Blogger informs me that, in order to add a picture to my profile, I need to post it somewhere online first. This is good news for me, since every post I add pushes that tedious rant about Ann Coulter a little further down. Although I still say that the commenters at Biased BBC are a bunch of hysterical, whiny little twats.
This is a photo of me fetchingly dressed in my favourite piece of evening wear, a British Army chemical weapon encounter suit. I find that it tends to ward off annoying people who want to tell me about their mortgages and new flatscreen HDTVs, although it's common knowledge that ladies love a man in uniform.
Granted, it is a little warm for this time of year, but with the proper boots and gloves it is sealed against tear and mustard gas, which comes in quite handy on a Saturday night out. I would've been pictured holding my SA-80 rifle, but I'd been sitting pointing the thing at the doors and windows for two months and it needed to be cleaned. You never know when a gang of furious islamofascists could burst through the door and attempt to make off with your TV - better to have it and not need it, I say.
I can't tell you how proud it makes my family to see me looking so handsome in my military uniform. It makes my mother's heart glad to see me clad in the martial finery of the United Kingdom's elite fighting forces, and I'm told that my younger brothers so idolise me that they've been known to teargas each other, just out of sheer respect for my manliness.
Mind you, it pisses my Granddad off no end, but that's only because he spent four years in Long Kesh after being convicted of smuggling machine guns for the IRA, the old rogue.