Be very afraid. 2014, the year of the Undead is upon us.
On adark and stormy night wet Wednesday a mysterious stranger an ordinary bloke from Transylvania, intent on coming over here to assault sleeping virgins in their beds and suck the blood of mortals wash cars for eight quid an hour, arrived in Whitby Luton airport on board a ghostly schooner freighted with boxes of mouldering grave dirt, a dead man lashed to the wheel Boeing 737, springing ashore in the form of a spectral dog to disappear into the inky shadows below the Gothic ruins waiting by the baggage carousel to retrieve his sports bag, before running amok in a frenzy of blood-lust stopping for an unexpected refreshment break in Costa coffee with the legions of the damned a couple of members of a Home Affairs Select Committee.
BBC
How much less scary do our horror stories need to get before those snivelling cry-babies from Migration Watch and right-wing press finally stop wetting themselves over nothing?
On a
BBC
How much less scary do our horror stories need to get before those snivelling cry-babies from Migration Watch and right-wing press finally stop wetting themselves over nothing?
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