Pukka Luvly jubbly alright me old chinaaaaaaaaaaarrgh YOU CUNT!

"I've got two questions..." Roger said.
We were watching the telly together in his house. There was nothing else to do.
"Firstly, why the fuck is Jamie Oliver on my fucking telly screen? And secondly, why is it that whenever that little skull-fucking shit siphon rears his ugly head, the bastard remote control disappears?"
I didn't have an answer. He was clenching his fists angrily and going all blotchy in the face. I could tell he was going to lose it and felt I had to calm him down. He always got like this when he saw celebrity chefs.
"Maybe we could play charades?" I suggested.
But he was having none of it.
"It's not a lot to ask is it? To have the fucking remote when you need it? I mean what is the BLEEDING POINT of having a FUCKING remote control if you can't remove FUCKING OBSCENITIES like THAT from your screen?" he ranted as he hurled bits of furniture and tore at the carpet.
Eventually he rang Samsung customer support.
He was on the phone to them for about twenty minutes before they threatened to call the police.