Get off my bleedin' chair

I lent the Secret Mistress the keys to one of my country retreats and said I'd join her later, but I didn't permit her to bring her dogs.
Tied by his leash to the radiator, the bored Moochie Murgatroyd thought Sod It, This Floor's Too Cold - It's The Swanky Chair For Me.
This is its What 'Yer Feckin' Lookin' At Jimme look (remember this breed is Scottish) as I arrived. Just look at the bugger. He has Feck Off written all over his evil face while he rubs his worm-infested arse on my £600 designer chair.
As you can imagine, the sight of a hairy mutt occupying my expensive furniture was as inviting as being offered a sweaty nudist's bicycle. Secret Mistress was so astounded at my furious visage that she failed to notice her chihuahua dangling by its neck from the window behind her.
Naturally the thought of my poor butler having to defur my Ligne Rosets resulted in one swiftly-kicked arse heading out of the window, followed by her dog.
Women these days. No class.

See also: Are you sitting comfortably?

Tags: Press / outdoor ads