That Fat Bastard On The Sick Who Lives Three Doors Down Is Undoubtedly A Junkie, Warns Government, And He’s Pissing Your Money Up Against The Wall

That's him, officer

The government told you today that the shut-in gutbucket on sickness benefits who lives a couple of doors down from you is laughing his fat arse off at you as he swills down gallons of prescription cider and pumps free heroin into his veins, all paid for out of your bloody taxes.

You turned a nasty shade of purple, according to eyewitnesses, and shouted, “I’ll fix his little game, the lazy fucking thief!” before grabbing the phone and grassing him up to the DWP, insisting under condition of strict anonymity that you saw him kicking a football about in the park last Sunday with his mates and he looked fit as a bloody fiddle to you.

The government later expressed gratitude for public-spirited paragons like you, adding that the only reason people were in wheelchairs was that their legs were so riddled with puncture marks that it would be like trying to walk on two leaking balloons.

Later, you hooted with glee as you photographed your neighbour being squeezed into in a police car, before enthusiastically uploading the images to Facebook to start a hate campaign against him.