WOMEN, DON'T EXPECT ANY HELP ON A THURSDAY
If you like tits, cars AND explosions, then you'll love BASTARD MAGAZINE!
Laden with shit jokes, pictures and details of explosions, ridiculously over-priced sports car profiles (for those of you who put stripes on a Corsa), pointless gadgets for sterile men, pages and pages of brown shoes or pink polo shirts and cleavages from some barely legal Eastenders actress with a big nose.
Included within; Misfiring interviews with some actor who played some guy in some over-the-top BBC drama that followed some lottery "show" presented by some CUNT called Eamonn Holmes on a Saturday evening. "Which other celebrity would you most like to bone and why?"
Pages and pages of adult sex lines that still show pretty models with explosive tits on the advert, when in reality the "lady" you'll get through to, on the phone is a fat, tax dodging heifer from Hull who shaves her feet and face on a daily basis.
Just like Maxim, Nuts, Zoo and all those other magazines people read only in the dentist, BASTARD MAG will put the hairs back on your scrotum. Bought on the mutual understanding with a checkout girl that it's not porno, it will still no doubt be used to beat your beans out to a airbrushed, Z-list eighteen and a quarter year old who stood next to Harry Potter in few scenes or so.
Anyone who needs Johnny Vaughan's narration to remind them that they still have
a pair of bollocks, is a delusional cretin. The same goes with Johnny
Vegas. "He's got a WKD side, HAVE YOU?"
Have you tasted that shit, Johnny? HAVE YOU?
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