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manic_street_preacher3 декабря 2015 г.Here’s the important thing to say about meetings—nothing important ever got decided in a meeting. The place to get your own way is over lunch, in someone’s office, in the corridor, over drinks, dinner, anywhere but in a fucking meeting. What meetings are very good for, however, is stitching people up—undermining, belittling and humiliating them.
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miss-nothing20 мая 2016 г.Читать далееYou are finished. Game fucking over. You are twenty-two years old and six hundred thousand pounds in debt to us—a bunch of subhuman demons who were your best friends a year ago but who would now gladly slit your throat and dance in your blood if we thought it would help us claw back a penny of your debt.
But sadly that’s not an option. We take the loss on the chin, chalk it down as a write-off, and you get the coach back up to Bolton where you lie around your parents’ house drinking lager and crying for a few weeks until you go crawling back to your old job painting houses, stacking shelves, frying chips or whatever the fuck you used to do up there. Until the day you die—probably at age fifty-five through a combination of abysmal Northern lung cancer and thirty-odd years of back-breaking work—you will bore your friends rigid with stories about your twelve months on top of the world, snorting lines in the toilets of London nightclubs and getting your dick sucked by some skanky monster on a tour bus parked behind Northampton Roadmenders. The time you spent with us playing at being pop stars will probably be the high-water mark of your entire life. Someone like me will probably be somewhere among your dying thoughts.
So, y’know, just don’t do it. Go and become an accountant, or an IT guy or something. Get a fucking job, you stupid cunt.298