I’m kind of, sort of, a big deal right now. National TV series – tick. Plenty of wonga in the vault – yes. Acres of fanny on my tail – naturally. And I’m fucking hilarious. Sucks to be everyone else in the world right now, losers. Only joking. Ha ha!
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Mate, I’ve just heard that little Ed Sheeran’s had a type of peri peri sauce named after him by Nando’s. That’s made me want to work a million-and-one per cent harder to make it in this game. If a fat ginger – no disrespect, Ed, you’re a ledge, mate – can achieve that, then the sky is the limit for Frankie Cocozza. Just imagine: my own sausage roll at Greggs!?
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It is said that if you live in London you are never more than ten feet from a rat; the proximity to a rudeboy is probably the same, if not less. It’s impossible to walk the streets of any major city in the UK without seeing these zombified dolts skulking about with a look on their face that combines disgust and perplexity – like they have just been told where babies come from. They appear to have nothing but complete contempt for everything around them and, unsurprisingly, terrify almost everyone over the age of 40. If you’re a middle-class teenager heavily into UK hip-hop and want to piss off your very pleasant parents, read below to find out how to get the look – but please don’t try and fake the accent.
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Hi I’m THE Charlie Sheen and I’m here to tell you about a couple things. Are you sitting comfortably? Of course you are; you’re a member of the pale drifting world of the ‘normal’, your very being is a metaphor for safety and caution and fear and apathy – you’re the untermensch, a glorified fungus with less radical ideas per lifetime than a retarded sea cucumber. I soar majestically above your idle posture and safe government-approved entertainment choices, like a shaolin robotic eagle of the future riding a cosmic mercury surfboard on a tsunami so big it makes what happened in Japan look like a fart in a child’s pathetic paddling pool.
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Some people dream of making a difference, some dream of foreign lands, some dream of a life less lived. If you’re a metrosexual failed professional footballer from the home counties you dream of getting on that tube one day at Gants Hill and heading to the bright lights of London to work in a department store so you can get a 30% staff discount on your Versace Y-fronts.
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