. . . that begins with “I’m”
I mean – the fishing industry has been in decline for years, so how many foreign nets can we allow into the country before good honest, decent, hardworking British nets are forced out of work.
Send ’em back!
British nets for British fishing!
. . . to call for all TV crews to be armed in order to reduce the number of shooting-related deaths.
He’s orf on ‘is jolly ‘olidays in the morning, for a week or so.
Assuming that the mega-interweb-thingy is available in the sub-tropical island paradise that is The Isle of Wight, he may keep in touch with all that is (or most likely, isn’t) happening by way of witty exchanges on here whilst he is away.
Or he may not.
It all depends.
Given that you wished to go out with the sole intent of killing animals, didn’t exactly endear you to me, you miserable cowardly piece of shit, but your comment . . .
I deeply regret that my pursuit of an activity I love and practice responsibly and legally resulted in the taking of this lion.
. . . left me shaking my head in disbelief at your arrogance.
You fucking shot it with your bow and arrow, wounded it, and then left it to die.
Are you too fucking stupid to consider the consequences of shooting at living things, you moron?
Further words fail me.
McDonalds food only fit for throwing at people – read all about it!
Is this really worthy of a slot on the front page of the BBC news web site?
I returned home after work late this afternoon. At first all seemed normal; the dogs rushed about and greeted me, two of the cats were in the kitchen and scrounging for their tea, the other cat was nowhere to be seen.
Mrs N’s car was not on the drive, so I assumed that she was out at the stables.
Lovely Daughter was not yet home from work.
I ground some beans and made a coffee, answered a phone call from some twat trying to sell me solar panels for my roof, and pushing open the door whilst sipping my coffee, wandered into the lounge.