They say that Armageddon is foreshadowed by signs and portents.
Well, as I understand it, that Glastonbury festival is choc-full of signs and poor tents, letting all the mud in and dripping on your bonce like some evil japanese water torture.
Still, could be worse, it could be signs to portaloos, and you don’t want them dripping on your face in the dead of night. Golden showers they may be, but no-one wants a gravy boat sloshing over them!
Michael Eavis should heave his butt into gear and cancel the festival, rather than attempting to bring about Ragnarok though lip-synching pop tarts (for apparently, lip-synching is miming to music, and not, as I thought, some scissor sistery aligning of their organs in some sapphic symphony Although how matching up their keyboards and grinding them together is is some lesbic lovefest, I’ve yet to learn).
Oh well, at least it’s not signs of impotence... Which, according to the telly, is what you get when you bung a fag* between your fingers, and pretend it’s a little person with a huge cock.
or something.
* CIGARETTE, OBVIOUSLY. NOT A FAG AS IN PUBLIC SCHOOL, KEEP THE CRUMPETS WARM, PLAY THE PINK OBOE IN THE DORMS, SENSE.
