Ffs, please shut up, you utter utter dribbling rancid fucking whinging gobshite. I don’t want to know how hard your fucking life is. That life you choose to live, doing the job you do out of choice. I certainly don’t want to hear your putrid bile spewed across my day, especially when some of us are up at shit o’clock to work for shit pounds per hour, yet we crack on and do. No pick & choose. You don’t like, you don’t do. Simple. As fucking simple as you are it seems. Money can’t buy you love. It can fund a romance & all it’s throw away additions, but who wants to be the richest man in the cemetery? Crack on and tell yourself you are mega as much as you wish. One day you will bore yourself that much that your head will fall off. Happy fucking congratulations. You won your own war. Now piss right off. And knit something. Preferably a gag. Or a life.