Blates

Blates. Blatantly. Alcoholism.

Gavin was blates at his most charismatic after a 24-hour drinking binge.

Originating in the UK, blates achieves its fullest potential when spoken in a thick Laaaaaaaaahndun (that’s “London”, to the uninitiated) accent. It’s essentially blatantly – as in obviously, totally, yes, of course, I agree – shitfaced on Stella Artois, brandishing a half-eaten kebab and looking for a fight.

Search for blates on Twitter, and your eyes will be assaulted by a churning cesspool of barely comprehensible bilge, one that squarely aims a shotgun at the head of Written English and, at point blank range, sprays its brains all over the wall. This, my friends, is the future. It goes without saying that no dystopian science fiction ever predicted anything quite as bleak. (Well, maybe The Road.)

“I’ve had thirteen pints and three teeth punched out. I’m blates gonna call in sick tomorrow.”

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