I’ve spent long, tedious hours rummaging through fading receipts looking for some long-lost proof of some long-forgotten purchase.
I’ve wasted wasted entire days adding up random figures that no longer make any sense and my room is currently covered in sheets of banks statements and scrunched up invoices.
Yeo, it’s tax return timer and I fucking hate every single second of it!
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Easter blues…
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The return of the Golf Sale guy in a hat, Regent Street, London W1
A spectacularly shite day
Morton Valence and the Mountain Of Love return to the Railway Tavern, south London,
In response to the news of Will & Kate’s new baby: the greatest anti-royal rant ever
The Tax Return Has Left The Building!
