Bonce's own personal thread. Volume XI

karlypants wrote:

You can get a free membership with that for your Rupert Bear society now.

Been a good day so far. Even found my autographed photo of Charlie Hurley. Been missing in action for a couple of years.

Brucie and me. The truth had to come out.

  

Are you sure that you two aren’t related?

karlypants wrote:Are you sure that you two aren’t related?

I don't like to talk about it. My childhood was difficult enough.

And my evil twin brother was no help.

Bit wet here in Warrington.

There's a road near me that floods like that regularly and idiots still think they can drive through with no issues 

Get your waders on chaps!

Norpig wrote:There's a road near me that floods like that regularly and idiots still think they can drive through with no issues 

Same here. This road floods with just normal amounts of rain anyway. The bridge in the distance is also a cause of constant trouble. The number of trucks that get stuck under it due to its height is unbelievable.  Apparently, because it supports a railway line there's little that can be done without massive expense.

There was a flood warning at Astley bridge in Bolton around Viola Street where the brook flows under which I’ve never heard before.

I did think how the water could rise so far as it would have to come right up the banking plus flooding all of Waters Meeting Road which follows down the side of the brook but it is the drainage with the sewers rising and then over flowing on to the road.

Cheered me up no end.

boltonbonce wrote:Cheered me up no end.

Somebody should show that twat fishy rishi.

RIP Tony Book.

I quite like this Irish bloke.

He took the piss out of people who put glitter (yes, you heard it gorrect) in gravy!

karlypants wrote:I quite like this Irish bloke.

He took the piss out of people who put glitter (yes, you heard it gorrect) in gravy!

Always makes me laugh. And boy, do I need a laugh these days.

And so, another busy day at the Bonce homestead draws to a close, and we find the man himself contemplating yet more footballing humiliation.
The clock chimes, and there he goes, dragging his sorry arse up to bed with a face like a suicidal poet.
Here's hoping the old boy makes it through the night.
Let's leave him there, stretched out on the bed, staring at the ceiling like Marty Feldman on coke, and draw a veil over the day. We'll see what the morrow brings.
Goodnight everyone, goodnight.