Having been a loyal Guardian reader for practically all my adult life, I can say what the fuck I want about the organ. Yeah it’s right-on, yeah it campaigns like no other newspaper but it can also make your piss boil with the utter soppy bollocks it keeps pumping out on a regular basis, like a Southern Water sewage outlet without the lumpy firm stuff – it also succeeds doing this with zero humour or irony. Yes folks, welcome to the regular Saturday feature called ‘Blind Date.’
Do they deliberately select wet liberal nonces and narcissistic twats for this feature? I read it every bloody week, and I’ve not seen a normal person who you could possibly spend more than 15 seconds with before battering them with a cudgel.
So here they are the pair who tipped me over the edge and had me reaching for my Waterman and Quink to write this shit…
Nima & Maxim!
Maxim’s job title alone is enough to bring bile up: Client Success Manager! I’ll say it again…Client Success Manager. The job title makes me so angry I find it hard to speak, let alone scribble down some old bollocks about what an absolute fucker this person obviously is.
These two chinless wonders talk more crap than I do after 17 pints of White Lightning and a bong full of Nepalese Temple Balls. I want to find out where they live, and shit in a paper bag on their doorstep, light it, and ring the doorbell before running away to watch them stamp it out. If they had pets (and I’ll bet a kidney that one of the drippy shits has cats) I would certainly try and poison them. I want to write a letter to their grandparents which graphically describes deviant sexual practices they engage in with dead bodies and animals – plus a list of inanimate objects they undoubtedly shove up their bums.
Two days after writing the above my rage has almost subsided and I can carry on with my rant about Nima & Maxim, I do however still sweat profusely at the mere sight of their names on the page. I shall plough on….
Maxim declares that they talked about ‘having non-traditional names,’ and ‘Instagram algorithms.’ Now, I don’t know about you but if was on a blind date with someone who openly admitted their job title was ‘Client Success Manager’ and followed that bombshell up by actually discussing Instagram algorithms while musing on how ‘non-traditional’ Maxim is as a name (here’s the news you fuck-tard, it ain’t) I would undoubtedly walk straight out of the quinoa-shack, find a bar and drink enough hooch to purge my soul of Maxim, this would be after having called my Irish chum Johnny Mayo – who hurts people for money – and given him Maxims photo and home address.
As for Nina or whatever-the-fuck name his parents cursed him with, I can easily read between the lines of his feeble smart-arse dialogue in the article, so I will save you wading through it and translate for you:
First Impressions:
Warm and welcoming, immediately put me at ease. Also, tall.
Translation:
There’s a fair chance he’s got a big cock.
Best Thing About Maxim?
He is effortlessly easy to talk to and has a strong sense of who he is.
Translation:
I’m pretty sure he’s got a big cock.
Describe Maxim in three words:
Friendly. Inquisitive. Authentic.
Translation:
Great. Big. Cock.
I’m too disappointed in what humanity has become to carry on. I need to lie down…
