22 degrees at gone midnight in London.π
Fuck off and die Saudi Aramco π‘
22 degrees at gone midnight in London.π
Fuck off and die Saudi Aramco π‘
To the chairman (going to be a man, isn't it) and board of Exxon-Mobil...devour feculence and expireπ‘
Ah, but who needs food when you've got piles of cash that are only worth something while Civilisation continues? /s
As we drove through Wiltshire on our way home from the Festival the farm fields were a shade of brown and orange I had not seen before...
I already am cursing them, they can pay me Β£100 million to stop wishing death upon them (and I'd carry on anyway, fucking clowns)