With any luck, in years to come, these will cause some fatal disease that rots the bone marrow or makes the head explode. Visiting fucking morrisons in grotty glawster is a dreadful experience at the best of times but now the suns out vile chavy cunts with their guttural slurred speech lurch around the place buying crisps, special brew and relentless for an evening of fucking the local slags to breed more of their human detritus. And of course, every one of these cunts has an oh so original tat; the slags have the name of their 3rd illegitimate brown brat stamped on the neck or forearm in Sanskrit or jap, the blobs that are blokes some indecipherable shite all up both arms to prove they're hard. Back in the day, SOME tats looked ok, now they're the badge of an utter cuntbreed who I wouldn't piss on if on fire, rather have me running for a petrol can to ensure the jobs done properly.