Valentines Day massacre. Of wallets.

Heh, they're there to be seen. All day. Stressed looking blokes on the thirteenth of Feb, in Asda with a bucket of flowers. The odd one wandering towards the underwear section of George to buy themselves, oooops, I mean her a present. I'm wearing a grin, coz I don't have to subscribe to it at all. Every shop everywhere is full of mush, and I don't have to play. Wooooo! I can sit in the comfort of my own predudices and snipe merrilly at the whole damned thing. Of course we all know that it's all really because not one cowbag has sent me a card. Grrrrr, it's enough to send you gay. But not quite. Having said that, I do genuinely enjoy watching the poor fools stress. It's a marketting stroke of genius. Emotional blackmail acceptable as the norm. The one day a year you can show your lass how much you love her. What about the other three hundred and sixty four, dickhead?

Sometimes I wish I could show you blokes where I work, or openly admit what I do. I certainly wish I could tell you what I walked into the middle of yesterday, cause if it's kosher then it's got sercurity issues and if it's not, look out for the biggest investigation since Matrix Churchill. Good fun though, instantly recognised the things for what they were and set the wheels in motion. The place isn't surrounded by special branch yet, so I assume it's all alright lol!