Because they made it themselves, I guess.

We had someone like this in our team; we called him Colin The Cuntopillar.

Nope. It was on the main square and was called 't Vosken.

Certainly! It was: 't Vosken, Sint-Baafsplein 19. I’ll try to upload a photo.

I had an excellent home-made lasagne in a restaurant in Gent, Belgium.

Reminds me of this Douglas Adams quote referencing Fawlty Towers:

“The switch had two settings. You could either turn it to AUTO, in which case the awning lowered itself whenever the sun came out, or you could set it to MANUEL [sic], in which case, we assumed, a small, incompetent Spanish waiter came and did it for you.”

My neighbours have made a sex tape. Of course, they don’t know that yet.

That was an excellent read. Thanks for posting!

Not the person I wanted to have cancer, but I’ll take it.

Dr Who after Peter Capaldi left.

The plots went to crap. The retconning destroyed decades of canon. I’ve nothing against the actors involved but the writers should be taken out and beaten.

I bet they wouldn’t have blamed god if you had died! He always gets the credit but never the blame.

Anne Boleyn was decapitated in one stroke by a sword according to eyewitnesses.

Ignoring the existential threat of AI, the phrase “lower-value human capital” should be enough to make your blood boil.

I should never have bought the chips and chocolate.

As a teenager in the '70s I used to fall asleep to albums and the radio on headphones. These days, I need silence!

What if you bought your wife an eternity ring?

So, what happens if you’ve survived a spouse and remarried? Do you have to choose who you want to spend eternity with?

What about adopted and surrogate kids: do they have to hang out with their biological parents now?

Heaven is such a ridiculous concept.

I haven’t used a urinal since the '90s. Take the weight off your feet, avoid splash-back and fully drain your bladder to mitigate post-wee leakage by using a cubicle. And as a bonus, you’ll never have to worry about shy bladder syndrome.

I’m a retired Brit living in the middle of the Welsh Marches, 10 miles from the nearest town. There is no public transport. Having a car is vital out here and I dread the day my 13-year-old Tiguan gives up the ghost.

I suppose it could be a criticism of the quality of the work: i.e. you finish it quickly but it’s half-arsed because you were too lazy to take the time to do it properly.