25 October 2011

Walking on sunshine, dancing on graves.

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I'd be walking on sunshine too if I could blow
£400 billion and get it all back from the tax payer



Halifax Bank - which fucked about with their customers money, lost it all essentially by playing roulette with it, and then got it all back again from the tax payer and told by the Government to be more careful next time, while doing exactly the same thing again as we speak - has put together a series of the most infuriating blood boilingly condescending adverts which is nothing but a blood chillingly calculated message from Lloyds Banking Group written in the shit scooped from the pants of everyone who has no idea how they're going to feed their kids this month, which says

WE DON'T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT YOU!

And AND...just in case that wasn't cold hearted enough, the tax payer is paying for these adverts too. We're paying Lloyds, to make adverts that mock our poverty. We're paying for them to tell as many of us as possible, during prime time TV, that we are all going to die and they are going to dance on our graves.

Have you seen the other one where they sing "I'll be there"? My Gah how dare they offer themselves up as some sort saviours. A good day for the Halifax is when they've put millions of people in debt for life. Yet they present themselves as some sort of charity rescuing abused animals or caring for the elderly.

I don't recall little Michael Jackson singing anything about I'll be there to repossess your home and put you and your family out onto the streets. I don't recall him mentioning anything about gambling a trillion pounds investing in Greek bonds. How do they seriously have the nerve to make these adverts? You almost have to admire the evil.

And these poor saps in this advert don't even realise it. They think it's company bonding. Especially that stupid woman bobbing and swaying in time with the music....urgh and the utter utter cunt at the end with his fist pumping crescendo. I can only assume he's actually the CEO in disguise and is driving his message home while he reaches a powerful climax in his trousers which cost more than most people's home's that have now been repossessed.

As for the rest of them, the fat gay man, the other gay men, the relatively nice looking blonde, the fat divorcees....you're dead too you stupid fucking morons. You're dead we're all dead. DEAD. Dead.


Dead. We're doomed. It's every man for himself. Good luck every body.


"You and I must make a pact, you must agree to pay in
full monthly payments or we will be coming for you bitches.

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