Snow business

Bloody hell it's freezing outside....I am still suffering from hypothermia after my new year's eve misfortunes. I don't really want to talk about it but I suppose I'd better. I'll give you the condensed version of events. On the morning of Dec 31st I recieved an anonymous invite to a new years eve party and having nothing better to do that evening I decided to investigate it further (I thought that perhaps there might've been some willing females out looking for some rampant sex and gentle raping). The venue was a disused church in the middle of nowhere (just outside Keady in Co.Armagh) and the theme of the party was 'your favourite political character'...so naturally I decided to go dressed as Iris Robinson (I think she's a wonderful, misunderstood genius and I only wish she'd come to me with her financial problems...I would've willingly given her £50,000 in return for some no-holds-barred restaurant themed sex). Anyway I arrived at the party weighed down with several large bottles of rohypnol based cocktails and some delightful finger food. The place was already packed by the time I got there and everything seemed to be going well..the music was loud and so were most of the guests..although I did notice that there was a distinct shortage of females on the premises. Most of the men there took very little notice of my outfit probably due to the fact that quite a few of them had come dressed as Lady Thatcher and Edwina Currie (which was a bit tacky to say the least). I danced my little legs off until just before midnight and as the bells rang in the new year a rather large bearded gentlemen (dressed as Emeline Pankhurst) grabbed me and shoved his tongue right down my throat (he'd been eating cheese & onion crisps - yuk!) and wished me a happy new year. Not wanting to offend him I gave into his demand for a slow smooch on the dancefloor (we danced to Move Closer by Phyllis Nelson) and he whispered sweet nothings into my ear for the next three minutes whilst he pressed his engorged crotch against my hipbone. He complimented me on my tasteful outfit and casually asked me who I'd come dressed as. When I answered, 'Iris Robinson...isn't she just wonderful...that Peter cunt doesn't deserve her', he immediately pushed me to one side and slapped my face. Then the music stopped and he started roaring all sorts of abuse at me. By this stage a bit of a crowd had gathered around us to see what the problem was. It turned out that none of them were fans of the lovely Iris either. All I could hear were all sorts of terms of abuse directed towards me and the word 'abomination' seemed to feature prominently. Next thing I knew I was being manhandled towards the front door by 8 of the fuckers (at least 3 Lady Thatchers, a couple of Edwinas and several Peter Tatchells). They threw me to the frozen ground, stripped me bollock naked (I paid a fortune for that Iris dress by the way) and threw my car keys into the field next door. To cut a long story short - I had to walk 27 miles home in the freezing cold and snow with nothing but an old pizza box to hide my delicate bits. My feet still haven't regained any feeling (I may have to face up to amputation if this continues) and my libido is now non existent. Why oh fucking why did I bother with that party. I should've stayed at home and masturbated to Jools Holland's Hootenanny as usual! And as if all that wasn't enough poor Iris has taken some sort of mental breakdown. I would go comfort her at once if I knew where the hell the DUP Gestapo were holding her! I bet that bitch Arlene Foster knows exactly where she is.....I have a good mind to 'pay her a visit' one of these nights. I hate those horrible tights she wears. I think I will enjoy strangling her with them....
Until next time

I wish myself luck!