“Amongst the community of cunts that clutter our congested country with their appalling parking, few groups are as frequently guilty as delivery drivers - like Postman Prat here, dropping off a parcel opposite my house.
My cuntish neighbour had already decided that his two-car drive’s not big enough to accommodate his shitty old Ford Ranger pick-up and taken a classic cunt’s position half-on the pavement, when along comes Mr Too-bone-idle-to-walk-ten-yards from the Royal Mail.
I’d have understood more - though he’d still have been a cunt - if the parcel was heavy and/or awkwardly shaped, but given that he carried it one-handed to the door he’s got no excuse, other than being a professional cunt. I’d also have been less bothered if it was a quick drop-off-and-run, but he had to get a signature and possibly - given how long he was there - nip in for a crafty shag, a cuppa and some nice biscuits from the homeowner.”