instead we will inspire great hate” said the anorexic Poite as he slowly pulled the wings from a crippled butterfly on the table before him.
“Our senior year pact was to devote our lives to reaching the pinnacle of the refereeing profession and then punish those far more athletically talented than us by refusing to let any scrum take place” continued Garces as he smiled distantly at the crying butterfly on the table as it drew its last tearful breaths. “Well, not every scrum” chimed in Raynal, as he abruptly bashed the butterfly to death with a baguette. “That would draw suspicion towards our pact. So therefore we only penalise 2 out of every 3 scrums prior to engagement.”
“Scrum? Not under my watch. Penalty!” Left-to-right, messrs Poite, Garces and Raynal at their Convent for Unreasonably Vindictive Children.
“For a while I wanted to be a traffic warden” admitted Garces. “That way I could look around all day for cars with rugby bumper stickers and ticket them appropriately. However Raynal and I were swayed by Poite and the pact. Now, we all get to do what we love to hate. I mean, we get to do what we love doing by hating what we love to hate.”
“In my senior year at the Convent I wanted to be the Pope” chimed in Poite “but the other senior boys teased me mercilessly so one day, in a pique of anger, I tearfully tore off my cassock and stormed outside into the pouring rain in my undershorts and a sister, there for an under 10’s match, about to get underway with no referee, saw me in my undershorts and mistook me for a rugger person and handed me a whistle and asked me to officiate the match. I was so furious at the bullying in the vestibule from the other boys that I just whistled up everything and unbelievably the sister thought I was some sort of rugby rules expert. Ever since I’ve just been making it up as I went along, learning as I go. Still no idea about scrums though. I just choose a side beforehand, follow the 2 out of every 3 to be penalized mantra, and try to blow the whistle as quickly as possible, so as to appear decisive and authoritative.”
“We the French deliver scrum penalties from upon high, as a sort of artful embellishment” continued Garces, as he dabbed the last coloured splays of butterfly wing gore from the corners of his mouth. “A splash here, a dash there, it’s Monet, it’s Manet, it’s a still life, it’s French, it’s Art.”
Well then, do you want to dress like a French woman this winter? Of course you fucking do. French women are the purveyors of Parisian chic. It’s time to stop living in denial and get with the fucking programme.
A French woman in winter seen here effortlessly pulling off the French woman in winter look.
There are many French women in France. Women such as Serge Gainsbourg’s missus, the chick on the cover of that magazine and Elle Mcpherson. You should dress like them in winter.
Here’s how:
* wear a hat. * wear a jacket. * wear trousers. * wear shoes.
That’s it!
Piece of piss!
Another French woman in winter: seemingly confused about how clothing works in general but still a French woman in winter.
