I’m putting together this piece of rubbish from Argos and it’s driving me mad.
Don’t be ridiculous. Of course it’s not mine. Do you really think I’d buy a piece of shit from Argos for nearly €400, a piece of junk made from tinfoil, and barely big enough to hold a broken lawnmower and four dried-up cans of paint?
Why would I do that? Why would anyone do that? A fucking dog-box would be bigger and cheaper, but it did come, after all, from Argos.
No, no, no, no, not at all. It isn’t mine. I wouldn’t have a piece of shit like that next, nigh or near my house. It’s just one of the many thousand projects I get roped into doing for people every day.
This is a fucking piece of crap. It’s driving me mad. If you look hard at its bits and pieces they break. They warp. They don’t fit properly. They twist. It’s rubbish, and so far it’s taken me five fucking hours of cursing to get the walls bolted together, the roof beam fitted and the holding-down bolts, well, bolted. Why does it need holding-down bolts? Because it’s made of metallic tissue paper, that’s why, and it would all blow away in a light fucking breeze if it wasn’t nailed down.
What a load of shit.
Is that the worst of it, you ask?
No. It isn’t. The worst of it is that I probably have to give another three hours tomorrow to finish it, in the freezing fucking cold — did I mention that my fingers and face are blue? — when I could be lolling around in a warm pub beside an open fire, talking bullshit and gulping back wonderful tidal waves of silky Guinness.
Four hundred euros for a glorified tent? For fucksake.