How do I get sponsorship?

Hey Ags, What's happenin?

I want some advice.

Mate, i'm the top notch, you beaut, buffed up, puncherific, smashaholic, take no shit, do-no-wrong Tasmanian heavyweight wrestlin champion and professional badass extraordinaire.

I've got the fists that kill and the looks that thrill and when I'm not in me wrestlin gear pummling my opponents in the ring with unrelenting bashment, I'm struttin me stuff around the streets of Launceston in me denim floggin out a belting to any c*** who so much as looks at me, even if they don't look at me.

I've got it all and everybody wishes they could be me...  But I want more!!!!!

For years i've been tryin to get big multi million dollar companies to endorse me and throw bundles of free shit and cash my way for nuthin but none of them seem to care.  I've tried em all!!!  KFC, Subway, Colgate, Wrigleys chewin gum, Mcains, Coke and a certain other heartless soulsuckin shit heeled U.S. soft drink giant who will remain nameless (ie Dr Pepper, the pricks)

But no luck....... Not a red cent, nuthin!!!!!!  Mate, What gives?????!!!!!!??????  How do i get one?

Sincerely aggravated, The hot buttered kid.

Hi Hot Butttered

I can’t understand why no-one will sponsor you either.  You sound positively dreamy.  A modern day Tony Danza if you like.  Your words just jump off the page and immediately get people in to a Nelson Hold.  I could feel the strength of your bulging and pulsating muscles under my arms and could imagine your stale tuna breath against my ear.

I think your problem is with the type of companies you're approaching.  To be sponsored successfully, you need to align yourself to products more akin to your personality.  The role of a self-absorbed ninny has already been trademarked by Warwick Capper but here are a few other suggestions for you.

-      Libra maternity pads.  Thick and bulky for girls.

-      Sure Fit ear plugs.  To drown out that annoying sound.

-      Aaron’s Hardware.  For when you’re looking for a REAL tool.

-      Any female urination device that allows you to pee while standing up.

-      Ansell condoms.  What happens when the dumb sperm get through.

But if any of these suggestions fall through (but I think Ansell will pay up), I suggest you get the ultimate sponsorship and go on the Dole.  But a word of warning.  Even though it looks like you’re getting money for nothing, the Dole is owned by me - and all my other tax paying Angry Agony Aunt readers.  So we’ll require you to do things for us in return. My first and only job for you is to take some Imodium becuase that stuff is still dribbling out of your mouth.  I’m sure my readers will have other suggestions. 

Love and kisses, Angry Aunty.

I come back from holidays to this...

I come back from holiday and these were only some of the questions waiting for me in my inbox.  angryauntis@gmail.com

Dear Angry Agony Aunt,

Someone at work used my bin to throw away their empty soft drink bottle.  They only sit down the hall, shouldn’t they have used their own bin?

That's disgusting!  That's like you co-worker putting their filthy rubbish directly in to your mouth!  Take a stand.  Too many people have been quiet about this issue.  And you'll be surprised how much this happens.  It's outrageous!  Your Manager needs to know.  Right now.  No, no, right now.  Don't read the rest of this Agony Aunt, sent the message.  Tell them I sent you.  You're a brave, brave solider.

Dear Angry Agony Aunt,

Why do people leave their decisions up to chance?  Why flip a coin or use another stupid ‘pick an answer out of a hat’ system?  Can people really not make decisions?

What are you talking about?  All the best decisions are made by flipping a coin.  How would we know who was going to bat first?  What would the old fella’s do on Anzac Day?  How do you think your husband picked you over your sister?

But as Sigmund Freud said, it’s not the ‘chance’ outcome itself that matters, it’s how you feel about the outcome.  So if you feel bad about what was tossed, you have the chance to change it; ergo, you’re making a decision.  So whether you pick a box, draw the short straw or pick highlighters out of an envelope (weird!) remember, playing with chance is the best decision you ever make.

Dear Angry Agony Aunt

Every four years we get an extra day in February.  What did you do on the leap year day this year?

I ate a bucket of broccoli in the morning and farted like a rocket all afternoon.

Dear Agony Aunt,

A new girl has started at work and I share a work area with her.  She’s constantly verbally abusing me and I don’t understand why she does it because I’m a really nice person.  Also, she keeps interrupting me when I’m working.  But what irritates me more is that she can’t pronounce the word Australia.  I never thought I’d hear it said with such a ‘bogan’ drawl.  It’s like fingernails down a chalkboard.  I spend forty hours a week with this ‘person’, how can I make life at work more bearable?

Use her bin.

Dear Angry Agony Aunt,

Delta Goodrem on ‘The Voice’ makes me really mad.  I both hate and like her at the same time.  I like that she’s talented but I hate that she’s fake.  Please tell me she’s not going to win the competition.

She’s not going to win the competition.  Because at the eleventh hour, Cher is going to land in Australia, storm in to Channel Nine and steal Delta's chair.  She's then going to apologise to 'all of Australia' for selling the keys to Adelaide on e-bay (but what she doesn't know is that everyone outside of South Australia doesn't care). 

Then by way of sabotage, she'll stand over Keith causing him to have a real fear of taller women, she'll give Joel a good charlotte, beat Seal in a 'charm-off' then win the entire competition with the blind girl. 

Delta will be ushered out of the studio with sherbet stick and a couple of milk chews for her troubles but at least her parking will be validated.

Dear Angry Agony Aunt

My mother is in her fifties and she recently bought a scooter.  The first time she rode it, she accidentally drove it in to a fence, fell off and gave herself a black eye.  Should she keep the scooter?

Head says yes tails says no.

Send your questions to angryauntis@gmail.com

Where should I go?

Angry Aunt, hi,

There’s this box at work, right.  It was slightly poking out the side of a walkway. The HR manager saw it and asked everyone to stop what they were doing to gather around the box.  She said it was ‘important to discuss what’s wrong with this situation’.  So, everyone stood around the taped up box and was given a five minute serve on workplace health and safety.  She said it was ‘everyone’s responsibility to make sure hazards don’t exist in the workplace’. 

Then after her monologue, she asked who owned the box.  Of course, after her speech, no-one was going to fess up.  So because no-one claimed the box, she ‘officially’ took ownership and opened it.  It was filled with gawdy Chirstmas decorations.  Aunty, it was disgusting.  I mean, someone in my work area saw fit to over stuff a box with disgusting twinkle and those ball things.  It smelled real bad and stuck to the side was a cut-out cardboard Santa that looked like a dead Santa.  It was faded and ripped and just feral.  Santa’s eyes had been poked out and there was a tack hanging out of his nose.  If I’m not getting my point across it was like opening a box of farts and fingernail clippings.  I gagged as soon as the box was opened and the tinsel was unraveled. 

So to my question…  You see, I was okay to look at the unopened box for the past two months in the walkway, no problems.  But now it’s ‘safely’ in the cupboard, I can’t walk past the cupboard and not think about it.  I can’t concentrate on my work.  I can’t function in my day to day relationships.  I want to go to report it to the HR Manager but she’s the one that caused the problem in the first place.  I’m desperate.  Should I go to CEO?  Should I go to the Police?  Where should I go?

Go to the North Pole.  Sort your shit out.

How can I calm him down at the lights?

Dear Angry Agony Aunt
My boyfriend is a wonderful man with a kind heart.  However, he has an issue with the pedestrian lights at intersections.  As soon as he gets to the lights and there’s a red man, he gets aggressive with the button and frantically presses until the green man lights up.  It’s really embarrassing to stand next to him when he’s like that so how can I calm him down at the lights?

What is it with that stupid dumbass red man?  I’ve had many arguments with my boyfriend about this subject at the lights.  My boyfriend may not violently bash at the button, but he  verbally bashes me instead.

Every time is the same.  We’re holding hands as we get to the lights.  I press the button (once) and wait.  He lets go of my hand and huffs half way across the road without me.  I give him a death stare.  He sighs, comes back then gives me a verbal spray full of misused English sounding words followed by a little spittle.

He argues that you can cross the road (with care) if there is a red man.  As long as there’s no traffic, the red man is more of a suggestion than an enforceable instruction.  He tells me (very loudly sometimes) that it’s a waste of time to stand by the road when there’s clearly no traffic.

I disagree.  I argue (much more calmly) that if you’re doing bad things, bad things will happen.  If that truck you didn’t see slams in to your person and the subsequent call involves an ambulance or a coroner, you’re in the wrong and you have no-one to blame but yourself.  That is, if you’re still alive to start distributing blame.  So we argue for twenty seconds, the green man appears, we cross the road and it’s all over.

And the reason I don't just let him go and chance it is because I need him alive for sex and chores around the house.  In that order. 

PS - But to answer your question, the solution is quite simple.  As your boyfriend is bashing the button, start screaming.  Tell him your channeling the pain of the red man.  Scream that you can feel every bash of the button.  He presses, you scream.  Repeat.

Should I play along with my mistaken identity?

Dear Angry Agony Aunt

I attended three work functions this month.  At every function, at least one person mistook me for another person.  Funnily enough, the person they mistook me for is ten years younger than me.  This is a wonderful compliment but I'm not sure if I should I just play along with this mistaken identity?

You must just have one of those faces.  It must suck to be you after a witness has completed an identikit and you’re in a police lineup.

Witness : “Number three”.

Policeman : “Are you sure?”

Witness ; “Ahh… not a hundred percent, but boy, that person looks familiar.”

Policeman : “Does anyone else look familiar to you?”

Witness : “No, just number three.”

But that aside, my first piece of advice is quite straight forward.  If you’re being mistaken for someone ten years younger, this is a  great testament to Dr Lewinn and the Ponds Institute.  First things first.  Write them a letter. 

Secondly, if this situation arises again, I have something for you.  However, this must only be reserved for people who should know better and who should really know your name.  These people include but aren't limited to your boss, your husband and your Psychologist.

Here's what you do.  After the 'mis-introduction', you must shower the 'introducer' with compliments.  Go to town.  Tell them how smart and efficient they.  Tell them you feel sorry for them that they have a team of incompetent staff.  Go a little overboard.  It won't hurt.  

Tell them that with your hand on your heart that you hope the rumours aren’t true and that the company is making the team redundant.  Then when your teary monologue is complete, finish by calling them their boss’ name.  I repeat.  Call them their boss' name.  Then wait a few seconds, sniffle and sigh.

But remember, this is an act of revenge and the last thing you want is retaliation.  So for this to be effective, you need to leave immediately.  Excuse yourself from the conversation by saying you have to hurry to see [insert your REAL name here].  You heard there was a party on their yacht because [insert your REAL name here] won lotto.

How can I make him eat his banana?

Dear Angry Agony Aunt

My husband Matt (please don’t use his real name), does somethig weird with banana's.  To ‘successfully’ eat one, he has to peel it in to four equal segments.  If the banana peel is uneven to the naked eye, he can’t eat it.  So on the ocassions when he does peel unevenly, I'm forced to eat it.  If I don't, it's left on the kitchen counter to go all black and feral. How can I make him eat his banana?

Did you know this before you married him?  If so, I have limited sympathy for you.  But if this is a new introduction to your marriage, here’s some fake sympathy for you (awwww darling…), followed by some practical advice.

This surprising common problem can be fixed in a few ways. 

-      The most obvious fix is to recycle your banana.  Get your banana recipe book out and start cooking, blending and baking.  Banana smoothies, banana bread, banana custard, banana chocolate and peanut butter cream terrine, banana pancakes – all that. 

-      Limit his intake of banana.  Limit it to birthdays, anniversaries and Christmas. (Ie, on the only days you have sex with him). 

-      Move next to a zoo and throw the banana’s over the back of the fence for the monkeys. 

-      Every time he does an ‘uneven peel’, convince him he hasn’t.  If he resorts to bringing out a ruler, keep strong.  Tell him over and over again each measurement is the same.  Stare at the obviously uneven peel and repeat, ‘It’s the same, it’s the same, it’s the same’.  Fight in to the night if you have to.  Convince your friends and neighbours to do the same.  Power in numbers. 

But if all else fails, trump him with your own little 'fetish'.  Start a sick addiction to Fish Milkshake Thursday’s.  In my house I call it FMT.  If anyone steps out of line, I just blend  one up and give them a whiff.  Nothing stops bad behaviour better than fishy milk.

Penis. Hate. Every Friday.

Dear Angry Agony Aunt
I just read your post about 'what makes a perfect pair of breasts' and I'd like to know what a perfect penis looks like?  All my ex-boyfriends tell me their penis was perfect but surely only one of them is right?  If at all?

I say that a perfect penis is the kind of penis that isn’t on anyone’s forehead.  It sounds like all your ex-boyfriends had one up there as well as one down there.  It must have been awkward walking next to someone with a penis so visible.  Sorry about that.

Dear Angry Agony Aunt,
Why does my Aunt hate me after I sung on stage?

I want to reassure you it’s because you’re a terrible singer but I think it’s more than that.  I think your Aunt hates you because your mother (her sister) is a dirty, filthy whore.  Your Aunt obviously busted your Mum pashing your Uncle backstage while you were butchering ‘New York, New York’.  All the best Britney.

Dear Angry Agony Aunt,

My friend had lunch with this girl every Friday and my friend has now left the company.  At his farewell drinks they both bullied me into becoming her new weekly lunch date.  How do I get out of it?

Who needs enemies when you’ve got friends?  Think about why your friend left the company in the first place.  Sure, he said it was because he was offered more money somewhere else but I’m guessing the answer lays square on a Friday. 

But having said that, you eat lunch right?  You also eat lunch on a Friday?  Well, I really don’t see what the problem is.  Sure, you may be talked at for sixty minutes but I say suck it up.  Enjoy the hour of being talked at.  After all, it’s good practice for when you get married one day.

Cats, Porn and Fashion

Dear Angry Agony Aunt

Help! How do I stop my two year old from constantly tormenting our cat?

Firstly your child needs to learn some serious lessons about life’s pecking order at home.  It goes : cat, cat food, clean kitty litter tray, cat accessories, Mum, Dad then pesky children.  It’s really as simple as that.

In my opinion, cats are the Kim Kardashian’s of the animal kingdom.  They prance around with no real purpose other than to make you buy accessories for them.  And just like a Kardashian, we’re not entirely sure what cats do when people aren’t watching.

But cheap shots aside, my advice is to let your little Timmy/Josephine torment away.  Why?  Because it’s just a matter of time when your child will stop tormenting the cat and will start tormenting you.  My parents tell me that the tormenting NEVER stops.  So for now, let Her Magesty Queen Furball take one for the team.

Dear Angry Agony Aunt,

I was walking down the street the other day and noticed a fashion tag poking out of the top of a lady's shirt (back of the neck).  I tapped her on the shoulder and asked if I could tuck it back in. However, before she could respond, (to save embarrassment), I fixed it up and quickly moved on.  I instantly felt guilty.  Should I have fixed up her tag?

Look at that!  A fashion question.  And no fashion answer would be complete without the mention of Lady Gaga... So there, I've mentioned her.

What you need to understand is that people spend a lot of time and money looking dishevelled.  Ripped jeans, holes in stockings and my personal favourite, excessive fake tan.  So, maybe this 'tag poking' is just another fad? 

You see, without fad's, fashion wouldn't be a billion dollar industry.  It'd be much like having a porn industry with no bad story lines.  And ironically, these two billion dollar industries are polar opposites.  One industry works on the premise that clothes must be worn at all times and the other succeeds by making sure clothes are off at all times.  And I don't mind that because there are clear defined lines.  Unlike another billion dollar industry.  The wedding dress industry. 

This scam works on the sole premises that you have to spend forty thousand dollars to wear a dress once before it's ripped off you at the end of the night.  Dress on.  Dress off.  Then after seven years, you can’t even flog it off on e-bay for $24.95 or turn it into a nice curtain set.  What a rip off. 

But should you have fixed her tag?  No.  Keep your hands to yourself, you pervert.

How do I tell my boyfriend I'm pregnant?

Heya All

To celebrate one year of Angry Agony Aunt, I thought I’d become Mayor of Lazytown and get you to answer a question.  If you’re a Facebook fan, you would have seen my post asking for answers (public and private) to the below question.  All I can say is - thank goodness I’m the Angry Agony Aunt and you’re not.  Also, I might do this again, so if you want to be involved next time, just ‘like’ the Angry Agony Aunt on Facebook.  Enjoy.  Or not. 

Dear Angry Agony Aunt,

How do I tell my boyfriend I’m pregnant?

Lynette Martha Cavanough – Run like hell when you’re telling him!

Dimmity Dalton – I asked my husband this question (after you posted it on Facebook).  He responded by asking, ‘Are you pregnant?’ I told him I wasn't and that it was just a question.  He looked down at his crotch and said, ‘Thank god for dumb swimmers’, then left the room.  He came back an hour later and said, ‘Hey, does that mean you have a boyfriend’?

Meg Babycuddles – I’d punch him in the face. He’d get the idea eventually.

Grovulus Grooney – Wait until you have an ultrasound photograph then Photoshop the boyfriend’s face onto the fetus and make it the new desktop background on his computer.

Maxwell Adams – My ex-girlfriend sent me a haiku type message.  “You had sex with me quickly, now I’m throwing up, very soon I’ll be crowning.”

Gordon Jenkins – Just tell him, don’t be dishonest.

Rebecca Kerry – This happened to me and I sent my husband an Outlook calendar update to attend the birth (on my estimated due date). I was four days early so it wasn’t a bad guess!

Callum Fevola – I hope my girlfriend tells me it’s the milkman’s.

Sally Jaspen – We have four kids and when I fell pregnant with my fifth child, I said to my husband, ‘This time when they cut the cord, we’ll get the doctor to use the scissors on you.  Two for one’.

Jeremy Brody – To avoid this kind of discussion, I ask my girlfriend to not talk to me at all.  It works out well because she’s not that bright anyway.

Mimi Freeman – I think I’ll get Dad to tell him.  I’ll leave it up to Dad to figure out how.  No matter what Dad comes up with, it’ll be fun to watch.

Angry Agony Aunt – Don’t tell him.  See how long it takes him to figure it out.

Got a question?  Send it to angryauntis@gmail.com

How do I tell him my name?

Dear Angry Agony Aunt,

I started a new job three weeks ago and one of my co-workers keeps calling me Adele.  That'd be fine but my name is Amanda.  I don’t want to upset him because he’s been exceptionally nice but how do I tell him my name without hurting his feelings?  I’m fast becoming the victim of sad wit - (the 'rolling in the deep' jokes are killing me).

From Amanda (or is it Adele?)

Dear 'A'

I think you’re in an enormous position of power.  The best time you’ll ever have at work is when you first start.  This is when all the staff (both male and female) turn in to male peacocks and strut around your work area shaking their tail feathers.  They'll do a little dance and show you only their best and brightest colours.  It's much like the early stages of dating but in your case, you get paid to turn up to this love-in.  So I say, use it.

You see, this is the time where everyone is nicey-nice to you.  Why?  Because work is nothing more than collecting as many scapegoats as you can.  Much like politics (and a very popular Wiggle's song), it's a numbers game...

Your co-workers will come running to your aid after you make your first REAL mistake.  They say, ‘that’s fine, don't worry about it, you’re still learning’, as you're gathered in the assembly area watching the fire brigade put out the fire.  They’ll give you a little side cuddle and say, ‘Hey, no big deal… in my last job, I slept with my boss’ wife… boy, that was a mistake…’.

Then later on, when they've figured out you've become someone elses scapegoat (traitor), the peacocks leave and your coworkers turn in to unnatural, scaly vermin with fire breathing capabilities.  Behaviour includes - yelling at you for using the communal printer, scowling at you after you say 'good morning' and the very popular, cold shoulder treatment (but in some cases, having co-workers ignore you is actually a good thing).  It's then you realise your once paid paradise oasis has turned into a cubical coffin.

So I say, let your co-worker call you Adele for as long as he likes.  

But be proactive about it.  Go to the store and buy fifty name tags with different names on them.  Wear a different name tag every two weeks or so.  This way, your co-worker will always think you’re the new person and you'll never become anyone's 'doe'.

What's your new year's resolution?

Dear Angry Agony Aunt,
Do you have a new year’s resolution this year?

Let me tell you something.  New Years resolutions are for unhealthy, chain smoking, alcoholic, drug addicts with no money and no spine.  Sometimes they’re called Stan, but not all the time.  These ‘Stan’s’ swear that, ‘I’m going to turn my life around and make a long list of promises’, blah, blah.  But this is useless ‘my mouth is moving but nothing important is being said’ talk.

Why?  Because 12 – 24 hours in to the new year (crunch time), like a kid with a shiny toy, temptation lands in their lap and they get distracted.  And before you can say, ‘Dude, let’s steal the neighbour’s car’, they’ve got a cigarette in one hand, a beer in the other, telling their Nanna to ‘get f&cked’, as they’re hot wiring her car.   Old habits die hard.

But if you’re not a ‘Stan’ and you actually want to succeed in life, I suggest you try what I call a ‘Reverse Resolution’.  Write down all the things you achieved in 2011.  Believe it or not, we all have something to be proud of.  And if you’re actually nice to yourself, hopefully you'll continue to be nice to yourself in the upcoming year.

For example: Did you manage to finally have sex?  (Thumbs up Fernando)  Did you stop calling your mother a dirty, old, cranky whore? (I know it was hard Maryanne, but kudos to you) How about your finances?  Are you able to answer ‘private number’ calls again?  I bet if you're sober, even just for five minutes, you’d be able to name at least five good things that happened during the year.  What did you learn about yourself?  What did you learn about other people?

Having done my own Reverse Resolution, I've ruled that I'm happy to continue drinking litres of cheap wine followed by bacon chasers, smoking two cigarettes at a time, maxing out my credit cards and dating guys called ‘Stan’.  Why?  Because if I didn’t, l wouldn’t have anything to be angry about anymore... 

Happy New Year to everyone.  Except Stan.  You can rot in hell.  But not before living a long and painful life full of guilt and regret.

What makes the perfect pair of breasts?

Dear Angry Agony Aunt,
What makes the perfect pair of breasts?

The most obvious answer is – any pair of breasts without your grubby hands all over them is a perfect pair of breasts.  But that’s a cheap shot and I don’t do that here. 

For some guys, any pair of living breasts within eye shot is a perfect pair.  Men part with real cash dollars to get a peek, some pay a lot, others just have to say ‘let me buy you a drink’ and there they are, all in your face.  But nonetheless, the sight of boobs is a tradeable commodity.

And you guys can bitch and moan about what makes a perfect pair, but when you’re talking about these eye magnets, there’s not a complaint in sight.

But what makes a perfect pair?  Hmmm.  I hate to break it to you, but you’ve already seen them.  And unfortunately for you, if all’s well in your life, you’ll never see them again.  The most perfect pair of breasts is the first pair you ever saw.  Yo Mumma’s.

Yo Mumma’s were perfect because they weren’t only huge after you were born, but they were full of milky goodness, full all of the vitamins and minerals you needed to survive.  And that’s what you’re looking for in a perfect pair; looks and functionality. 

And before you scoff and say ‘I was bottle-fed’, I guarantee that at least once in your little poohey nappy existence, you went for the grab.  That’s right, you grabbed your own Mumma’s tits.  And not only that, you would’ve gone in for the suck and cried when she pushed you away said no. 

So next time you see a pair of breasts that aren’t quite perfect, don’t say ‘send them back’, just smile and thank god they’re not your mother’s.  And after reading this, I hope the next time you see your girlfriend’s set, you think of your mother’s big, bad, heaving knockers you once cried over. 

Why are you smiling in the photo?

Dear Angry Agony Aunt,
I am a new liker to your page. I have a question. You are The Angry Agony Aunt. However, in your picture, your lips appear to be slightly upturned in somewhat of a grin/smile. My question is Why? This grin/smile does not appropriately appear to reflect the Anger part of your title..."

This is the best question I’ve ever received.  If there’s one subject I know better than any other, it's the subject of my failings as a human being.  My Facebook profile photo is a living example of my confusing and contradictory life.

When I first started my blog, I thought it’d be a great idea to have an Angry Agony Aunt logo.  After I spent all my disposable income on advertising, I only got a few Facebook ‘likes’ and one guy asking for an ‘Angry Aunty’ to spank him while his wife was away on business.  I immediately ditched the logo and replaced it with a ‘help’ sign.  This sign confused readers and they started unsubscribing in droves.  I was staring down the face of the first Facebook page in history with negative ‘likes’. 

Then someone suggested I upload an angry photo of myself.  I begrudgingly took 50 shots and passed them around my 'friends' for feedback.  Nasty comments included:

- ‘you look like you’re about to pass a bowling ball’, 

- ‘you look so crazy, I’m afraid you’ll shoulder charge me through a glass window' and 

- ‘how did you get your double chin to do that?’

After this brutal assessment of my looks, I wiped away the tears and cleaned up the broken glass from the window.  Then, a couple of days later, inspiration came.   

I had an argument with my current boyfriend about something I don't remember.  But after that argument, I made a very angry breakup video.  (I’ve kept it just in case of emergency).  In a gentle and loving voice I say, ‘hey baby, I just thought I’d send you a message… you’re a sad and pathetic wannabe.  You’re on track to die a lonely and poor middle-aged bald man.  Don’t ever ring me again and for god sake, wear a nappy when you go to bed.’ 

So the photo you see today is a screen shot from that video.  Sure, it may look like I’m all love and smiles but this is me at my passive aggressive best.  The lesson here?  ‘Angry’ comes in all different shapes and psychotic sizes.