Technology shapes and changes the world we live in – this is fact.
But I can guarantee that nobody on earth is more grateful for the invention of the mobile phone and the iPod, than bus and coach drivers.
Back in the day, school trips used to be bizarre and unpredictable things that seemed to loom out of the banal normality of school life, like ridiculous tw@tshadows forming on the edge of a crap forest.
Inevitably, there would be a massive stupid scuffle for the back seat.
The Back Seat.
Where children with older brothers and Dr. Marten boots would kick the massive sh!t out of the kids who got free school meals or irrelevantly wore a sticking plaster over one lens of their National Heath specs.
Someone was always sick.
Someone always needed, or occasionally did, a big piss.
Once on a terrible school trip to Morwellham Quay , some of the bigger boys put a dog sh!t into the rucksack of a boy called Paul. Somehow, despite wearing his own personal turd, just inches from his face, he didn’t notice the smell until he was back on the bus and rooting about for his sandwiches.
He found it, he froze momentarily, then he threw up on into and all over his bag and self – magnificently – like an involuntary piping hot PUBLIC GOBSTEW.
And got immediately bollocked by the teachers for causing a fuss.
QED: Someone was always sick.
But anyway, I digress…
The defining point of all school trips was, once you got past the piss, the vomit and the smell of bus, the fact that the last half an hour of every f*cking journey was always accompanied by the Godawful howling auditory apocalypse of repeated verses of one utterly stupid busw@nker of a song, or another.
And the driver was never a “jolly good fellow” – not in the slightest; he was a miserable old man with a biro and a box of Benson & Hedges in his top pocket and disturbing slip on shoes.
At least nowadays, the last half an hour of a school trip pans out much like the rest, with schoolkids reclining zombie-esque into their static-inducing seats, lost in a glassy eyed world of earphones, texting and Facebook.
Thank f*ck for iPods.
Why is it that an alarmingly huge majority of people talk to young children in such a stupid, stupid way?
It’s bad enough that kids know absolutely sh!t all of anything, and you need to explain, re-explain and generally lifewaste yourself senseless in order to make them do anything worthwhile whatsoever, but to act out the whole thing to an imaginary audience of pretend idiots is just utterly batsh!t insane.
Supermarket parents; why make such a big stupid pantomime announcement of everything you say to your baby toddler?
Why on earth imagine that anyone else is even vaguely interested?
It’s your little spud, just sort it’s crying face out yourself, quietly, or bizarrely put random grapes that you haven’t paid for yet inside it’s gob, as if you have special magical rights to just use the shop as a fridge on your way around.
I believe that at least some of this insanity stems from children’s TV, which is basically one long visual blast of completely sh!t mental illness involving all manner of deeply disturbing characters.
At what point did we suddenly decide, as a species, that the best thing to expose our whinging offspring to is basically terrible daytime horror in the guise of animated stories about stupid-shaped f*ckwits?
The point is, just stop talking to baby people like you’re on stage at Butlins and making a pathetic presentation to a registered f*cking imbecile.
It’s almost a year since I wrote my last scribble of stupid rubbish.
Oh my, how you’ve grown…
I’ve spent much of the interim time, as was the plan, on other projects, including exploring the planet, growing a very large moustache, and practising getting my stupid face punched off even harder than I had previously gotten it punched off. Which was already fairly hard.
So all is good.
But here’s the thing, you know… the thing; I have had to put all the energy and vitriol that I used to use to fuel the stuff that I wrote here, out into the ‘real world’. Which, frankly, is more than enough for anyone to bear. So as a result I have decided to offer an enormous and massive apology to all those humans unlucky enough to have had to put up with my utterly incessant critical narrative on the world around me, and everything in it.
That includes several total strangers who have suffered at my hands and face.
And a lion.
Anyway, the point is that I’m going to occasionally write more dumb sh!t again.
And better still, I really don’t care if you don’t care! So how’s that for a virtually obscene and morbidly obese clusterf*ck of mutual celebration?
In other news; eating only protein for a week makes your actual anus attempt to climb, screaming like a burning effigy of hate, out of your personal body.
And, Carly Simon was really, really f*cking vain.
What did I miss?
It’s Father’s Day on the 17th June.
This is a time of year where quite a lot of people make quite a bit of an effort to buy overpriced pieces of paper with somebody else’s ideas on them, to pass on to a man who has, hopefully, been a hugely influential part of your life.
I know that for some people, this might not be a happy time. I know there are people out there who don’t get on with their dad, or never really knew them, or sadly, have already lost them.
I know this only too well.
But this is something slightly different and something for those of us who might have a few things to say, for whatever reason.
Somebody told me recently that they felt that they had a lot to say to their father and that they wished that they could find a time and a place to just get it said. Mostly, they wanted to say how grateful, proud and happy they were for all the unseen, unremembered or superficially unknown things that he had done for them, for as long as they could remember.
This struck a chord with me because us men are notoriously bad at saying the things that we need to say. And when it comes to fathers and sons, we are often monumentally rubbish on both sides. We might have a whole assortment of feelings stored away inside, but often they remain trapped within.
So what are we doing here?
Well it strikes me that one of the times when we really do let all these thoughts and feelings out, unfettered, unedited and without even the slightest cringeworthy molecule of self-consciousness, is when we are talking about the people that we have loved and more importantly lost.
It strikes me that obituaries are a rich source of heartfelt, written love, so why not tap into that now, before we try to shout it from the wrong side of loss?
This idea is called “In Living Memory” and I’m going to write some words about my dad, who I love dearly and yet, don’t communicate that to him often enough.
Feel free to do the same, send anything to me at CyrilCacoethes@live.co.uk
My Dad has gotten smaller as I have gotten older.
He used to tell me I needed to eat all my vegetables because I was going to get stunted growth otherwise. And he used to shout at me from the sidelines when I played football. Because he wanted me to win things. He wanted me to use my growing size and strength. But I never really knew how to react to that. Then.
I remember a day, many years ago when I noticed he had a few grey hairs on his temples and I couldn’t believe that my dad was getting older. He seemed too big for that. Looking back, I know that he was five foot eight at best, even then, and he probably needs a stacked heel and a touch of tiptoe to find those lofty heights again now, all these years later.
And here I am, nearly ten inches taller than him. I often wonder if he might like to watch me train or fight one day. But I don’t think he will. I think he knows he doesn’t need to shout at me from the sidelines any more.
But there are a few things he really should know:
Even though I tower above him now, and all his hair is grey, and even though I have seen him gripped and destroyed by hurt, loss and pain – so powerful that, for a second, I didn’t even recognise him – I feel the same as I did when I was five years old, following him faithfully up and down the lawn, with my plastic toy lawnmower, trying to become the man I saw before me.
My Dad is the biggest man in the world to me. And easily the most important. I can never be bigger or stronger than him. And I never even want to be.
My Dad has gotten bigger as I have gotten older.
He has a short temper, hates to be pestered, but is the biggest tiny pestering fusser on the world. He can’t leave anything alone and yet he often gets bored of listening after about two minutes.
Whenever anything I do is outside of his approval, which I still can’t help but seek, he involuntarily pulls a face a lot like a small frog.
He annoys me when he refuses to learn new things because it’s easier to remain dumb, but yet he is so intelligent that I have to ask him to help me figure out bizarre mathematical and financial stuff that I can’t understand.
He remains the voice of experience and the man who I aspire to be.
I take his advice even though I try not to.
He is my Dad and I love and respect him with every part of what makes me, me.
And I know he will always, always be shouting to me from the sidelines.
If you want to add one, please send your words to CyrilCacoethes@live.co.uk
He is the quietest man I know. It’s not that he doesn’t have anything to say, it’s just that he doesn’t always feel the need to share it. This makes it even more wonderful when he does.
He is 60 next year, which scares me a little. 60 is old, my dad isn’t an old man – he’s just my dad. Granted his hair and beard isn’t jet black anymore and at times he can hardly walk from arthritis but he isn’t old.
He has only shouted at me and my sister once in my whole life – my mum informed me years later that he couldn’t sleep that night because of it. He gets overly enthusiastic about the littlest of things and tells you about them in a little bit too much detail. This year he has finally given in and bought himself something. The first time in the 23 years that I have been alive he has bought himself something that he didn’t need, he just wanted. I think my mum must have fainted that day he came home with an iPad.
Although he keeps himself to himself, retreating to his loft full of computer bits and books as soon as the conversation turns to boys, I occasionally get glimpses of the Harley riding, roady that he was in the 70s. Like the time I walked downstairs aged 10 to find my parents and their dinner party guests doing shots of tequila with my dad aiming a jif lemon into peoples mouths. I get my love of gigs and music from him – he was right, I would learn to love The Smiths.
I have never been someone that shows their emotions too readily and neither has he but one thing he doesn’t hide is his love for me. He doesn’t need to tell me everyday that he is proud of me because he knows I know. There really is no one like him. My dad.
My dad made me breakfast every Sunday when I was growing up. He read me books: kids’ ones, sci-fi, science. He told me stories about squirrels, seemingly never getting bored with making up increasingly outlandish plots.
Five bastarding squirrels, they were.
My dad took me on walks and taught me about plants and animals and rocks and stuff. He also took me to church. He still goes now; he knows I don’t and won’t, and he respects that and doesn’t pester me about it.
My dad moved out when I was 11. I never told him how much my mum slagged him off over the years, and how much it hurt to listen to it. She’s calmed down now and they get on fine when they see each other occasionally.
My dad got remarried ten years ago. He is kind and fussy and old-fashioned and a bit pompous; his wife is kind and fussy and old fashioned and a bit boring. They are happy. He is the happiest I’ve ever known him, and I love his wife for that.
My dad turned 80 this year. He still does some writing and editing and translating and teaching, and he’s as fit and well as you can expect at his age. I have never really asked him enough about his life; I don’t want to come to regret that. I love my dad.
I made this piece years ago. (see below) It says: I escape to the beach of my childhood…
I remember my father’s strong arms lifting me over the waves that threatened to crash upon my head. I feel the sunny sweetness of that summer day.
I think of my father almost daily at this time of year because it is gardening season. I spent many happy hours ‘helping’ my father in his garden as a child. The way to talk to my father was while he was doing something around the house. I had to tag along to talk to him, often pestering him to let me help with whatever chore he was doing. He was very patient with his little adoring daughter.
I’m so very glad my husband got to meet him, and so wish my son could have because they would have loved each other to pieces.
I imagine there are very few people in the world that can recall their earliest memory of their Dad like mine. Running into the living room to see this figure in a canary yellow shirt – and shooting him.
Shooting him with my machine gun toy, giggling a hello at him and then running back out again. That shirt was awful, as it happens. The colour of marigold gloves.
And Adidas Sambas, he always wore Adidas Sambas.
I am also incredibly proud to say that I remember the day I asked John if I could call him Dad. I sat next to him on the sofa, he was reading the paper the way he always does. And I held my breath and then asked him. He turned the page slowly and never looked at me, but smiled as he did it, and said, “Yes, of course you can”. I don’t think you could get a bigger smile than mine was, just then. And I hope he remembers those two smiles as much as I do, those smiles that don’t just happen to your face.
My parents are younger than most. My Dad is 50 next year, and I’m 30 in November. I remember playing those games in school where you’d try to guess the songs and mine would never be what anyone else was listening to. The Smiths, The Stranglers, he introduced me to Rage Against the Machine, a tape of their self-titled album. And I love that. My Dad taught me to love whatever music I wanted to and to Really Listen to it. He still lies on the carpet with his headphones and music blaring into his ears. My Dad gave me my first mix tapes.
And I don’t think I’ll ever forget being introduced to Tubular Bells. I love that I can go home and still wake up on the weekend at stupid o’clock with my Dad blaring something out into the house, and singing along to it. Singing the lines of the song ahead of the music, like he always does.
He taught me to never be a sheep and he hasn’t let me forget that, even when I thought my entire world hated me and it wouldn’t get better. And of course, it did. He took me for my first tattoo, on the day of my 18th birthday. And as I sat in the chair with the first couple of lines done, he knocked on the window gently and checked that I was ok. He helped me dye my hair shocking pink for the very first time. He bought me my first pair of Dr Martens, and showed me how to lace them ‘properly’. Almost killed me. He doesn’t have hair on the bottoms of his legs because he wore his own too tight with his drainpipes – true story. He helped me come up with the bloodiest and weirdest Hallowe’en costumes.
Yes, certain things have happened over the years and things haven’t always been easy, just like we’ve all had with our own families. I still know that he’d drive overnight to me if I needed him to. I know I don’t get to see him or my family as much as I’d like to, but he still texts me tv things to watch or the channel that one of my favourite films is showing on. I decided to get a tattoo for my Dad, he always calls me Teeny, just like his Dad did with his daughters, and when he signs cards, he signs a ‘Y’ in kisses, for his surname. Although that’s one of my smallest tattoos, it’s one of my favourites, and I know he is proud of it, too.
I know how lucky I am and I’m proud of both of my parents for being the people that they are.
Blood isn’t always thicker than water.
My dad is, in many ways, completely useless, and I think he would agree with that. He proudly asserts to anyone who will listen that he’s only ever changed one nappy in his life – it was mine, when I was a baby, and he purposely did it the wrong way round, so that my mother never asked him to do it again. Since I had his first grandson last November, no amount of teasing and cajoling has ever encouraged him to try again.
He can’t cook, for the life of him. He can barely heat up tinned food. I’ve discovered over the years that the reason for this is he’s terrified of doing anything wrong. He refuses to heat anything in the oven either, as he worries it’ll catch fire.
He has proved, over the years, unable to sustain a relationship. He jokes about it now, currently single after a failed attempt to rekindle an old romance, and I feel so desperately sorry for him. Because the truth is, my dad is one of the most loveable, emotional and funny guys I’ve ever met.
When our parents had an incredibly acrimonious divorce, and when neither me nor my younger sisters wanted anything to do with our mother (for reasons I won’t go into), my dad fought long and hard in the courts so that the judge eventually ruled in our favour and didn’t force us to see her. My dad lost his job through depression, he lost countless friends who sided with her, but he kept fighting for us, even when his own lawyer told him he had no chance of winning. My dad risked getting arrested when the judge issued a warrant, citing that if he didn’t force my screaming youngest sister into my mother’s car when she came to pick her up, he could be arrested. Luckily it didn’t happen.
I will say one thing for my dad. He’s very determined. Aside from in the case of women, he usually gets what he wants. And he will always stick up for his loved ones, even if he probably shouldn’t. When my sister had issues with her pay, and her work wouldn’t sort them for her, he went in to her work to “have a quiet word” with her manager (everyone within a 20 metre radius could hear that “quiet word” from behind a locked, heavy office door). When I was bullied at school by a kid that lived two doors down from us, the whole street knew about it when he spoke to the kid’s mother.
And he’s incredibly giving, despite having little or no money – probably the reason why he has no money! When his best mate’s dog was really ill, and needed expensive surgery immediately, he lent his friend the money with no time limit of when to pay it back. And I know it might sound like nothing to some, but if he’s coming over, he’ll pick me up a bit of shopping I might need – bread, milk, etc – and refuse to let me pay him back.
My favourite of his qualities though, is his humour. Sometimes it’s appalling. He’ll tell me an awful joke that some mate has texted him and he’ll be rolling around laughing his head off, while we’re standing there looking bemused. But more often than not, it’s hilarious. A few years back, when we were living with my nan (his ex-mother in law), him and his mate got drunk one night, went round to the house across the road from us and serenaded an old, very well-to-do lady who lived there, then hid my nan’s slippers in the fridge. Her face when she found them the next day was one I’m unlikely to ever forget.
Now the soppy bit. My dad has many, many faults. He’s brash, he can be incredibly rude, he has a very hot temper, he acts before he thinks (and this has often landed him in trouble). He very rarely forgives someone who does him wrong, no matter how trivial it might seem to others. But in return he’s exceptionally loyal. He’s caring. He’s an amazing Grandad (aside from refusing to change nappies) and a wonderful dad.
I love him so, so much that whenever he’s had hardship in the past, it physically hurts me. I want so much for him to meet someone lovely, to have a happy life, and I’m terrified he won’t. Bad luck follows him around like a bad smell and I wish so hard that it would piss off once in a while and leave him be. You could argue that he brought a lot of the bad luck on himself, and maybe that’s true in some way. But surely he’s due a break now. He went from being a part-time father, who worked long hours, to raising us three girls pretty much single-handedly, and he did a pretty good job of it, if I do say so myself.
And for that, I will always, always, respect, care for, and love him.
“My dad’s picking me up today”
“Does he have a Volvo?”
“No, he doesn’t have a Volvo.”
Two minutes later a smug grin is creeping its way across my brother’s young face, as what can only be described as a monster truck roars up to the school gates.
People, meet my dad.
A man who takes a sick day off work once ever 29 years, seems to have no pain threshold whatsoever – once on a Sunday afternoon he decided to pierce his ear by putting something that resembled a screwdriver into the fire, and then through his ear. This is pretty standard behaviour in the Barnard house.
The first time my older brother visited my parents new house he went into the living room: “What’s in that cupboard?” “Guns.” “Oh.”
Many of my earliest memories revolve around being driven to seemingly far off lands (Kent) in a WW2 Dodge ambulance. It had the stretchers in the back which weren’t as comfortable as you’d hope. After the military vehicles came the muscle cars, and the journeys that weren’t quite long enough despite the 6.7L V8 and lack of appropriate sound proofing leaving us deaf and shaking.
My dad is a quiet man. He describes himself as an ‘extroverted introvert’, which would go for me too. You see I’m a lot like my dad.
I will make no bones about it, I idolise my dad. Right from back in the 80’s when he sported a large moustache, wore a leather jacket and had that harassed look that only a parent of four children has, to the present day where the ‘tache, jacket and harassed look have gone – replaced by a few lines and grey hairs, I am a daddy’s girl.
He and my mam split when I was thirteen and when I was fifteen I moved in with him, his new wife and my step brother and step sister. He supported my decision to leave sixth form and go on to a YTS scheme (for you youngsters that was a kind of slave wage apprentice scheme) and then for me to move away to Wolverhampton to train to be a nurse.
When he drove me to my nurses digs that first time and we pulled up at a grim Victorian building in the middle of what turned out to be a red light district he said ‘you can always come home you know.’ So appalled was he at my new living arrangements.
This is the very essence of my dad. He is ALWAYS there. Sometimes he dispenses words of advice; other times harsh truths but always there for me.My addiction too many cups of tea comes from my dad as does my love for ‘ligging about’ (his phrase) feet up on the sofa reading a magazine or watching telly, nowt better.
If I could say things honestly to him, it would be thank you for the endless support through what have been many hard times. I would also say sorry if I’ve let him down. I’m sure when daughter number two was born his dream for her wasn’t to have two children by two different fathers and be living in a council house at the age of thirty six.
But I’m getting there dad. Slowly but surely I’m getting my sh!t together and growing up.As a post script, I’d like to share with you the word smirting .My dad told me it’s apparently what people do when they go outside a pub for a fag.
They smoke and flirt. Not him obviously, because he’s my dad and the idea of my dad flirting is GROSS.
My dad. There’s a lot I could say about him but all the words in the world wouldn’t do him justice. When we were kids he used to take me and my siblings out EVERYWHERE. I have memories of coming home filthy; having ran from trolls under bridges, climbed trees, found buried treasure (pre buried pennies and washers), chased rabbits, eaten wild blackberries and always having a perpetual smile on my face. I don’t know how my dad did it. I have 2 children now with a less than 2 year age gap. I am eternally tired. Dad and mum had 3 kids in 15 months…me and then twins. My mum worked evenings so my dad would come home from working a full day of manual labour (he is a metal worker/welder) throw us all in the bath, tell us an extensive bedtime story and tuck us up.
Sometimes he had to work away and he called every night without fail, and we would not wait in the house, we would be sat on the garden wall every Friday, kids and dogs, awaiting his return. He drove for hours and hours to get home, but sometimes he would take us straight out. He just seemed to have limitless energy.
The highlight of the week was Saturday football. While dad played we drank coke with a straw and ate niknaks. And climbed the trees next to the pitch to see who could get the highest, who could see the railway bridge from the grounds. I don’t ever remember my dad telling me to stop doing something that ever involved putting myself in mortal danger, the higher you can climb, the more fearless you could be, it’s like he could see you becoming more independent. When my mum was there the look on her face was sheer horror and us kids loved to see it!
Every year our holiday was to spend the summer with grandparents in Ballymoney. We never got to go on fancy holidays abroad until later in life when my mum got a job with a travel agency. But those weeks over in Ireland were worth a million package holidays. I never envied my friends when we returned to school, in fact they envied us! We would roll down hills, climb the sand dunes collecting buckets of snails (I never remember what we did with them all!)Dad would take us to the giants Causeway and his stories were much more magical than the local myths and legends. Sometimes he would be so convincing we would swear the giant was coming out of the sea.
That is another amazing gift he possessed, sometimes he used it TOO well. In fact he still does it now with his grandkids and as a parent I’m forever telling him to stop winding them up. Every night we used to go in a time machine to a different part of history, a different part of the world and always managed to escape (over an hour of storytelling later) unscathed….just. But then he did love to tell us local spook stories too, some that I now find telling my kids in passing…even though I am sure him and his dad (my granddad pop) made most of them up. From Ginny green teeth to the rolling heads of soldiers, he couldn’t half put the frighteners up you!
We have grown up I have had the privilege of knowing my dad as a person and a friend, not just a person who cared for me and made sure I made it into adulthood relatively unharmed…
He has done as much for his kids in adulthood as in childhood. From making sure we had lifts everywhere, enough money for petrol, food (that we probably always spent on booze) to single handedly decorating our first homes (and every DIY job in between) there’s never a time I don’t know ABSOLUTELY that I could call on him and he would be there in a heartbeat.
When I found out I was pregnant I remember I was scared young and in the middle of my degree. I knew my mum would kill me. Luckily for me she was in Ballymoney so I called my dad knowing she wouldn’t have to know at the same time. He was the first person I told. He was at my house within minutes. He just gave me a ‘look’ and a hug. He didn’t judge me and although he is not a man of many words, when he is not talking nonsense he’s a very wise bloke. He just reassured me in a way that none of my friends, my other half, and any other family did and I knew I would be fine.
I was told weeks later that something might be wrong with the baby. I would have to go for a scan but wait 7 days. I couldn’t tell you one thing about that week, not a thing. But I remember sitting in that waiting room and my dad walked in. I hadn’t asked him to, I don’t even remember telling anyone the time of my appointment. It made me feel like I didn’t have to be strong, that I could feel all these feelings and it would be ok because my dad was there to tell me it was OK. And my dad was there when they told me my baby had died. It’s like he is two people. ‘Fun’ dad and ‘serious’ dad. Serious dad was a godsend that day. I don’t remember much apart from the fact I didn’t have to tell anyone or do anything, I could just go home.
If I could do one thing differently now I always say it would be to have my dad at the birth of one of my kids, and people don’t always understand that. But he is such an amazing father and grandfather, and he never got to witness the birth of any of his children (old school gas and air emergency sections) I think nobody would appreciate the miracle more than my dad. My lasting memory of having my daughter Lily was my dad stood outside the labour ward, not being allowed in, but waiting patiently with a flask of tea and bacon butty in foil for when I was allowed to have it. He is an absolute class act.
I can see my dad all over again now as a parent myself. It is a double joy to see him with my kids (and his other grandkids). One to see the kids so in awe of their amazing grandad Mike, and it’s also a reminder of my own wonderful childhood. I love hearing my kids tell me of adventures at the very places he used to take me as a child, the dingle, Lymm Dam, Shell Mountain and Troll Bridge, and the twiggery. And even though he is 60 in a few months he now does more than he did in his 30’s. He takes a 6 year old, a 5 year old, a 4 year old and a one year old! He really is amazing. He buries treasure for them now…although they get 20 and 50 pence pieces now, bit unfair! The kids adore him more than any of their parents or other grandparents and just the mention of the name granddad Mike makes their faces light up with absolute glee. He lets them do naughty things, dangerous things like climbing, and digging, and eating unauthorised sweets. Nobody can compete with granddad Mike…perhaps not even Father Christmas.
I get to see him amongst friends when he bowls and goes to watch sport and do the quiz at the local and the love and respect people have for him is overwhelming. So you know it is not just daughterly adoration. He literally would (and does) do anything for anyone. I’m so proud that I can say he is my dad.
Just over a year ago I got to see a side of my dad I didn’t like seeing. On April 27th Last year my granddad passed away, his dad. His dad that did all the things with him that he did with me. My dad was just broken. Even though we knew for a few weeks the end was near, we all got to say our goodbyes, and he was a ripe old age of 89, my dad was just like a 6 year old, totally lost. It’s horrible to see someone who I have just written about so glowingly, so much the opposite to that person. But it was also horrible to watch because the relationship he was mourning was the relationship I knew deep down one day I will mourn, and it scared me to the point of sickness. At the funeral there were lots of tears but then LOTS of laughs, pictures stories and memories. They chose a song for my granddad which I adore even though it is obviously not appropriate for my dad right now, but it would be, well I suppose you have to hear it to understand, but YOU. WILL. CRY if your dad is remotely the man I describe. And it is also my granddad pop to an absolute T. I dread the day I have to play that song. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H6C-Fphx9lE
I never even wanted to be without my granddad, and I don’t want to be without my dad, or my kids be without a granddad. But I am just glad that I have all this stuff to keep forever, all these memories and experiences, and more to come because he’s far from going anywhere yet. With his dad leaving us at 89 and his nana Lily holding out to 101 I think we have a few more Mickey Cripps adventures in him yet. Maybe even some great granddad mike adventures…We don’t call him ‘the legend’ for nothing.
My dad is selfless, strong, intelligent and yet riddled with self-doubt, hatred for himself and constant paranoia.
And in many ways it’s legitimate paranoia. Life has repeatedly kicked him in the crotch. When he was young he had a life-threatening operation partially made worse by the doctors who almost killed him. He had to fight his way to work and when he did he was met by people who weren’t half as loyal as him, always trying to stab him in the back.
And in 2006 the love of his life, one of the few things that made the struggle worthwhile, died. My mum died in 2006, and he never fully recovered – none of us did. A few years after that my nan (his mum) died, and a few years after that his step-dad died too after a long battle with dementia.
My dad has seen almost every person he loved die, disappear or turn their back on him but he continues on. Why? I don’t know. He did everything for us, his kids, and he constantly fought for the little man to make sure those who did the right thing got what they deserved. We’re not the sort of family to laugh and cheer together or hug or any of that, he doesn’t do any of it for our love. He does it because he loves us, and that’s all that matters.
My dad can fix pretty much anything, he knows a car like the back of his hand, he could fit a new boiler, he can do pretty much anything! Unfortunately this trait did not pass to me.
But he has his faults too, we all do. My dad drinks like crazy and regularly finds himself in an uncontrollable rage over the silliest of things. I’ve no doubt a lot of that is due to mum dying, but the anger has always been there. It shook our whole house.
But I still love him. Despite the fights we’ve had and the fact he is never, ever happy, I respect him and I love him. He is a pillar of strength that, even when his whole world falls apart and there’s LITERALLY almost nothing left, continues to stand.
I don’t know anyone else as strong as that.
My dad is remarkable to me. He was away a lot while I was a kid, travelling the world, doing seemingly important jobs, he was even overseas when I was born. But when he came home, everything was brighter. He used to sit me on his lap when I was tiny and play ‘all fall down’ through his knees. He’d help me get dressed my physically lifting me by the waistband on my woollen tights and bouncing me until I was all the way into them. He used to help me wash my hands for dinner, enveloping my tiny hands in his seemingly enormous ones as we both washed the soap off. He has always been my hero.
When mum left, he was heartbroken, it was the only time I’ve seen him cry. But he cried a lot at that time. It was just me and him alone then, finding our way together. We went for a day out to Blackpool to try and cheer ourselves up (heaven knows why we thought that would work!), we ate fish and chips while drinking tea in a cafe on the sea front. It was a good time despite the heartbreak.
Mum treated him abysmally after she left, flaunting new relationships, knowing it caused him pain. Dad never seemed to understand the mental problems mum was suffering, I suppose like many can’t if they haven’t felt like that themselves. He ended up hating her, refusing to have anything to do with her. But despite that, when she tried to kill herself one snowy Christmas night, he didn’t think twice before jumping out of bed so we could go to the hospital and see her. He showed her enduring support after that day, no matter how much it hurt or confused him.
He’s nearly 65 now and has a tendency to be intolerant, judgemental and seemingly grumpy, other people often don’t ‘get’ him but he’s my dad.
He’s my hero. He’s remarkable to me.
My hairdresser was admiring the natural ash-blonde colour of my hair this morning. I had to tell her that I inherited it from my dad, whose hair went through exactly the same progression from light blonde to darker blonde to ash to silver that I see mine working its way through every day in the mirror. Mercifully, though, I’ve been spared the bald patch and the indignity of the combover.
It started me thinking about other things I’ve inherited from my dad:
His willingness to look for the best in other people, not the worst.
His unfailing optimism.
His love of cricket (though not his love of gardening, which would have been infinitely more useful).
His work ethic.
His woolly liberalism.
His good humour, and his sense of humour.
My dad, in other words, made me – in many senses apart from the obvious biological one. It’s over nine years since he died, and yet it still stings when I have to say that “my dad’s hair was the same” instead of “my dad’s hair is the same”.
I imagine it always will.
Mo was born on 5th November 1933 as the sixth of 8 children. He was the surviving member of a pair of twins, and was a sickly youngster, suffering from Influenza and pneumonia over the years. A wiry and muscular young man, with a thick head of ginger hair. Mo took an apprenticeship as a carpenter with a firm in Tunbridge Wells, and did his military service as a sapper in the Royal Engineers, seeing active service in Malaya and Korea in the 1950s. He met and married my mum in the 1964 and had 3 sons, of whom I am the youngest. We poddled along as you do, until the wheels started to come off our cosy existence in 1985. It wasn’t a medical matter, but my dad was made redundant from the building firm he worked for. He decided to become a self-employed contractor, and carried on for the next few years.
Dad fell ill in 1987, and in 1988 was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer – it felt like the bottom had fallen out of my world. The man I looked up to, admired, wanted to emulate in the way he dealt with other people, was beginning to fade away. For the next 18 months (I now know that pancreatic cancer has a poor prognosis, so we didn’t have a bad go at it), Mo carried on as best he could, being polite and civil to neighbours and doctors, but swearing to high heaven inside the house. He was losing weight rapidly, and by August 1989 weighed around 6 stone- this for a man who was 5 foot 10. We had our lighter moments- my brother had an operation that required the services of a district nurse to come daily to change dressings. My Gran lived opposite, and came over one morning saying ‘I see the nurse was late this morning’. A voice thundered out of the downstairs loo- ‘We’ll get her to f*****g well clock in next time shall we?’.
At the end of August 1989 we had a party for all the family. My Uncle Henry died when dad had been ill for 3 months and Uncle Arthur died a year later- the first time I have ever seen my dad cry. This was now one year on and I was off on my travels- off for my year abroad in Germany. He stayed up really late that night, even thought the pain was unbearable- we later found the cancer had spread to his stomach. Once a soldier, always a soldier, he made sure I had cleaned my shoes before I set off. On the Monday morning, he was in great pain but didn’t tell me, he shook me by the hand and wished me all the best- that was the last thing he ever said to me.I suppose he wanted me to carry on, and not to wait around, even though he knew in his heart of hearts that the end was nigh.
We didn’t have too long to wait. Dad was taken to hospital a few weeks later and I was brought home from Germany. I got to the hospital just in time, and Mo passed away 3 hours after my homecoming, at a quarter past midnight on Saturday 23rd September 1989. I never got to tell him how much I was going to miss him, or that I still miss him to this day, nearly 23 years later.
The silly things are the things I remember. Things like him coming out into the garden to bring my brothers and I in from playing cricket, but in fact joining in for another hour. Things like his little sayings, one of which I use now ‘There are very few people in this life blessed with both modesty and good looks, but fortunately I am one of them’. One not-so-silly thing I remember is that, despite his gruff exterior, there was a generous heart and an infinite willingness to help people, family or friends.
It’s strange – the grieving has diminished a great deal in the nigh-on 23 years since I lost my dad, but it never truly goes. Sometimes I miss the old git, as I fondly refer to him, more than I could tell anyone. He never saw me become a teacher, a husband, a father, and then an ex-husband. Some things he would be proud of, for others he would probably use his most common phrase – ‘you’re a prat, what are you?’. I don’t care one jot – he’s my dad and I will always love him.
Dad found an injured bird today. A blackbird with a broken wing. Not fully grown, it bore the remnants of baby-fluff feathers. He moved it to open ground and kept a close eye, hoping its Mother would swoop down and rescue it. She didn’t.
He mashed up some bird seed and scooped the fragile creature into his hands and tried to feed it with a pipette. It let out a singular, pitiful squawk but, with no strength to fight, rested limp in his hands. He stroked its chest. He held it tight. It was safe.
It’s the little things with my Dad. No overblown gestures of affection. Rare with cuddles. Sparse with those ‘three words’…
Dad is a hulk of a man. I used to think he was made of steel. I saw him shoulder-barge a stranded car out of a country lane once, or at least I think I did. His motorbike is the biggest, loudest, most ferocious one money can buy. He blares out Five Finger Death Punch and Paul Potts in equal measure. His favourite films are Dirty Dancing and the Bodyguard. Yes, Dad is a hulk of a man. Made of steel, but with a molten centre.
2009. I’m laid out, stitched and sore. Skin cancer carved out of me. 27 stitches. Melanoma melancholy. A bunch of flowers and a, “Are you alright?” Dad goes quiet when he’s worried.
2012. It’s been a tough few years and now this. MS. At least it won’t kill me. But I’ve got it for life. I tell him. He doesn’t say much. Dad goes quiet when he’s worried, remember. Mows the lawn. Prunes the conifers. Hours pass, then a knock on my door, “We’ll support you with everything we have.” Life changes.
Open the kitchen cupboard, there’s a list on the inside of the door of all the things I can and can’t eat from now on. He reads up on my condition. Plans menus. Visits health food shops. Buys a mountain of tupperware and fills it with things I don’t even know how to pronounce. He serves his love up on a plate. A diet seasoned with affection, concern and support.
It’s the little things with my Dad. No overblown gestures of affection. Rare with cuddles. Sparse with those ‘three words’. But when I’m that fragile, injured bird, he picks me up and holds me tight. I am safe. Those little gestures mean the world.
What is it about eating out that turns us into utterly unrecognisable tw@ts?
Why is it that we insist on saving our most ridiculously penile behaviour for the famished gob-laden forum of the public eatery?
Why is it that we are perfectly capable of pulling out a chair, putting our coat on the back, then sitting down, in any circumstance other than one where we find ourselves openly f*ckbumbling in a relatively full restaurant?
Why do we instinctively start pullw@nking chairs as if they weigh over a tonne and then create origami patterns of utter nonsense with our stupid clothes trying to arrange them in some kind of disfunctional order?
And another thing.
What is it about restaurants or pubs, that force people to irrelevantly act like grateful peasants being thrown scraps from the master’s table? Why is it that having paid for a sh!tload of food, we find it necessary to adopt some kind of overexcited humble-faced-pigtw@t impersonation the very minute a 15 year-old waitress appears with a plate of fat onion rings?
We’ve PAID FOR IT – stop this pantomime of uncomfortable generosity. It’s just dinner, not a selfless donation of bone marrow for a dying child.
But I say these things as if I’m not as much of as liability as the next mouth.
Only the other day I was sat in a beautiful little picturesque Portuguese cafe; small tables effortlessly cluttering a compact market street, amazing home-cooked food served by impossibly busy matriarchs wearing starched aprons.
Or at least it was, until I completely accidentally echo-shouted “f*ck” into a hot coffee cup, amplifying my terrible mouth shame in all possible directions and effectively silencing the entire area in one idiotic squeak.
My instant and genuine ‘apology’ was to loudly announce the word “sh!t”.
And it’s not just me.
I sat in a Japanese restaurant recently with a beautiful, intelligent woman who, to all intents and purposes, was completely normal when we entered the building and has, to my knowledge, remained entirely normal since.
As the Japanese waiter brought us the bill, he struggled valiantly with his slightly broken English to politely converse with us as best he could.
Spying the card reader, my generous companion took it upon herself to insist on settling the bill. Engaging the waiter in polite, but difficult, conversation, she remarked on the operational effectiveness of the clever hand-held device that she was using, explaining how it must make things so much easier.
The waiter, keen to chat and clearly grasping the gist of the conversation agreed, adding pertinently that it was, in fact, just like an ATM.
Just like an ATM.
To which, this once perfectly sane woman immediately shrilled “YES! ABSOLUTELY YES! It really IS just like the A TEAM! I always think that…!!”
I think she knew her mistake almost the second that the words left her mouth, having entirely re-routed themselves neatly around any functioning part of her operational brain. Because she looked across to me, hopefully, with an air of tacit desperation and slightly reddening cheeks…
“I think you’ll find he definitely said ATM…” I stated, helpfully.
The rest of the transaction was completed in silence, save for a polite thank you and goodnight, to the backdrop of me beaming, humming the theme tune to a certain 1980s television show.
Just like the A Team.
Many thanks to ‘Howling Mad’ @Squarish for ‘helping’ with these words.
I am one year old.
I joined the electronic circle jerk that is Twitter one year ago.
I had a vague awareness of the existence of it prior to joining, but I had generally assumed that it was simply a completely sh!t collection of boring nonsense projections, pathetic outrage, and desperate celebrity self-fellatio.
Now I know it is, but yet I still play here.
So what’s happened over the course of the last 12 months of my Tweeting life?
Well, I never intended to be a Tweeter and I was only advised to join as a way to interact with writer people and promote my writing experiments.
A year ago today I had never even written a Tweet and, in fact, I had never written anything at all. So I made a website called www.stupidrubbish.co.uk and began to collect together and post up my scribbles, ideas and stories.
40,000 words and 200,000 hits later…
I just write the sh!t that endlessly falls out of my brain, I can write about anything because I can think about anything and that makes it relatively easy, but then, somehow, remarkably difficult and sometimes exhausting.
Somehow, I’ve collected a few thousand followers over the last year, made some amazingly good friends and have been approached - almost from day one – with ideas, opportunities and offers of great ideas, projects and invites.
Sadly, I’ve also collected some unpleasantness, some difficulty and some amazingly determined enemies who seem to take offence at a nobody wandering around like he owns the place. Plus I’ve learned a great deal about the transience of the relentless offers, projects and “could you write…?” messages that drop, like unwashed promises, into my inbox and then fade away to less than nothing before your very eyes.
A learning curve it is, this Twitter.
Oh, and let’s get something else straight, the reason I wander round like I own the place is because I f*cking do. Just like everyone else who has some words to write or a point to make. Big, Small, follow, unfollow, who gives a sh!t?
This place isn’t yours. It’s ours.
But overall it’s still a good place, I think, and it’s a great outlet for me and my ridiculous mind. I can’t be friends with everyone, or even like everyone – let alone be universally liked – and despite my best efforts I can’t even make everyone laugh, but I can try I do have my moments.
My life is one big moment at times.
I’ve also learned a thing or two about myself and what kinds of ideas I can express more seriously. My Cancer Vents brought thousands of people to my website and my Marble Theory has brought me dozens of heartfelt responses and messages from people moved or supported by my words.
This makes me very very happy.
I never expected to have quite as much of a connection to this place and the people who inhabit it – I always thought I was more able to step back from it and not be involved. It’s not that simple though.
A few people who know the real me very well, know that I began with a half dozen characters, of which Cyril was just one. As they all rose into the hundreds-of-followers I began to find myself becoming glued to Cyril as I began to use him more frequently with more of actual me.
And slowly, all the other characters died and were deleted.
Like Dr Jekyll, my transformation complete.
So now what?
Well I came here with a reason and a porpoise. Insert canned laughter here. I came here to try my hand with writing stuff, I came with no illusions and no idea where my talent, or lack of it, resided or even existed.
I decided I would spend a year writing for my website and exploring any opportunities that evolved, but mostly I would try to work out exactly what I could do with my words, before closing and deleting this site and deactivating the @CyrilCacoethes profile and starting work, instead, on my first book.
An experiment on myself, if you like. And believe me, I’ve come close to that deletion, early, a few times, thanks to the unpleasantness of others. But I suppose my internal masterplan – along with the friendships (with REAL people) that make everything so worthwhile, kept my head above the water.
Anyway, I’m rambling.
I really appreciate all the brilliant people I now know and I especially can’t thank enough, those of you (you know who you are xxx), who know the idiot behind the egg and who keep me as close to sane as is possible and make me feel worthwhile enough as a human to get on with doing whatever it actually is I do.
As for the masterplan, well, I’ll tell you a secret; I finally began work on my first book, today.
As if I would ever delete…
Shops, pubs, petrol stations…
These places are the epicentre of the phenomenon known as the tw@tpirouette.
The incredible moment when the cashier or shop assistant irrelevantly begins some kind of awful contemporary dance manoeuvre to express their complete and utter dedication to the act of NOT LOOKING at your pin number.
Like a coiled idiotspring, they wind themselves away from your area, often projecting a facsimile of disgust at the act you are about to commit. Their entire bodies contorting to display their total dedication to facing the other way.
Some of the more dramatic types will even add an extraordinary flourish of eye-shielding with their free hand that can last for up to ten agonising seconds after you’ve entered your numbers into the keypad.
It’s almost impossible when caught, self-aware, in those ridiculous moments, not to feel bizarrely ‘guilty’ as a result of the horrendous over-acting. Their mock revulsion at your dirty fingertips potentially making you feel like a sweating pervert pathetically handing over a recently obtained beaker of lukewarm ejaculate to a pretty nurse in a busy sperm bank.
And what even IS this fear?
It causes you to act like a monumental idiot in the belief that if they, or the public earnestly tw@tpiroetting behind you in the queue, might see your PIN number, or that they might somehow use that information to do anything other than peer into your bank account to see what kind of cash available you have.
You read the statements poking out of the little bin thing and you know you do.
It ends up instilling within you a deep urge to get your four numbers smashed into the flashing little bastard as quickly as possible. Which, as we know, can only ever result in either the total loss of motor control in your digits, or, the complete inability to remember your pin number at all.
So there you are, in public, with a bag of Primark toss stuffed hopefully inside basically any other brand of bag in order not to look like a complete f*ckcrumb.
Your big sweating face desperately punching half-remembered numbers into a tiny keypad with all the accuracy of a sh!tfaced horse wearing boxing gloves.
In front of you, the shop assistant has dislocated her lumbar vertebrae like some kind of RADA/corkscrew hybrid, whilst simultaneously making you feel like a fat pervert. Behind you at least two people have begun to study the polystyrene ceiling tiles like moon-faced babies at a long-overdue bedtime.
And at the end of the long and shopping-filled day, you probably don’t even want or need the ridiculous bags of crap you’ve bought.
It’s a ritual.
It’s a stupid ritual.
This never happened with pound notes.
“tw@tpirouette” was first observed and studied in the wild by the beautiful @Squarish. No coins or credit cards were harmed in the making of this article.
We love animals – of course we do.
Apart from the ones that we lock in tiny boxes then eat. Obviously.
But overall we definitely love little animal things because they are cuddly, sweet and great and they do cute stuff and things that we momentarily adore before taking a deep breath and resigning them to the same monotony of routine that we mistakenly think enriches our own empty lives.
But there are exceptions.
Animals have a tendency to relentlessly distribute poos and wees whilst leaking other bodily fluids pretty much everywhere in a way that is irritating. And I don’t mean the animals we put in fields and then later, stuff into our hungry mouths, because they are absolutely entitled to fill their own happy fields with all the poos and wees in the world – it’s a privilege of death row.
I mean those ones that put it into your garden, house or shoes.
And it’s not just bottottom poo.
When cats stroll into your garden to specifically deposit their anus eggs into your vegetable patch it’s very rubbish. And when dogs leave special delivery pipe bombs on the pavement that end up looking like a dancer’s footprints through room temperature Nutella, yes – that’s unpleasantface too.
But how many times do you recall having to suffer the indignity of an animal spitting into your actual headmouth?
I was trying to do some antler-wearing perverts in the deer compound at a well known animal park a GOOD TURN. I had dutifully bought a little tub of what looked like guinea-pig faeces, so that I could push food into their hopeful little deer faces as I drove past them irrelevantly at a low speed.
Little did I know there were over 400 of them and they were like starving dogs, barking hard, with fully erect lipsticks at a passing hot sausage.
Before I know it I have a massive-headed antler-stag with it’s entire BRAIN inside my car, it’s ridiculous headpiece stuck under the steering wheel and PRESSING AGAINST MY HUMAN FACE. It spilled my £2′s worth of guinea-pig droppings EVERYWHERE, instantly like a massive and clumsy venison berk.
It even beeped my personal horn.
Naturally I took hold of its stupid face and pushed it back out of the window whilst loudly announcing how rude it was for being such a greedy robber in the first place, for trying to take more than his fair share.
At which point it spat on me.
It spat… inside of me.
My mouth was forming the middle vowel of a formidable expletive at the time. And the deer’s mouth-juice-gob-ball went right into my own mouth. INTO MY OWN MOUTH. Just to clarify… IT SPAT SPIT INTO MY OPEN MOUTH!
What kind of an idiot nonsense of a scared manbaby would accept that?
So, I punched the deer in the face. Hard.
I think I might even have spat back at it. I can’t be sure because there was a fog of testosterone conflict raging in my mind and it was a survival instinct that I was working through. But yeah, pretty sure I spat the deer’s own spit, and some of mine, back into his tiny eyes, like a struggling pensioner in a hot brothel.
As I punched it’s face twice…
And called it a fat baby…
Not my finest hour.
With hindsight, this was made worse by the fact that firstly we were still no more than 4 yards from the feeding station where the student rangers sat in amazed awe at my obvious prowess and instability. And secondly there was a 3 year old child in the car. Now crying. Hard.
The moral of the story is this; don’t take any funny business from animals and don’t be afraid to punch them in the face if you need to.
Brought to you without the letters; F, U, C & K. Please comment. Original and ruder Stag Don’t is found by clicking this word carefully >>> COCKHAMMER…
This month, I am mostly examining my own stupid.
Sometimes in real life you find your personal self interacting with other people.
Their hopeful eyes fire wasted imagination at you as your lives momentarily intertwine for no apparent reason. You politely listen to whatever it is that they need from you, or need to offload at your brain.
So this thing happens, where you are out somewhere and you get your open mouth spoken into by a person who, in any other moment of normality, you wouldn’t have even noticed. It might be an old person, irrelevantly talking to you about a small bush, or perhaps a shrub. Or it could be a hilariously lost person, with a big pitiful face, asking you where something unimportant or stupid is.
It doesn’t really matter.
The fact is, when your life becomes all interrupted like this something truly amazing and unusual happens: You make this kind of temporary friendship that lasts for about five to ten stupid minutes.
From that moment on you are temporarily bonded.
Like brothers and sisters in arms.
And in this time there is a universal law that cannot be altered or usurped.
During this bonding, despite the fact that your only knowledge of this complete stranger is the brief and pointless crossing of paths that you just endured, if you leave them, walk away from them during the bonding phase…
You have to say goodbye.
As stupid as your teeth feel allowing this complete f*ckMITTEN phrase to climb outside of your head, you absolutely HAVE to say do it.
It’s the universal byelaw.
And what’s worse, is that approximately seven times out of ten when you find yourself invoked into action by the stranger of your nightmares, helplessly spouting a farewell to them - as if you even give a sh!t about the rest of their morning, let alone the rest of their lives – something awful happens.
You know it.
You’ve had an interaction.
The universal byelaw was invoked..
You’ve stupidly and self conciously said a faux-genuine goodbye…
You can bet your last f*cking Wasabi pea that you’ll irrelevantly bump into or walk right past the bastard again, without warning, about half a sodding hour later, like an enormous gurning HEADtw@t.
Do us all a favour.
Don’t f*cking say hello.
Why is it so f*cking impossible to just be normal when you accidentally see someone you know, just a little bit sooner than you meant to?
You know what I mean.
I mean that thing when you are walking down a road and you accidentally look up and see another human that you somehow know, but they’re too close to wave at and yet, too far away to speak to. Instantly rendering you completely mentally ill in a vain attempt try and f*ck-manage the situation.
If they were about forty yards further away, you’d have been completely fine.
You’d have simply done a facewave at them and then walked onwards happily towards them with your big face full of massive greet.
If they were within twenty feet of you, it’d have been even easier, you simply would have done a loud to medium hello and then done a shorter version of the forty-yard-greeting-face we’ve already discussed.
A striding greetlet.
But no… what happens is that they always fall into that impossible void where you can’t shout the length of the street and yet you can’t get to them quickly enough through that desperate haze to appear vaguely normal.
That corridor of indecision that invariably makes you do what is pretty much the stupidest f*cking thing in the entire universe…
You see them.
They see you.
And then you irrelevantly pretend you haven’t seen them yet.
You cheerfully look around at the street, suddenly massively over-interested in all the impossibly dull minutia of everything around you. Like a wide-eyed tw@tkitten in a room full of brightly coloured balloons, you play your part like a hopeful tosser, desperately trying to appear utterly oblivious.
The money shot.
You’ve been carefully gauging the precise distance between you, using your peripheral vision, until, like some kind of demented f*ckhunter, your instinct kicks-in and the very second they move into what your insecurity-riddled mind deems is an acceptable range…
Like an utter tw@t wearing a plastic mask of surprise.
You perform a pathetic pantomime greeting from deep inside the tingling sanctuary of your own crippling self-awareness.
And they play along.
Being unwell is universally rubbish isn’t it?
It’s like having your head drained and then refilled with warm orange juice, before being forced to wear someone else’s skin for a few days.
I hate how everything sounds a little bit underwatery and you get that pointless and frustrating cold ache that makes you feel like a terminally miserable nonagenarian made entirely of light brown and vinegar.
Whenever I feel unwell it reminds me of being a child, when all your healthcare concerns were thrust mercilessly upon you by others. When Calpol seemed like some sort of bizarre treat and anti-biotics appeared to be made from banana.
For some reason, I remember saltw@ter featuring highly in virtually all home remedies. Along with TCP and the sort of fabric plaster that was a superficial skin-tone physically impossible for anyone other than the bastard supernatural offspring of an action man and a sexually viable hearing-aid.
We have basically two choices when faced with a general illness.
You either head for your GP, by first navigating a switchboard that exists outside generally accepted principles of space and time, then a receptionist equipped with the social skills and demeanor of a faulty gas oven.
You wobble off to a Chemist and try to buy the closest thing possible to an illegal hoard of narcotics that your wallet and their consciences will allow.
For me, it’s only ever going to be option two, because despite the increasingly unnerving fact that absolutely ALL Chemist’s shops smell EXACTLY THE SAME, at least they are not filled with dreadful magazines, elderly people and a horribly messy pile of old and broken children’s toys.
So, self-medication it is.
And there begins that brilliant medical phase where you line up your newly bought treatments in the kitchen. Proudly, but desperately, studying the maximum doses. Willing for deviation from the eternal truth of four hour time-frames and patients not over the seemingly magical age of twelve years.
And no matter what you do, you will open the packet at the end that has the leaflet folded across it, like a cruel barrier to your foil-wrapped saviour.
And no matter what you hope for, you’ll never quite get the quick-fix you need.
Maybe there was something in that medicinal saltw@ter stuff in the first place…
I hate mobile telephones.
I’m not a Luddite and I’m not one of those terrified babies clinging fearfully to a lump of 1998 tw@tplastic the size of a pint glass whilst being desperately pointless about longer battery time or bleating about better signal.
Nor I am one of those horrendous, technology-obsessed perverts who queue, fully erect, to buy the latest identical version of the same f*cking thing or masturbate furiously over YouTube videos of people opening boxes.
No, I just find mobile phones irritating almost all of the time.
It enrages me when other people talk into them near me and I find them irritating when they irrelevantly chirpbeep from the pockets of total strangers.
I find them annoying when they become the focus of attention for someone I have any need or inclination to speak to. And I hate them when they play music plus I hate them whenever they are held by teenagers. I hate them.
There’s something about the smug, smiling face mouth of a person talkshouting their entire tw@t of a conversation into a tiny phone as if they need to somehow perform it for us. It genuinely makes me want to repeatedly punch the front of their massive head’s face until it changes both colour and shape.
My phone is perpetually on silent AND I keep vibrate switched off. Some people look at me with a bizzare shocked gob of pathetic earnest when I tell them this, massively and bizarrely obsessing over the idea that I might miss a call.
I honestly don’t give a sh!tTING TIT if I miss a call, which is why I also don’t leave my home dramatically unraveling hundreds of yards of landline cable behind me, so I can take my house phone out with me every tw@tting day.
I keep my phone on a very short leash and I refuse to let it bully or pester me.
It’s there for ME… not for the benefit of other people in order that I am never, ever allowed a single moment of time offline or out of sight.
Occasionally I catch the mute button on my phone without realising, rendering it able to beepsqueak at me like a sh!tty kitten at an inopportune moment.
For extra protection, I set my phone to the most phonelike noise possible, to avoid appearing to be a horrendous sex pest whose phone plays a tune.
But my behaviour when suddenly confronted by my own ringing phone is exact:
First I look ‘puzzled’, then, a millisecond later my face shifts to ‘quite cross’. I remove the offending noisetw@t from my pocket and stare angrily at its glowing face to ascertain who the f*ck has done this to me.
Then I click the mute button back on, dramatically, whilst cancelling the call.
Before shaking my head solemly and returning the phone to my pocket.
I f*cking hate them.
I hate running, but I do it most days, like a big, sweaty, vest-wearing penis.
It’s part of my training regime, trying to stave off my body’s seemingly endless desire to become a fat pink circle with a face glued on the front.
So I run.
I rumble through the darkness like a massive, irritable, flourescent bear who not only has a sore head, but recently had his cock burned with a cigar and then washed in malt vinegar by a pensioner wearing chain-mail gloves.
I’m not the happiest flourescent bear, but I do occasionally sh!t in the woods.
Despite my hatred for running, I feel a sense of well-being, achievement and invigoration afterwards, much the same as I do after a really good set on the weights or a really good sparring session. This is great for me, because I used to get that from competitive sports that I can no longer play due to injury.
So at least I am a satisfied and invigorated flourescent bear.
But something happened to me the other evening, on my run, that allowed me to reach an entirely new level of satisfaction. And it involved a businessman.
There I was, running along with my iPod in and a bobble hat on, making slow but steady progress along a very long, straight, empty path.
A long, straight, empty path.
When to my left, I became vaguely aware of a taxi pulling up alongside the road. It overtook me and dropped a man off about 50 yards ahead of me.
A man of business. A businessman.
I knew this because he has a dark suit, a briefcase and a black umbrella. I half expected him to have a bowler hat too, but he didn’t. He also had a face that was actually made of the kind of arrogance that could sink a hovercraft.
As soon as he got out of the cab he looked back down the road at me: The massive, luminous, sweating man, covered in tattoos and wearing a vest.
He stared at me, as I continued jogging towards a point approximately 30 yards to the north. A fixed point, unerring, where my long, straight empty path crossed the road he was now being dropped off into.
I saw him instantly break into a kind of bizarre speedwalk that made him look like an odd, spindly puppet being furiously finger-f*cked by a drunken pervert.
To my amazement, he was heading straight for Point X like some kind of irrelevant fat baby in a grown-up’s suit, he was racing me to that point of ultimate conversion where the paths of our destiny crossed.
He was racing me.
Or more to the point, he was trying to time it so that we came together in one of those little pavement anecdotes of utter f*ckpest that come to be when two people suddenly and accidentally try to inhabit the same exact space.
Even more bizarre was the aggressive, cockerelesque strutdance he did to propel himself into position, presumably in order to win this tiny irrelevant battle by seeing me stop, slow down or veer around him like some kind of submissive, high-visibility f*ckmoon orbiting an arrogant tw@tplanet.
This was his moment and he was throwing down the gauntlet hard. His glowering bastard of a face locking onto me like a big desperate mental.
I didn’t even look up.
I ran on, entirely ignorant of his existence and ran directly through him.
His businessy face bounced firmly off of my chest as I proceeded through him like a freight train smashing through a particularly limp scarecrow. I could almost sense the regret as those last few seconds panned out and he realised he was deliberately in front of 18 and-a-half stones of heavily tattooed bastard.
The umbrella went first, thrown forwards in some kind of unusual panic-based reaction. The briefcase simply released in shock as he landed on his suity anus on the grass at the side of the path, like a small, irrelevant, suited dogsh!t.
I ran on, entirely unaffected.
I didn’t look back, I have no idea what, if anything, he said, as I was listening to Rage Against the Machine really loudly under my bobble hat.
But as I ran on through the pain and on into the cold winter night… I smiled.
Get out of my way next time you arrogant, suit-wearing officec*nt.
As 2011 draws inevitably to a close, we sit, bloated and emotionally flaccid, like the acorn-shaped penises of tired, middle-aged men presented, unexpectedly, with the fearsome orange and white carapace of Vanessa Feltz.
Or did I mean peni and caravan…?
The year is about to end, climaxing energetically into our post-Christmas faces with the enthusiasm of a brand-new lover or a well-paid prostitute.
A wise man once said: time stands still for nobody. And not only were they completely right, but they were also correct. So without further ado, let me take you gently by the face and guide you back through some of the events of 2011, like an impromptu, naked and deeply inappropriate version of Dickens’ ghosts, but rather than showing you the error of your ways, I’ll simply shout things.
All this stuff happened this year:
A Royal Wedding
Over 24 million viewers in the UK tuned in to watch two people they don’t know in the slightest get married on April 29. Apparently this was a f*cking excellent reason to pretty much close the entire country, so we could watch some tremendously wealthy people piss taxpayers’ money away on a big day out.
Clearly a much better reason to bring the UK to a standstill than, for example, people making a last-ditch attempt not to be utterly bummed over a longstanding agreement made by an untrustworthy government. Obviously.
The long-running and pointless battle to evict loads of traveller families from the six-acre site near Essex peaked in October, with people sellotaped to scaffolding. Basically it cost more money to throw some people off a grubby patch of land than it would have done to rebuild a palace out of gold.
It would have been cheaper and easier to move all the local villages using shovels made out of precious metal and an army of supermodels as labourers.
Ryan Giggs’ Privacy Injunction
The footballer at the centre of a privacy injunction row was loudly named in the frothing mess that is the House of Commons, by MP John Hemming.
In a stroke of utter genius, by clumsily trying to forcibly hide sensitive information, Ryan Giggs managed to attract about a hundred-million times more attention to the exact thing he wanted to hide in the first place.
And the real shocker?
Nobody actually gave a sh!t where he was alleged to have put his penis or why.
Three of the world’s top cricketers were given jail sentences for their roles in match-fixing after a series between Pakistan and England. But amazingly, cricket didn’t get any less dull.
In retrospect, the only way to make cricket anything other than a fairly tiresome place to get slowly drunk on a sunny day would be to introduce dirt bikes, strippers and quite a lot of fire.
Unfortunately, Ian Botham retired years ago.
Riots began in London, escalated and spread across England. Three men died in Birmingham and almost 700 people were arrested. Scenes of utter carnage flooded across our television screens as complete morons began stealing sh!t, convinced that they were part of something important.
London became a seething mass of mindless and unintelligent mob-rule, acting only in reactionary selfish fury and destroying much of the very fabric of what they should have been working hard to nurture and protect.
Also, outside The House of Commons, the riots happened.
Allegations of phone hacking by tabloid journalists led to the demise of the pathetic rag that was The News of the World. Had this happened 30 years ago, there would have been an outcry, but nowadays with fish and chips being sold in plain paper due to health and safety guidelines, nobody gave a sh!t.
The pen is mightier than the sword and those who live by the sword, die by it.
I’m not sure what that means, but it was a f*ckcock of a newspaper.
The Death of Amy Winehouse
An inquest found the 27-year-old was more than five times the drink-drive limit when she was found dead in her home in Camden, London, on July 23.
Amazing, because as far as anyone could see she hadn’t been driving and had no intention to drive either. Oh, wait a minute, I remember now, that’s what the greasy-thumbed journos needed to write to greedily sensationalise the fact that she’d had a few drinks.
Check any town centre, any Saturday night.
The Occupy Movement
Following the New York camp in September, a similar protest sprang up outside St Paul’s Cathedral and a much smaller one in Cardiff.
Unfortunately, nobody was that bothered.
The Death of Gary Speed
The world of football was stunned when the news broke on November 27.
Bizarre and unusual because after hours and hours of coverage, still, no ‘answers’ seemed to come to light. A really weird experience that made me question the whole concept of celebrity grief in this article HERE.
The Eurozone Crisis
There it all was, teetering on the brink of the economic abyss, then David Cameron decided to veto a new EU treaty. Excellent. It’s times like these we are reminded what oils the wheels of the political machine.
sh!t oils the wheels of the political machine.
If you haven’t seen it, you must have spent at least some of 2011 underground, unconscious or in Port Talbot. With over 4 million views, if you’ve ever had the misfortune of being in charge of a dog when it decides to let it’s instincts out as freely as it’s gas, you’ll probably sympathise with this: JESUS CHRIST.
There you go – the year that just flew by in an instant, brought back to you if a few short paragraphs of egg-fueled banter. Time doesn’t half fly when you’re having fun, which goes some way to explaining why you feel like you just lost several hours of your f*cking life.
Here’s to 2012 and all the surprises it will bring us.
Remember how shockingly fast the piss of life gushes, steaming, from the slightly tingling urethra of time. And try not to get any on your hands this year.
We’re here for a good time, not a long time.
Happy New Year!
Christmas time; mistletoe and wine, children singing Christian rhyme.
Well that’s just f*cking lovely but the bottom line is that most people I see around Christmas time just seem to congregate near Sports Soccer and Argos furiously cashw@nking their fat wallets into the hopeful faces of dissafected strangers whilst wearing horrible white trainers.
And those f*cking antler things.
Christmas just seems to be a writhing orange clusterf*ck of carrier bags and superfluous packaging trimmed with forced pretend fun. And places are always too loud, too warm and too full of f*ckawful novelties that make me want to drink my own boiling piss straight from my own irritable peanus.
As if Cliff Richard would have any use for either mistletoe OR wine, he’s hardly going to get sh!tfaced and snog anyone as a 200 year-old tee total virgin.
Also; religion? Really?
It’s all very well having a big magic sky friend to turn, pathetically, to when you f*ck the absolute sh!t out of your life with your own mortal tw@thands but at the end of the day, it’s only God’s birthday or Jesus. Or both. Or something.
And all that normal sh!t we used to do before people learned to be so f*cking offended by everything, like nativity stuff, or carol singing, or basically f*cking anything at all… well it’s not like we still have that. Is it?
Big food is ace and watching the Queen’s speech makes me feel grown-up.
But I never did get that whole holy trinity thing.
God is Jesus’ Dad, right? But he didn’t actually do it with Jesus’ mum, who was suddenly six months up the duffpipe with her actual husband claiming never to have touched her, even on the ladyboob. Right….
And God and Jesus are the same person.
Yeah… you know what?
Next time they want to start hunting out the holy grail and all that magic amazing sh!t, they should start digging in Norfolk.
A mother of six caused a complete f*ckmess yesterday by lodging a case at the small claims court to sue Christmas. ‘I know my f*cking rights’ announced 39 year-old Rachel Mudger. ‘I have six boys by seven dads to look after and now I’m being discriminated against on top of all that sh!t’.
Rachel went on to describe how her current benefits cache brings in barely enough hot cash to cover her own lifestyle, let-alone to additionally cover the rising costs of her dirty brood and their stupid beeping toys.
‘Christmas is forcing that religion thing right into my throat’ Rachel claimed. Explaining how she feels pressure to curtail her own spending, in favour of the traditional Christian ritual of buying unwanted items for your family as a token gesture, before overeating like f*ck for a week or more.
‘I don’t believe in God and Jesus’ Rachel said, “I don’t even think the Bible is true and there’s no f*cking way I should be forced to take part just because of the colour of my skin’ she argued, ‘It’s unfair to assume that everybody like me wants Christmas, nobody would say f*ck all if I worshiped Aslan‘.
Rachel has yet to hear back on the specific progress of her case, submitted via the small claims app for iPhone yesterday morning, however she is hopeful of compensation: ‘I read about this sh!t in the papers every day’ she shrieked, ‘Only now it’s happened to me it’s totally f*cking different…f*cking racists’.
The small claims court were not available for comment.
Today I sat in a cafe, opposite what I can only describe as a f*cking walrus.
If it had have been an actual walrus, at least I would have been able to enjoy the relatively surreal experience of sharing an eatery with an enormous aquatic mammal. Possibly even lobbed it a fish. Or something.
Unfortunately this walrus was just a man.
The kind of man whose enormous purple face had been impressively fat for so long, that the various folds of skin and ruckled troughs had developed a kind of ruddy patina, simply from grinding sweatily against each other.
He was furiously eating a plate of utter sh!t.
I think it was an orange and yellow ejaculation of breakfast.
I think the baked beans were on the fried egg. FFS.
Anyway, he was a disgracefully big, fat horse of a bastard and what’s worse was that he had the table manners of a open wound. Instead of putting food into his impossibly massive HEADFACE, he kind of threw it in, as if the fork wasn’t able to go into the last inch of airspace in front of his f*cking awful gob.
Instead of closing his mouth to chew, like a normal fat one, he kind of toothf*cked his oily dinner into a rough paste, then tilted his head back to let gravity ease it lovingly down into his insides. I guess because the act of swallowing, itself, would constitute some form of exercise for this FAT CASTLE.
There is no punchline, just a fat man who’ll probably soon be buried. In a skip.
I had a cup of tea.
I’m one of the most modest people who has ever lived. So when a beautiful and intelligent woman commissioned me to write a serious piece about something close to her face’s heart, because of my enormous natural talent, I was, naturally, pleased, surprised and happy. Plus, aroused. Obviously.
We are gathered here today to use our hot, wet mouths greedily and hungrily against each other’s eager BRAINFACES and ears, in order to discuss the intellectual colossus that is contemporary dance.
I’m very excited about greedily pumping this article out of my cash hands.
So let’s be sensible about this.
Lets look holistically at the whole spectrum of dance and dancing before we make assumptions about things that we may not fully understand. Let’s not be too eager to dismiss things that engender our fragile, beautiful senses with a stirring insight into cultural, creative, cognitive experiences that can only serve to enrich our precious and passionate souls.
Let’s be properly sensitive.
And by this I mean let’s say that many, many women dancers are VERY hot and yet, everything else is basically complete and utter animal sh!t. Fact.
What we need to do now, after my science introduction, is look at all the different types of contemporary dance and get a bit of background into how they all fit together and what they actually are. It’d be far too easy to lump things into groups without properly respecting the nuances and the very subtle differences between them. Right?
So basically there are six types of dance.
1. Ballet Dancing
Dainty old fashioned sh!t and feathers. Hot women. Many gays.
2. Jazz Dancing
Sparkly bollocks. Utter sparkly bollocks. Some hats.
3. Pole Dancing
Completely f*cking hot. Toned women doing awesome things. Perfect.
4. Tap Dancing
Clicking f*ckwits. Roy Castle.
5. Weird Dancing
Basically Kate Bush blended with some emotionally retarded sick.
6. Everything else
Right, brilliant. That’s that bit done, this going really well isn’t it?
So all that’s left really is the conclusion part where I think back, carefully, over my research and allow myself to fully conclude against you, until event last drop of my summary is completely spent.
Having thoroughly explored all the formats of contemporary dance that exist on the world, I feel kind of proud, tearful, slightly overwhelmed at how it’s changed my life. I mean, if people wearing spray-on clothing with faces like puzzled CLOWNWHORES whilst throwing themselves about like furiously erect peni, don’t warm your balls, you’re probably dead inside.
As they say on the stage: Go break your f*cking face!
Piece commissioned by the beautiful and talented writer: @Mellissa_FC ~ My invoice is in the post… £
Sexual intercourse is a really f*cking popular hobby pastime.
It’s a very well known science-coated fact, that doing a sex on someone is rated well inside the top one in the massive list of great things to do.
But why in the name of ROUGH BUGGERY are there people out there irrelevantly leap-jumping around and dressing as f*cking animals in order to get their slippery kicks?
It’s come to my special scientific attention that there is an actual flavour of perverts known as “Furries”.
I think they’re somehow related to animal f*ckers, but instead of softly dicking herons and lovethumping harmless fat owls and things, they just dress as cartoon animals and then f*ck inside each other until the make-up runs.
I’m not some kind of sexual retard, I know there is a f*cking world of f*cking out there. And I’m happy with that, I like the fact that our sweaty civilisation is full of dirty, dirty f*ckers and people who like to do things to each other.
God knows I’m a complete filthbox myself.
But that’s because he’s always watching.
Jesus. That’s going to be an awkward conversation.
The thing is, most sexual perversions are completely understandable, in the sense that you can see some semblance of normality bumming inside the awful perverted bumming. Right?
Take all the leather and chains and high heels, all that sh!t, at least it’s women wearing sex clothes to do the dirting. And that whole dogging thing, at least it’s just normal sex moves being done at each other inside a wet Ford Fiesta.
Even that thing when you get a lady to f*ckwalk across your actual you with her big high heels or something, well, at least you can probably sneak a look up her rubber chuff-tube and crack one off at the sight of her special wig-wam.
But these Furries are completely f*cking off the f*cking radar.
I’d probably have more respect for them if they actually went out and f*cked a tiger into it’s striped anus, at least there is a degree of impressiveness in the concept of cornering and furiously buggering a giant cat in a dangerous jungle.
These people simply gather together looking like fat children’s cartoons.
They dress like complete f*cking c*nts and then f*ckpester each other pretending to be sexual cloth animals for twisted dirty thrills.
How is this even possible?
What kind of a perverted w@nkCRAYON gets their bulb off by angrily face-bumming a fat woman dressed as a f*cking hedgehog?
Or watching a penguin sucking your plums, or a giant pink mouse fingering a f*cking giraffe, or whatever else the horrendous sh!t they do is?
I ask you.
I’ve got nothing against the elderly, nothing at all.
But what I do have something against is having my life enormously risked by a bizarre fig-like human strapped obliviously into the seat of a pointlessly under-powered, under-driven and horrendously dull motor car.
You know the ones I mean.
They look like tiny beige Yodas gripping the wheel like a f*cking duffle-coated CAR LOBSTER, hopefully looking about in case they somehow begin to manage to operate the vehicle with some remote hint of ability drawn in by blank-faced automotive osmosis.
They stop, without warning, at utterly irrelevant times to slowly do nothing at all whilst in everybody else’s way. Always.
They reverse, very slowly, whilst looking directly forward, intermittently stopping to look accusingly or hopefully out of the side windows at any other human beings who happen to be present.
As if somehow shifting the crippling f*ckMASS of responsibility onto those who are simply observing the agonising spectacle, awaiting calamity.
They don’t understand any of the buttons on the dashboard and they park approximately four feet from the curb, unless they are parking in a clearly marked out space – in which case the park directly across the lines.
The gentleman variety almost always has a hat of some kind and a driving coat or gloves. They cluelessly bimble up the middle lane of the motorway without even the slightest awareness of anything at all. Ever.
The lady version invariably has a small puff-cloud of white hair and glasses that make her look like an anxious bug, her head level with the dashboard, her road positioning equivalent to watching the progress of a sh!tfaced albatross gaffa-taped to a broken dumper truck. In rush hour.
They have absolutely to concept of the size of their tiny irrelevant cars, assuming from within that they are piloting the Exxon Valdez along the high street. Very very slowly.
Watching them, to me, is much like watching the first few minutes of ‘Casualty’, wondering how and when the awful accident might occur.
I’ve got absolutely nothing against the elderly, but Jesus CHRIST some of them are monumentally, terrifyingly sh!t drivers.
People are f*cking everywhere aren’t they?
You can hardly leave your sweaty little burrow without bumping into, or being disturbed by the wandering sods.
Yet, despite all this practice at bumbling around, what exactly is it that keeps the overwhelmingly vast majority of the population utterly, utterly unable to function properly in any form of situation, without annoying the absolute massive horsef*ck out of me?
Why is it that ‘people’, after all these f*cking YEARS of civilisation, STILL think that doorways are a good place to pointlessly stand? How is it even possible to imagine that you are the ONLY f*ckER who wants to walk through the ONLY HOLE IN THE sh!tTING WALL?
The only excuse for loitering in a doorway, EVER, is for shelter during a massive immense earthquake. Fact.
And even then I have to say I’d much rather you f*ck OFF into the steaming rubble.
And another thing.
Exactly WHY is it impossible to walk down a high street now without being f*ckPESTERED in the THROAT about joining the f*cking AA or the RAC or having some fluffy jumpered and dreadlocked ANUS PIPE try and smile their way into your wallet to save a f*cking shrub or something?
If I wanted to be repeatedly bothered by irrelevantly grinning naive people with massive ideas, no life-experience and an ironic t-shirt, I would have gone for a pint and a sh!t sandwich at the f*cking student union bar.
Leave me alone.
And please can mums with pushchairs stop walking slowly, right next to each other, like a f*cking MOTHERCARE STEAMROLLER taking up the whole pavement? Thanks in advance.
And those blokes that sell newspapers, LEARN TO SAY A WORD PROPERLY you mouth-trumpeting imbecile, it’s not like you have a f*cking complicated script now, is it?
And traffic wardens, f*ck off, nobody even thinks for a SECOND you are a Policeman, you look like a lesbian milkman with a stupid tiny computer strapped to your w@nking arm.
And crowds, f*ck off with your aimless milling. Jesus.
Is it just me that utterly HATES the whole concept of swarming around like a f*cking MASSIVE ANT in amongst all the sportwear, tilted caps and horribly horribly white trainers of the BRITISH LEAGUE OF ARGOS…?
Is it just me that thinks a normal Saturday at the shops hell-on-earth and that any form of Christmas shopping whatsoever is like hell-on-earth-but-you-now-have-to-EAT-YOUR-OWN-TEETH….?
Is it just me that thinks, in all honesty, that if I were facing the reality of a zombie Apocalypse I’d probably enjoy going to the shops MORE than I do now. That the milling, aimless, grunting f*cks would be only imperceptibly LESS ANNOYING than the live ones we have now?
At least I could smash the FACIAL sh!t out of the zombie Argos shoppers without reprisal.
Earlier this week I saw a lady shut her own hand in window.
What a complete tw@tROPE.
For those of you unlucky enough to have felt compelled to read the sh!t I smear across your collective metaphorical faces, it was the very same complete bellend of a woman that I wrote about here: CLOCK CHECKER
Anyway, let me explain what she did.
She minced into a room full of people and instantly began fussing and clucking about a window what was open at the other end of the room, exposing us to the wild seaside elements through a GAPING ORIFICE of approximately five inches.
She clucked her way across the room, talking to everybody and nobody about the breeze and the cold air and she took it upon herself to begin closing the window like some kind of AIR NAZI.
Two problems immediately became apparent; firstly, she had a cup of green tea in her right hand. And secondly, she wasn’t really strong enough to push down the old Victorian sash window with her free hand.
Nobody was listening.
So she put her hand under the window, pulling it down using the bottom of the frame as a grip…
Sash windows are counter-weighted.
As soon as it began moving, the window gently closed fully, onto her free hand, causing her to pour a quarter of her hot green tea onto her own personal vagina as she stood squealing furiously at the window.
She couldn’t put her green tea down, because she couldn’t reach a suitable surface and the window sill was too narrow.
She had a trapped hand and a slowly burning ladyfanny, her glasses had slipped down onto her nose, and probably worse than any of that: she was momentarily unable to pointlessly look at her f*cking wristw@tch.
There was a moment of silence as we all watched her struggle for a few seconds, before she let out the most pitiful, wailing, f*ckSQUEAK of a shrill plea. From her terrifying self-created prison, all of six feet from at least a dozen other people, she shamelessly shouted…
I slid helplessly off my chair in a pool of my own hot piss, as she walked from her new found freedom, directly out of the room with her half-cup of green tea and not so much as a Thank You.
They should have left her there, the complete BULB.
We all love animals.
Apart from the ones that we lock into tiny boxes then ravenously eat, obviously.
But overall we f*cking love little animal things because they are cuddly and lovely and great and they do mad stuff and tricks and things that we momentarily adore before resigning them to the same monotony of routine that we mistakenly think enriches our own bollock-flavoured lives.
But there are downsides.
Animals have a tendency to lovingly distribute sh!t, piss and other bodily fluids pretty much everywhere in a way that makes their very existence f*cking irritating. And I don’t mean the animals we put in fields and then later, stuff into our hungry mouths – those f*ckers are absolutely entitled to fill their own fields with all the piss and sh!t in the world.
I mean those ones that put it into your garden, house or shoes.
And it’s not just sh!t.
I mean when cats wander into your garden to actually specifically deposit their bottom eggs into your vegetable patch it’s rubbish, yes. And when dogs leave special delivery defecation bombs on the pavement, that end up like happy footprints through room temperature Nutella, yes – that’s unpleasant too.
But how many times do you recall having to suffer the indignity of an animal spitting into your mouth?
You see this is what I don’t like about the ungrateful bastards. I was trying to do the antler wearing tw@ts in the deer compound at a well known animal park a f*cking FAVOUR. I had dutifully bought a little tub of what looked like guinea pig-sh!t, so that I could feed their hopeful deer faces as I drove through that particular small field.
Little did I know there would be four hundred of the f*ckers and they were like starving dogs.
Before I know it I have a massive-headed antler-stag with it’s f*cking entire BRAIN inside my car, it’s horned headpiece stuck under the steering wheel and IN MY FACE. Spilling my £2′s worth of guinea-pig sh!t EVERYWHERE instantly like a clumsy bellend.
It even beeped my f*cking horn.
Naturally I took hold of its stupid face and pushed it back out of the window whilst loudly announcing what a rude c*nt it was for being such a greedy fat-headed sh!t in trying to take more than his fair share.
At which point it spat on me.
My mouth was forming the middle vowel of a formidable expletive at the time. And the deer’s mouth-juice-gob-ball went right into my own mouth. INTO MY OWN MOUTH. Just to clarify… IT SPAT IN MY f*ckING MOUTH!
What kind of a f*cking nonsense of a scared manbaby would accept that?
I punched the deer in the face. Hard.
I think I might even have spat back at it. I can’t be sure because there was a fog of testosterone conflict raging in my mind and it was a survival instinct that I was working through. But yeah, pretty sure I spat the deer’s own spit, and mine, back into his beady eyes.
As I punched it’s face twice…
And called it a c*nt…
Not my finest hour.
With hindsight, this was made worse by the fact that firstly we were still no more than 6 yards from the feeding station where the student rangers sat in amazed awe at my obvious prowess and instability. And secondly there was a 3 year old child in the car. Now crying.
The moral of the story is this; don’t take any f*cking sh!t from animals and don’t be afraid to punch them in the face if you need to. f*cking man up.
I saw a man do a good fall down today in the middle of the street.
Possibly a classic.
It was one of those weird moments when I don’t quite know how to feel sorry for someone I don’t know at all doing something that makes me want to practically sh!t myself laughing.
I mean deep down I could see this guy was a normal random chap with a Kangol mac and middle-aged-combats. He had the kind of silvery black hair that utter tw@ts call salt and pepper. He was very much a normaller.
An inoffensive normaller.
Problem is he did that thing – you know – that thing when you catch the very front of your shoe (or in this case cross training boot) on the slightly raised lip of a flagstone or drain cover.
We’ve all done it.
And at sometime in our lives some of us have no doubt done that other thing whereby your stupid brainhead suddenly decides, at the exact point of trippage, that a REALLY GOOD f*ckING PLOY to save face would be to simply disguise the little trip by making it the start of a short run or trot.
A short run or trot.
So you trip, take a quick step… then automatically start running.
Problem is, now you are trotting down the street and you f*cking instantly realise that you have NO WAY of stopping without getting the overwhelming feeling that EVERY SINGLE PERSON in the street knows that your run was too short to be real and you are, in fact, a c*nt.
As if anyone is even AWARE that you exist.
Nevertheless, you assume that if you stop, even up to 50 yards up the street – some of the SAME PEOPLE from the other end of the street will now know your run was a f*cking LIE! A cheap stupid lie because now they can ALL see that you were just FALLING OVER…. SPASTIC! YOU f*ckING SPASTIC!
So you run on.
I have a friend who did this once and accidentally ran 2 miles home because he was that scared of stopping.
Our hero did this thing too, he tried the trotting ploy – he tried to disguise the initial trip into a little energetic and wholesome trotf*ck to try and save face, but here’s the thing.
If you ever do this – firstly DON’T but if you do anyway, at least look the f*ck where you are going. Seriously DO look the f*ck where you are going.
Plan the trot.
That way you will avoid tripping over a flagstone and then immediately and irrelevantly running directly into a sultry and cougar-like female nurse pushing an elderly man in a wheelchair.
Also you will not have to limply hurdle the old man, failing miserably, like a sh!t, white Kriss Akabusi, bizarrely pressing your genital region into the elderly man’s surprised old face as you bellow f*ckSORRY! and knock him OUT of his chair and onto the floor.
Equally you won’t have to dither about like a red faced c*ntBOBBIN whilst you vaguely assist us in putting the little old fella BACK in his chair whilst we all admire the nurse, or Nurse Lindsey, for those of us who didn’t have to leave immediately like frightened animal perverts.
It’s not f*cking rocket science is it?
My old next door neighbour was a real fat sh!tter.
He was an ex pub landlord with a stupid accent and an incredible ability to f*cking incense me into apoplectic rage simply by breathing air near me or walking within my field of vision.
He wasn’t my friend.
And his inordinately fat wife had a collection of tiny stupid dogs that were little more than a pack of badly trained yap rats. They were never walked or exercised properly and they used to wander around the garden depositing sh!ts until it resembled an anti gravity snowglobe loaded with dog’s eggs and misery.
But his wife was also a proper f*cking animal.
She was f*cking enormous, like a n injured weather balloon with an acrobatic tw@tface drawn on it by a sh!tfaced chimp.
And what’s worse she had that weird f*cking mental illness that some horrific women get where they imagine that they are somehow really “sexy with it”… you know?
Sexy with it.
Now I’m the first to admit that a larger lady can still be very sexy, that curves are a very womanly feature… and that real women do NOT have the body of a 12-year-old boy. And by that I mean their actual body isn’t shaped like one, not that they have bizarrely killed and hidden an unlucky preteen.
The reality is, is that all too often this over confident sexual blunderf*ck is a 19 stone f*cking BUSFACE with the thighs and arse of an albino rhinoceros that recently shat itself violently.
The legging wearing, giant tee-shirted thunderc*nt that scrapes it’s hair back so hard that it’s face changes shape and texture. Arms like a donner kebab?
Well this one was worse.
She was all of the above but also a f*cking horrendous bottom dirt of the lowest order.
I once saw her sunbathing and it pretty much changed my life. I was unlucky enough to have needed to climbup on top of the roof of my barn to punch some concrete and w@nk a drainpipe… or something.
When I saw it.
Like a vision of f*cking nightmare HELL she had just rolled out a towel in the middle of her garden – in a f*cking ENORMOUS SEA of dogsh!t. No word of a lie, she had just found a rough gap and blobbed down into it like an awful f*cker in amongst the stinking mess.
There must have been FIFTY dogsh!ts orbiting her, like tiny stinking planets hopefully worshiping a GIANT UGLY BASTARD MOON. It was like having a f*cking stroke, my vision was momentarily blurred and I was unable to process all the information I was receiving.
She was f*cking topless.
She was wearing only a pair of hotpants and they looked like some kind of tiny denim jewel embedded in an immense and impossibly awful LARD COALFACE.
And that’s when it happened.
As I looked down at her, my gentleman’s peanus withdrawing inside me like a brand new internal organ, she suddenly spat hard onto her own woman tit.
And rubbed it in.
She spat on her own f*cking tit.
f*ck me. Some things in life are not for the faint hearted and some things in life are just things that nobody should see for fear of permanent damage and the kind of trauma that normally is a result of international war crimes and electro shock therapy.
The moral of this story is simple:
f*ck the barn roof.
I’m sat in a pub with my two best friends and two women.
We’ve had a few drinks, but it’s not raucous or a mess, it’s chilled and relaxed – the only undertone of tension comes from the fact that this is one of the first times that me and best mate A have met the girlfriend of best mate B.
The second woman at the table is the girlfriend’s single, attractive sister.
We are all chatting away politely.
Mate B is happy, we are getting to know his new girlfriend quite well and its all good. Me and mate A are subconsciously aware that her sister is single, gorgeous and ever-so-slightly drunker than the rest of us, but we say nothing.
It’s worth stating that, in a pub table scenario, I’m a complete c*nt…
Actually, I hardly need to add the pub table bit, but I digress.
In a pub table scenario, I’m a complete c*nt, because I’m almost without shame, I instinctively turn up to places with far too much money on me, recklessly buying stupid coloured drinks for people I don’t know, plus I make people laugh until they piss helplessly and then I am crowned the King of f*cking Everything.
It’s what I do.
To his credit, single mate A is also f*cking hilarious, very very funny, but just not as much of a massive tw@t show off as I am and so he’s a little bit quieter in these situations, a little bit more reticent to shout the loudest.
But I can sense him easing his way to the front of the group here, I can feel it.
And who would blame him? Single sister is gorgeous, she’s had a drink – she’s laughing at everything we say and I’m no cock blocker – this is an open market.
Suddenly the conversation turns to sex, as it often does, thus upping the ante quite considerably and opening up a whole new level of competition between me and mate A. However things suddenly move quickly in an unforeseen direction, like a sudden gust of MANGRUNT in the moist air.
Single sister is suddenly explaining in real detail how much she loves sex.
We are captivated.
She is hot and now she is telling us how often she goes out and just has sex with men because she loves it and needs it.
We are f*cking lost in her right now, neither of us sure what to even say or how to say it. She’s telling the table all SORTS of things and she’s plainly indicating to us that this is what she does. That she sometimes meets new men and just WANTS them, for a few hours, with no strings attached.
We are poised, like two rutting stags who catch each other’s gaze mid-battle.
She is now telling us that sometimes she feels guilty, the way she regularly uses man after man just for a night of hot, meaningless, physical release.
This was a moment of utter brilliance and we were frozen into it with her…
And that… THAT was when he said it.
He looked her straight in the face and said: “Surely you have AIDS?”.
The phrase hung in the swollen air like a sickening echo of pure WRONG.
Me and mate B simply could not believe what had just come out of his mouth and judging by the state of mate A, neither could he. Meanwhile mate B’s new girlfriend was frozen with her mouth open and a drink paused halfway to it like a lonely cable-car on a particularly uncomfortable mountain.
Single sister was just looking, aghast, at the massive empty space where our conversation used to be, tears forming in her eyes.
Mate A was reddening, I mean he was SO red he was already basically purple, because of course he didn’t mean aids, he meant a dildo, a sex toy… a guilt free SEX AID.
I knew in that moment that if I even looked across the table and saw the face of mate B I would utterly, completely piss myself in a way that I couldn’t control. I also knew that if I looked across and he looked at me – he would do the same and almost certainly end up with his new girlfriend’s drink in his face.
So I did what any friend would have done, I looked right at him with a sh!t eating grin twice the width of my actual face.
Mate B began laughing instantly – but with a half a Guinness halfway down his throat it came out more like the liquid roar of a drowning epileptic tiger.
He basically threw up foaming Guinness onto the table whilst howling like a fat wolf being clumsily buggered. It was an absolutely suberb and riotous guttural laugh that barely left him any time to breathe.
Meanwhile, I was snorting tears of utterly uncontrollable laughter out of my face and all over my pint. I could barely see a thing for the fizzing riot of furious noise I was vomiting onto myself.
As a backdrop to this, mate A is now trying desperately to explain what he meant, with basically the same level of success you might expect Adolf Hitler to have, interviewing for a post as an infant school teacher.
He’s trying to explain that he was thinking about how highly sexed she was and that if she was guilty about all that stuff… couldn’t she use a vibrator… a sex aid…. not AIDS…. a SEX AID, Jesus NOT ACTUAL AIDS!
It wasn’t working because she was already crying.
The girlfriend was disgusted with mate B for laughing and subsequently stormed off taking sister with her, mate B trotting behind still laughing hard but trying to be deadly serious and failing miserably.
Mate A stood by the table, like a purple beacon, shouting hopefully across a busy pub that he didn’t mean that kind of AIDS.
Laughing hard at the horrendous awkwardness of it all, I sat alone at the table.
The night was utterly destroyed, the only good point being that I was still in a pub, with a mate nearby and a table full of alcohol that the other three wouldn’t be coming back to collect.
Mate A sat down and put his head into his hands, lamenting the disastrous HELLFAIL of pretty much his only earnest sentence of the night.
Of course I turned to him and said: “honestly, I think she f*cking likes you”
He punched me square in the f*cking face.
What kind of a c*ntish invention is hay-fever?
Why would anything exist that causes innocent people to spend much of the Summer crying at fields or drinking their own nose water near a flowery hedge?
How f*cking pointlessly sh!t is it? It’s not even a proper fever, it’s just irrelevantly snotting out spunky spit and phlegm onto your face and chin because you saw a f*cking FLOWER.
What f*cking purpose does it serve to suddenly and pathetically be unable to GO NEAR ANY GRASS the very f*cking exact f*cking minute that you really want to GO NEAR SOME GRASS.
How annoying and degrading is it to have bloated eyeholes like a MARSHMALLOW FILLED CIRCLE f*ckER and a nose that appears to have VOMITED SEMEN onto your lips?
All it does is properly f*ck Summer up for everyone; for the sneezefaced attention seeking squirmtw@ts, for those of us who have to WATCH THEIR SNOT, plus basically f*cking EVERYONE.
Also, Antihistamines, fat lot of f*cking good they do, you might as well use Smarties and Cocaine to ward off AIDS. The over the counter sh!t does f*ck ALL for any allergies most of the time. you’d be better off ramming the f*cking pills up your nose – at least that would stop the pollen getting snorted up into your fat head like BEE COCAINE.
What a complete ANUS CLENCHING bastard face.
I want it canceled, immediately.
Do you know what I really really f*cking hate?
No, you don’t.
But I do, so I’m going to take this opportunity to tell you all about it.
I hate people with superiority complexes that manifest themselves in all sorts of unusual and perverted ways.
Well, I say superiority complexes but the bottom line is that they are just complete BELLENDS, no matter what clever little phrase you attach.
The world is full of them, here is just one of them:
It’s the bloke who unnecessarily stops to let you make a right turn across his lane. He is the only car on the road and he is probably wearing a white office shirt with no tie and he stops and waves you across.
First of all, WHY DOESN’T HE JUST f*ck OFF?
If he keeps driving, there is a gap of about seventy miles immediately behind him, where you could make your turn even if you were driving a f*cking TRAIN.
But worse than that, it’s his f*ckING ATTITUDE.
He’s all rolling-eyes and faux exasperation, waving you across with a dismissive little flick of his fingers as he sighs at your obvious ineptitude at needing to turn right and not being able to DEMATERIALISE YOUR BASTARDING CAR.
Like a hot, genitally bothered, self-important f*ckRANGER he slightly shakes his head like a plastic bulldog as he delivers you from evil, not into temptation, for his is the Kingdom, the power and the glory, for ever and ever, f*ck off.
NOBODY ASKED YOU TO STOP.
NOBODY NEEDED YOU TO STOP.
Why must some people insist on trying to fuss pester the f*ck out of every f*cking living or inanimate thing?
All I do is sit there with a MASSIVE smile and mime the words “f*ck YOU” until they drive away with a bowel-clenching dichotomy of anal be-puzzlement and tingling anger in their bloated faces.
Bottom line, they’re stupid, fat babies and they need to shut up and f*ck off.
So there I am, in a multi-storey car-park that smells mildly of wee and car fumes and bizarrely and irrelevantly; warm pork.
And then I see it.
It’s just a distant shape on a doorway, like a mysterious beacon from another lifetime. A recognisable shape, from a distant memory that I can’t quite place. But as I get closer, slowly, it becomes strangely clearer.
A tingle stirs in the depths of my mind, what does it remind me of?
And then I realise.
IT LOOKS JUST LIKE @BILTAWULF!
But it’s somehow different, like an alternative version, a close facsimile, like an echo in space – or a (duck shaped) teardrop in rain.
I think I found the duck’s brother.
In the extremely unlikely event that you don’t know @Biltawulf, here is a library image of the duck himself, for reference:
Back in the multi-storey…
I leap into action; I get my camera and I stride towards the door, I inspect the suspected brother – it’s him alright – I realise that this is a moment where I really need to act fast for the greater good.
I press myself heroically against the little door, the sound of running water comes from within, and I energetically fill the closed door-frame as I reach up fearlessly and take the picture I need as evidence.
The door opens.
Unfortunately for me, the running water I could hear was a man’s actual piss. And the ‘old storeroom’ I assumed lay behind this door is actually a small toilet for the f*cking security team at the multi-storey.
So basically, the guard has come out of the toilet, still doing up his zipper, to be instantly faced with me, filling the entire doorway, barely one inch from his startled face and wearing a large sh!t eating grin.
Holding a f*cking camera.
I mumbled something about “……….like a duck I know”
He simply walked away. Terrified.
I hope you appreciate the damage I did to my reputation getting this picture. Or at least the ridiculous and pointless scenario I effortlessly forced myself into, but like I said earlier, this is for the greater good. This is about reuniting family, about repairing wounded hearts, this thing is bigger than all of us…
Behold, the duck’s brother:
Thanks and credit to @BellJarred who might have pointed at it first. Might have.
Swaggering tw@t boy is a teenager and he he knows f*ckING EVERYTHING.
He’s got the Internet and all sorts of amazing sh!t on his side and just enough credibility with his idiot friends to effectively convince himself that he’s pretty f*cking clued up in the big wide world and it’s amazing ways.
He’s not stupid – far from it – but he definitely has most of his head shoved RIGHT UP HIS TEENAGE ARSE.
Because he is swaggering tw@t boy.
He likes cool films and cool music and crazy sh!t that he genuinely believes his parents CANNOT UNDERSTAND, because despite his intelligence he seems to have utterly forgotten that they were exactly his age once too.
Exactly his age once.
Swaggering tw@t boy is becoming more and more obsessed with running his own tiny life. He wants to make all sorts of grown up decisions for his amazing self. And he wants to get out into the real world and drive cars and have sex with actual women (not just watch YouPorn) and DO THINGS.
Not that f*cking sh!t nonsense in school, lessons and pathetic teachers who CANNOT understand the importance of the universe that spreads outwards from his teenage face in all directions as far as the mind can see.
Important sh!t is important.
Important things like, what girls think he is cool or what he and his mates can get up to at the weekend or how many random strangers acknowledge him for no reason. Facebook. Parties. Pretending to be f*cking independent.
SO IMPORTANT HE IS GOING TO LEAVE SCHOOL WITH f*ck ALL TO SHOW FOR IT!
What’s the point in conforming and trying to make the effort in school?
I’ll tell you.
Firstly, all those people you think are cool right now are f*ckING WASTERS. Those older guys who hang around with teenagers and bring their cars along and get lot’s of action from those girls that are just too old to give a sh!t about you…. yeah, them – they are f*ckING SCUM.
The rest of us view them as disgusting inbred paedophiles who never managed to form any real friendships beyond the tragic friendship they have with the palm of their personal w@nkhands.
And the lazy w@nkers you see in the pub during the day – f*cking spongers, no minds, no prospects and no f*cking life. Have you seen Jeremy Kyle.
And those tossers who throw classes to f*ck off and hide and show off, yea – you think they are cool now. Wait until you see them in ten years time, three kids, sh!t house, no job, fat gut, sh!t clothes. FACT.
Do you really think that the people around you that seem f*cking boring because they have worked hard enough to create a safe and stable environment are YOUR ENEMIES!?
You f*cking idiot.
All the people you think it’s cool to ignore are the ones who know better and by the time you realise it you will be a jobless waste of spunk with nothing but beer and cheap sh!t to keep you company.
Serves you right!
And what will the smart kids that you think are idiots right now, be doing THEN?
They will be at University!
Do you know what happens at University?
No. No you don’t.
SEX AND ALCOHOL AND MORE SEX is what happens at University. You work hard and get some GCSEs and A’ Levels or similar and you toddle off to Uni where you get to run your OWN f*cking life, rack up silly debt and drink booze and f*ck women you only just met.
Pick wisely and you even get half a chance at making your tinpot Degree get you some kind of actual decent job, so you can AFFORD TO BUY sh!t. And actually enjoy life beyond scraping the bare minimum together for just enough Cider to ply a chav girl in a car park to SUCK YOU OFF.
What do you want – a f*cking MAP OF LIFE?
Get your f*cking arse to lessons and make use of the f*cking BUBBLE between your ears before your precious life takes ALL those opportunities back and leaves you with NOTHING but a shell suit and a f*cking head full of regret.
Sort it out.
Sailors are quite gay right?
I mean just generally, thanks to Hollywood and all that sh!t. You know?
Anyway, shush, I want to explain some things.
What I mean is that basically all that dancing about with little hats on and bell bottomed trousers is really quite gay. And in some ways I don’t think that’s a fair reflection on semen.
One hand you get the massive bell-bottomed gay stereotype and then on the other hand you get the rampant and erect dockside prostitute-rutter.
It’s all very confusing.
It must have been so much simpler in the long-lost historical past, when sailors were massive bearded stinkers who were 100% MAN. Albeit without the luxuries of vitamin C or teeth.
But at least these days they don’t seem to regularly make-up ENORMOUS STUPID LIES to try and pretend they didn’t accidentally f*ck AN ANIMAL through feverish sexual desperation.
I mean these days sailors have the Internet, pornography, and of course: the Internet. Strategically combined with a boxing glove and a tube of Nivea Cream, this is an almost unstoppable solo-powered orgasm factory. You’d be thrupping the holy sh!t out of your personal jolly roger whilst swinging about relentlessly in your hot and fetid hammock bunk.
But back then boxing gloves didn’t exist and Nivea Cream was illegal. Fact.
And THAT’S why they all made up that stupid f*cking obvious baby lie:
Those sailors never saw any f*cking Mermaids, oh no, they just knew that they could make up any old sh!t to detract people from the horrible truth. They also knew that whatever they said, people would just factor in the drunken, sun-stroked f*ckers ‘missing home’ and automatically self-fabricate something romantic and ethereal to embellish the story.
They didn’t see Mermaids.
They didn’t even “mistake Manatees” for anything.
They simply had no boxing gloves, no Nivea Cream and no WOMEN, as if any woman would have allowed a sweating stinkbeard with no teeth to gruntpump her in the poopdeck any-f*cking-way.
They saw the only thing they could get close to without it f*cking right off at the sight of a hairy sailor running at them with a bulbous erection – a fat manatee.
They simply charged in like horny tw@ts and went all 80s porno on them before they even knew what they were doing.
Afterwards, in the quiet time, they sat with ashamed and irrelevantly swollen beards, looking at the floor, wondering what the f*cking HELL they just did.
THAT is when they started making up stories about Mermaids…
At the end of the day: Hollywood made sailors as Gay as f*cking hell, but sailors are REAL MEN and the proof of this is all those years ago when they routinely f*cked massive sea cows then told lies.
I was making a cup of tea.
Nothing unusual in that you might think – and you’d be right, it was simple a cup of tea I was making for my good self in my slightly off-circular Albania! mug that my Dad brought me back from Albania. It’s a red mug.
I had been expecting a package for a few days, my friend Richard as I feel I should call him (as we were doing things in the real world together and even share some Facebook) had very generously posted me an external hard drive for me to put, unused, into a cupboard until approximately the exact day that my PC dissolves into a pool of fizzing horse porn and data protection concerns.
My dogs were helping. Helping in the sense that they both aim to stand directly between me and whatever it it I need to use or operate in the production of my cup of tea. Then, as if it’s the very first time they have EVER seen my mug (it is not) they follow it and me across the room, shuffling backwards, noses an inch from the cup I am walking towards the sink… in some kind of weird canine choreographed ballet entitled:
“We hope with all our hearts that it’s a piece of warm meat – even though we’ve seen it every day and we know damn well it isn’t a piece of warm meat because its a f*cking cup”.
So there I was, mid way though my Pas de cheval urging myself on towards the sink, when it happened…
The front door opened without warning and the top half of a man appeared wielding what looked, in that fleeting moment, to be a large brown box. Now as it happens, it was a large brown box – but this is neither here nor there as the real issue at this point was the sudden and unusual presence of the top part of a bloke inside my personal house space.
Sometimes time all but ceases to occur.
A handful of disparate milliseconds stretching lazily out into frozen moments where our perception of the world around us seems to magnify into some kind of information-rich fire that burns inside our living soul. Mostly this happens in films like The Matrix or Max Paine and I also think it happened once in SISSY’S HOT SUMMER (1983) but that later turned out to be a VHS spooling f*ck due to a greasy and borked cog.
Anyway, this moment was still happening – and I was in it. Right in it it.
The impromptu dog ballet ceased, sans encore, replaced instead with over 100 kilos of unhappy puppy instantly trying to gain traction on slate tiles. Heads synchronised and lolling forwards impatiently, teeth prepared, mouths gaping, waiting for at least two of their four desperate legs to make a meaningful contact with the elusive floor.
This was shortly followed by the thunder of eight angry paws making extremely swift progress down a long hallway, across the wooden boards, towards the frozen postman and his threatening presence with this large cardboard box he seemed to be unable to let go of.
As Cerberus itself they morphed into a single animated wall of rage as they covered the ground co-ordinating their duties: one snarling, lips curled back and teeth flashing white whilst the other fired off a salvo of deepest baritone barks to serve as fair warning. Abandon all hope all ye who enter here.
It was beautiful – I was frozen in time with a part made cup of tea.
The postman reacted.
He threw the box to the ground and pulled himself back through the doorway slamming it behind him, holding it shut as the dogs arrived and closed it against him via their involuntary inertia. As easily as it had opened however – the door wouldn’t close, not without him holding it desperately, hanging from the handle like some kind of weather-beaten mascot hanging from a teenage girl’s very first rear-view mirror.
It’s a multi-point lock you see, on a PVC door. It’s quite clever and it locks in several places if you turn the handle upwards when you close it. However if you kneel on the floor holding it shut whilst two dogs bark at you from inches away through steamy Pilkington safety Glass…it doesn’t close too well.
Anyway, here we were…again… at another one of those little junctures in life that I seem to encounter on a daily basis, with a postal worker trapped helpless and hanging off my front door, a parcel from my friend Richard lobbed helplessly into a canine deathtrap and my beloved tea only half made.
And that’s when the postman made a run for it. An actual run. He pushed the door shut, looked over to me as I was now advancing down the hallway (pretending he hadn’t seen) me before simply sprinting away. The dogs, seeing the door begin to slowly swing back open, prepared to burst into the void, adrenaline coursing through their veins…
“Sit” I said calmly.
You know, I swear I heard one of them mutter oh for f*cks sake….
So what happened next?
Well, I instantly marched around the house angrily repeating phrases like “what a f*ckc*nt!” and “how dare he just come into my bastard house” and “I should have f*cking let the dogs f*cking chase f*cking him” until my cup of tea was cold. In between rantings I hopelessly tapped at the Internet to find the phone number of The Post Office so that I could phone them and have this raging pervert sacked immediately.
I also learned that The Post Office doesn’t really have a phone number, simply a web form that hopefully tries to repackage and re-brand your inquiry and lever it as far way from “complaint” as possible.
So I helpfully included the words THIS IS A COMPLAINT on the top of my little text box.
Then I inspected the package, a precious and lovingly packed hard drive, worth thousands* and yet thrown recklessly across a room** full of animals, vowing to take it to the PC and check it’s functionally instantly if not sooner.
*Not worth thousands.
**Dropped onto the floor from a couple of feet.
So the facts are clear:
1> I have a sh!t postman who will now throw all my mail into the sea rather than face me and the hell dogs again.
2> I need to find some kind of lock that you can fix to a door that makes it shut like a normal f*cking door.
3> I need a new cup of tea.
We all have teeth.
At least those of us that have teeth, have teeth, I suppose I should qualify that some people don’t have teeth at all, it’s just that I wanted to start this all simple and build up to some clever stuff, you know?
Ok, for the sake of f*ck, let’s try again then.
Most people, apart from old people and babies, have some teeth.
How much time do we spend looking at other people’s teeth?
The answer is quite a lot of time.
Because often we find our eyes irrelevantly exploring the faces of people that we are forced into contact with during our daily lives. Like shopkeepers, traffic wardens, librarians, vicars and of course shopkeepers.
We can’t look at their eyes ALL the time, because they would begin to think that we are utterly f*cking insane and likely to harm them or begin touching them inappropriately. Oh no, we need to browse their faces with our gaze in a way that looks effortless and really very normal.
But it’s hard, isn’t it?
Because much like drinking quietly, or not thinking about an inflatable COCK floating down a river, we find it impossibly hard to do things when we make ourselves pointlessly aware of them.
So, face browsing, what are the rules?
Well, generally, you need to keep bringing your gaze back to the eyes whilst arbitrarily looking at assorted facial zones, also, occasionally stopping to look into the distance to ‘do a think’ or slightly upwards to ‘do a smile or a laugh’.
Importantly though, if you mis-time a ‘think’ or a ‘laugh’ you will f*ck this up completely and render yourself a bad mental.
Also, avoid staring at any part of the face that is wrong or broken.
A big spot, a tattoo of a tear, a lady’s accidental beard – ALL must be FULLY IGNORED otherwise risk locking your gaze onto them like a f*cking EAGLE.
That kind of sh!t is JUST as bad as pouring the whole conversation into their eyes, like a desperate murderer, once again, rendering yourself a bad mental.
See how important teeth are now?
You can use them as a tiny sanctuary embedded in a face full of potential disaster. An enamel oasis, in a difficult facial desert. A hopeful gob.
But beware the teeth.
Because should they have anything on them or stuck between them you will DEFINITELY find yourself drawn to them for too long and you will definitely find yourself desperately licking or rubbing your OWN teeth in a kind of bizarre reflective sympathy of the mouth error.
You talk to someone with a piece of something between their teeth and you’ll render yourself not only a complete gob staring mental but you’ll stand there scratching your bleeding incisors, with hot drool running down your tw@t-hand, as you WILL the rogue food fragment away.
It’s an unavoidable thing I think, much like that other thing.
The thing with the windows?
You know, whenever you need to communicate with another human being who is behind a window. You automatically choose not to raise your voice, not to shout so they can ACTUALLY HEAR YOU.
You mouth the words completely silently so they can think you better.
We are all idiots, live with it.
I’m not sure when exactly when this happened but something quite awful seems to have occurred: I’ve started to realise that I’m an old duffer.
I’m not that old by any stretch of the imagination, but I suffer from a condition where I find it very very difficult to remember that I’m not twenty-one anymore. I think there is a part of my brain that simply refuses to recognise the passing of time, like some kind of Peter Pan gland, or something.
This, despite all the various parts of me that have broken, parts that now creak, ache or don’t really work properly. This, despite the fact that I now have to make a small noise whenever I get up out of a chair.
Despite the fact that I think it’s absolutely f*cking normal to irrelevantly take a rain mac with me if I am going somewhere outdoors.
Despite the fact that I instinctively rinse out bloody cups or wash dishes when I visit someone else’s house and I close doors and turn lights off.
I really am becoming a dismal old f*cker, a grumbling moaner, a terrible cynic and a slightly borderline sociopath – mostly to teenagers.
It won’t be long before I need a stick to walk with.
But, worse than all these terrifying revelations, is the actual truth.
The awful truth:
I f*cking like it.
Let me try to explain why…
Firstly, the older you get, the less you give a flying f*ck about what people think of you. So yes, I went to an agricultural suppliers and bought a rain mac like the ones they hand out in the Army and YES in some ways that makes me a complete dick, BUT… I’m a WARM, DRY DICK and I don’t care.
Secondly, I’m getting BETTER as I get older, I really am – I’m smarter, wiser, calmer and no matter HOW much those monkey faced teenage sh!tS swagger along in the street, they still f*cking MOVE when I walk through them with a scowl. So f*ck them, and their IDIOTIC anus-revealing trousers.
And what’s more, I don’t care if I creak a little or break a bit, I’ve LIVED LIFE and I’ve never treated it as a rehearsal. I don’t fuss my hair into a completely BENT shape, or let it hide my stupid face. I don’t piss-arse around with logos and labels when I can just buy sh!tloads of tee shirts in Primark.
I don’t care what people think of me or stutter when talking to pretty girls.
I don’t look at the floor for no reason and I can drink half a dozen pints and NOT throw up onto myself.
And when I am in my sixties and I DO need a stick to walk, I am going to relentlessly tap people, prod people, annoy and pester people with it. And I am going to have a MASSIVE white handlebar moustache and I am going to wear a pocket watch and I am going to show off all my tattoos on sunny days and I am going to give EVEN LESS of a sh!t about ANYTHING.
Because I am getting BETTER BY THE DAY.
And those teenage f*ckers?
Yeah, those little bastards will still move for me.
My life mostly consists of my head being filled with very stupid thoughts.
I really can’t help myself when it comes to aimlessly pondering on the ridiculous and inappropriate, it’s almost like a constant HEADTEST to see if I can keep a vague and meaningful grip the flimsy boundaries of everyday reality.
I find endless situations utterly f*cking ABSURD every day and I find myself laughing at the idiocy of everything, myself included, whilst wearing that cheap and slutty little face mask we all call normal.
It’s as if the real me is standing a few paces back and gleefully watching the stupid spectacle that is the world rolling along like some kind of absurd pantomime on well oiled lunatic wheels.
And that’s when it all happens.
From behind my mask I find myself wondering what might happen if I let the screaming f*ck GHOST inside me, out into everyone else’s unlucky reality. If I just let the raging storm out into the world to find it’s own way and do it’s own very bad thing…
What would happen if I stood up in the middle of an important meeting and deliberately vomited my full English breakfast into the astonished faces of empty strangers?
What would happen if I furiously shouted “MOVE! YOU FAT DESPERATE HORSE c*nt!” into the terrified pig eyes of the dithering BABY in front of me, whilst pushing their stupid big face out of my important way?
What would happen if I threw all my pointless shopping into the busy road and danced on it until it was a pointless f*ckmess, or if I simply shouted “DIRTY c*ntER!” in the middle of a very sad funeral?
But I don’t do it…
I just think it in my brain then watch the normal world bumbling onwards, slowly.
With a slightly vacant smile on my mask.
I just bit the inside of my f*ckING STUPID MOUTH again.
I first bit it approximately twenty minutes ago whilst eating a hot sandwich.
Bacon if you must know.
And although I was fully aware of the festering little PERVERT on the inside of my mouth cheek and although I was actually just sat harmlessly reading…
I STILL f*ckING IRRELEVANTLY BIT IT AGAIN IN THE SAME PLACE.
Why must my IGNORANT TEETH betray me like this?
How many more idiotic mouth-bites am I going to undertake on exactly the same bastard piece of SOAKING GOB before I can break the cycle?
This is like f*cking paper cuts.
f*cking stinging, awful, don’t-realise-until-they-bleed paper cuts.
There is a universal bastard LAW at work that states that any time you get a paper cut, no matter where you are, within a quarter of an hour of realising you have the injury your hands will come into direct f*cking contact with either vinegar, tomato-juice or lemon-juice.
You could be in the middle of the f*ckING DESERT and all you would need to do to ensure your survival would be to self-inflict a small paper cut. Because sure as f*cking EGGS IS EGGS – you’ll be getting some form of BURNING FOOD JUICE right in it, very shortly.
Don’t even get me STARTED on that flicking eyelash thing.
Imagine you are a sweating, cocky and sorely disaffected youth type baby and you find yourself filling up like a BEAKER with adrenalin and the kind of inner excitement that you must imagine sex feels like when it’s not with yourself.
You have a riot semi.
You’re all f*cking STRUTTf*ckING about the place and ready to riot the HELL out of your erect ACORN COCK in the name of NOTHING AT ALL. And what’s more, thanks to your gift of an extremely low IQ you don’t even GIVE A sh!t that what you are about to go running off into isn’t an honorable thing, it’s a filthy criminal clusterf*ck of STINKING MORONS from every section of society.
Lets imagine we can feel the inner rage of the poor, unemployed WASTER who simply can’t be arsed to DO anything with their life because it’s FAR EASIER to sit back like a f*cking BELLEND and waste it whilst blaming others relentlessly.
All the time hoping with all their tiny brainheads that they might get a chance to burn sh!t and get on telly, bravely hiding their ashamed little faces and painfully swollen greedy BOLLOCK PLUMS like peadophile pirates.
You feel like the KING OF THE f*ckING WORLD.
You want EVERYONE to know how BADASS you are because you irrelevantly cowered into a broken shop and ran away like a lame c*nt with one or two worthless piss items as your heart pumped like a mental bum piston.
This is the pinnacle of your SUCCESS.
YOU ARE SHOWING THEM ALL WHAT YOU REALLY ARE!
What are you?
You are a total f*cking ANUS JOKE who’s stolen a bag of Basmati rice.
You know what I think?
I think that the overwhelming majority of people wandering the streets setting fire to sh!t DON’T GIVE A f*ck about injustice or about the untimely death of Mark Duggan. I doubt that many of them even realise what the concept of protest is or even have any real political views of their own in the first place.
Instead I think the crowds of rioters and looters are mostly made up of utterly pathetic cowards and thieves who are terrified of being identified because they know they are doing wrong.
These people are PAINFULLY STUPID and they must think the rest of us are even MORE STUPID to believe their transparent bandwagon motives.
Rather than ‘standing up for something they believe in’, they are actually just desperately reveling in being able to mindlessly break things, viciously damage property and endanger lives, whilst also freely looting and stealing simply to line their own greedy pockets like common robbers.
They are stealing from the businesses, homes and persons of the very community they pretend to represent and pretend to be standing for. They are nothing but a false and uncontrollable minority abhorred and rejected wholly by the overwhelming majority who look on in disgust.
And rather than this violence being an inevitable symptom of the awful state of the world that these poor, poor souls must endure – I believe the opposite.
I think that this underlying hate and contempt that these completely abhorrent individuals clearly posses, just seething below their facades of normality, is itself EXACTLY what must at least partly have contributed to the sorry state of affairs their lives are in.
Stop blaming everyone else and TAKE SOME RESPONSIBILITY.
I don’t think this is an expression of anger or a protest or an insurrection.
It’s opportunism and a complete lack of moral fibre and the ability to know right from wrong on even the most basic level. I think it’s mob rule perpetuated by people who should know better and you’d find a far higher understanding of rights and wrongs and more ethical intelligence in a playgroup.
Every single person who’s involved themselves in this sh!tty mess should feel f*ckING ASHAMED OF THEMSELVES.
There are people being interviewed on the television and the radio, or posting on Twitter, or heckling from the crowds who are making ridiculous and bizarre statements like “this will never stop” or “we want justice”.
I hope you all get the justice you deserve for the damage you have done to your communities and the reputations of those people you falsely pretend to represent, you spineless appalling feral sh!ts.
Of course it will stop – because there will come a point when there is nothing left to steal or mindlessly burn in the streets.
There will come a point when even the very stupidest amongst the rioters will realise that the game is up and all that has happened is that they’ve destroyed the property of their innocent neighbours and fully unpicked the fragile seams of our society through thoughtless greed, anger, stupidity and LIES.
But, of course, maybe they now have a stolen television or XBOX as a trophy or a handful of clothes grabbed from a burning shop to wear with pride.
But Mark Duggan is still dead and nobody closer to seeing what REALLY happened, and now his death will forever be blurred and distorted into this unholy f*cking MESS that has erupted.
And with it goes any calm voice of reason or real INTELLIGENT protest and, probably, all hope, stupidly lost. Well done.
What is it with other people’s ghastly obsession with how you feel?
People need realise that not only does misery love company but it also throws a riotous motherf*cker of a headparty for those of us who enjoy the relentless cacophony of noisepain.
Cheer up! it might never happen!
The kind of tight-vagina-mouthed phrase that well meaning people spit hopefully into your stinging eyes for no apparent reason at random intervals throughout your dull life. Their eyebrows elevated and erect like self righteous but tragically handicapped earwigs, they seem to think they are helping.
I say ‘well meaning’ but in reality it’s normally those thoughtless and mildly pointless peripheral people who boast the emotional depth of an egg-cup. They must think -in that fleeting moment – that you somehow DON’T KNOW that you are f*cking miserable, or that you somehow care that you look as f*cking, sodding, bastarding miserable as you blatantly actually are.
Maybe they wistfully imagine that you’ve accidentally leaned against a sticky wall that has been freshly painted with a stinking layer of misery sh!t and you’ve irrelevantly gotten it all over yourself without even realising. And as such they think that cheerfully pointing it out to you will do something other than simply irritate the enormous f*ck out of you, whilst also making you feel bizarrely ‘told off’ for daring to act exactly as you feel in public.
Facial earwig idiots.
But then umbilical idiots of one sort or another are literally all over the f*cking place. Every single f*cking second of every single f*cking day. They clamor at you, pawing you in the teeth with their freshly half-baked concern, like cats with balls of piss-soaked emotional wool.
A good example are those eager-faced genital-headed muffs who seem to think that it’s their f*cking duty and sole responsibility when out somewhere with any form of music playing, to try to make other people dance.
To try and make other people dance.
What the f*ck is going on when one human being deems it in any way normal to try and drag another human being onto a dance floor because it’s fun?
How is it fun?
Have you even seen what dancing looks like from the outside?
If you are in any way ‘good’ you look like you are trying way too hard and that you have definitely been practicing at home like some kind of animal-masturbating pervert. And if you are completely and unlawfully sh!t (which you definitely are) you look exactly like a terrified string-puppet being clumsily operated by a sh!t-faced pensioner wearing a wetsuit.
What the f*ck even is dancing?
Is the music so f*cking amazing that you need to move around like some kind of super-animated epileptic pervert?
No. No it is not.
You’re not part of the performance, it’s just music – not a f*cking interactive pantomime for the blind and criminally insane. Sit the f*ck down and just listen to it like a normal person for God’s sake.
Just because I don’t have any desire to publicly piss out what tiny f*cking shred of liquid dignity I have left by self-consciously circle-jerking myself up and down in front of some speakers and an array of hopeless strangers: DON’T TELL ME I CAN’T HAVE FUN – you pathetic crab-sh!t-filled beaker of orange ponce.
What even is fun?
When I was younger the best kind of fun we ever had was EXPLORING!
And by this I mean breaking into abandoned places where we certainly shouldn’t have been, in order to f*ck about, break stuff and burn things. Or, occasionally, hunt for ghosts and other dumb sh!t that kids used to do.
We were fearless and we went out and heartily face-f*cked fun right in it’s bad eye with dangerous bangers that someone’s older brother brought back from France one time.
And another thing, those old public information films that showed children climbing into sub-stations to retrieve footballs, before being spectacularly blown out of their corduroy flares in a cloud of pure 1975.
What the electric f*ck?
They were f*cking terrifying, they haunted me those bastard films. I’ve never recovered from a deep and irrational fear of small buzzing boxes surrounded by fences. And flares. And footballs.
God, those were the greatest times.
Toys were amazing, exciting and full of plastic promise and ‘The Boy from Space’ was terrifying the living sh!t out of us all from a large brown TV that lived in a box by the reading area of our primary schools.
Do you remember the first and last time you tried to make some milk fizzy by using your mum’s new Soda Stream?
Those were the days when Policemen didn’t ever wear high visibility clothing because it didn’t exist and Policewomen still wore stupidly impractical skirts.
People smoked in shops and every hedge on the way home from school had a porno in it that contained terrifying images of simply enormous vaginal vaginas.
It seems like another f*cking lifetime where we somehow managed to arrange to meet people in the real world, without Facebook or even mobile phones to guide us through the process like a thoughtful lover.
Stuff just happened, kids just hung out, we never used to spend any time indoors because indoors was sh!t compared to the massive outdoor world of adventures, abandoned railway stations and haunted buildings that would shouldn’t be inside or and we definitely shouldn’t be making go on fire.
I remember LOTS of sunshine and very sparse reports of paedling perverts.
I remember very little misery and almost no need at all for any kind of retro f*ckCOIN to preach to me anything even remotely as irrelevant and soul-grating as “Cheer up! it might never happen“.
But here we are, all grown up. Kind of.
Maybe that’s the whole f*cking problem right there, all we’ve done is forget the adventures and start worrying incessantly in case “it ever happens”. When did we lose that f*cking freedom of youth and start mulching through life like a fat lazy pig eating a sh!t-stained doormat?
Perhaps those endless summers and stomach tingling adventures are still here somewhere if I just find whatever it is that will set me free to get back on my BMX and ride of after them?
Wearing short shorts.
I think I’ll make a concerted effort to enjoy misery far LESS in future and stop slowly inching my own fat head right up my fully relaxed anus if I can help it.
I think I might try to cheer up too.
But not because some kind of automated f*ckATRON has bleated an over used phrase at me for want of anything better say, no, not because it may never happen, absolutely the f*cking opposite.
I need to cheer up because it’s already happening.
We are here for a good time, not for a long time.
I sometimes wonder how powerful love is.
This invisible thing that drives us blindly onwards through life as much as it desperately holds us back. That secret thing that means nothing else matters as you burn inside with those insatiable but somehow hidden flames.
A force of impossible urgency that forges living memories out of life and carves experience on your soul. Or that feeling beyond anything, when you just know with every fibre of your being that you are totally safe.
Love never forgets.
But don’t take my word for it.
Maybe you’ve seen or read about this before – it is quite old, but I’ll tell you about it again anyway. In the late 1960s, two friends, John Rendall and Ace Berg, bought a lion cub.
Yes, you read that correctly – it was the 1960s, anything was possible – they bought a f*ckING LION. Because they had seen it living in a cage in a department store and they felt it was horribly unfair on the little chap, they wanted him to have a better life, they wanted to help.
At the time, Christian the lion was an adorable, fluffy 35lb cub.
The two friends raised Christian lovingly in their London home. All three hung out in their furniture shop on the weekends, like the greatest of chums, they played with him, cuddled him and raised him with limitless hugs.
But after a year or so, Christian had grown to 185 lbs. And to their despair, Rendall and Berg realised they simply couldn’t keep him much longer. Despite their utter love for him – he was getting too big and they wanted him to be safe and happy, but they simply didn’t know what to do with him for the best.
A random encounter changed that….
Two actors from the film Born Free walked into the furniture shop one morning. The two actors recommended a conservationist, George Adamson, who was living in Kenya and suggested he might be the perfect contact to find Christian a real home out in the wilds.
As massively painful as it was, they knew it was for the best and (now not so little) Christian was soon out in Africa, where he was quickly successfully rehabilitated and fully released into the wild.
But… a while later, Rendall and Berg decided they just HAD to try to go and visit Christian one last time.
This, on the face of it was a silly idea, because he had been gone for years now and had been fully returned to the wild. Not only was he now fending for himself out on the plains, but he was leading his own pride.
Christian had gone, that tiny cub didn’t exist anymore.
He was a wild animal.
Adamson told them it was massively doubtful that Christian could be found at all, it was for the best not to expect to spot him – especially since no-one in the nature reserve had seen him at all in over nine months.
But here’s that love thing again, or at least real hope, because the two of them flew out to Kenya, anyway. They missed him terribly and despite the assurances of that hugely successful return to the wild, I guess they felt that impossible pull, that irrational need to go anyway, just to see.
You don’t know the half of it.
On the day they landed, Christian appeared on the outskirts of Adamson’s camp for the first time in nearly a year.
Somehow, he just knew.
He waited outside the camp until Rendall and Berg arrived…
And nobody could believe what happened next.
You’ve got something in your eye.
Maybe it’s a speck of love. x
Don’t you just f*cking HATE it when you end up having to talk to someone who had those amazing boggled eyes that randomly point in entirely different directions?
Yes. Of course you do, you’re almost normal.
A few days ago I was checking into a hotel – actually I was checking into a COMPLETELY f*ckING WRONG hotel but that’s not the point – and the bloke behind the counter had MAGIC WOBBLE EYES that pointed in entirely different directions like little wobbling face tw@ts.
I noticed instantly, of course, but didn’t say anything, of course.
The thing that made it all the more difficult was that I was trying to talk to him seriously about the fact that I wasn’t showing up on their system. I wanted to sort stuff out but my mind was utterly distracted by the universal conundrum we all face when in the position of talking to the wrong-eyed:
Which f*cking eye do I look at -which one WORKS?
Honestly, this bloke was so f*cking badly affected that NEITHER of his f*cking eyes were EVER looking at me. In the end I gave up leaning from side to side trying to catch one of them for a second and I just spoke to his f*cking nose.
I spoke to his f*cking nose.
He was like a strange and lumpy French chameleon wearing an impressively ugly tie. And I wasn’t on his system despite my brave attempts to step sideways into one of his many fields of vision.
I don’t know what the usual etiquette is in these situations but by the POWER OF f*ck I was tempted to just straight-up ask him which eye he would like me to point my f*cking conversation at.
I mean why not – he must KNOW he his face is malfunctioning right?
Unless his eyes are so f*cking BLOOTERED that he can’t see himself in a mirror unless he stands with his back to it and has therefore never even REALISED that his eyes point totally different ways?
Instead, I rode it out, like a slightly irritated and sweaty hero, weaving about like an angry cobra with a heavy rucksack and playing safe with the direct nose stare aimed purposefully at the dead-centre of his bizarre French face.
Firstly, I can’t believe I booked the wrong motherf*cking hotel.
Secondly, I can’t believe the hotel that I irrelevantly decided to try and check into had a receptionist that looked like a human space-hopper with two snow globes duct taped hopefully to it in lieu of an actual WORKING FACE.
What is it with proximity?
You know that thing when you find yourself accidentally walking right towards the chin of someone that for one reason or another you feel you should somehow acknowledge in some irrelevant way?
You suddenly don’t quite know where you should look in case you somehow make a complete sweaty HORSE PIPE of yourself in front of them.
Your whole MASSIVE face suddenly feels too aware of itself and a bit like it’s temporarily gone into a wrong and unfamiliar shape like an ejaculating tortoise.
You don’t quite know what expression you are even pulling.
You don’t want to be pervertedly eager-headed and equally you don’t want to irrelevantly ignore them like a rude piss f*ck. But let’s be honest – you’re not even sure why you should be acknowledging them in the first place…
Because this isn’t the kind of thing that happens with people you actually know. Of course not – this is that f*cking ugly, bizarre and insane thing you only get with people you don’t even know very well in the first place.
It’s a f*cking sh!t-studded minefield of inner hate.
And the worst part of it is all is simply deciding on WHEN to do your pathetic, anal clenching facial acknowledgement.
What is the correct proximity…?
In order to manage the proximity so you can acknowledge them at the ‘right’ point, you begin using all kinds of frankly, f*ckING HEADMENTAL strategies.
EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM makes you an utter MOUSE COCK.
“The absent minded walker” ~ where you have DEFINITELY SEEN THEM and you both know for certain that you have DEFINITELY SEEN THEM but you look about trying to appear to be some kind of absent-minded butterfly of a human being who is too busy ‘looking around’ to have noticed them.
“The serious faced looker” ~ this is where you massively and childishly and dramatically stare at something, usually a random fixed point of f*ck ALL as you pull a slightly puzzled or sometimes ‘cross’ face. This helpfully tells the other person that you have suddenly been caught in a very important bit of thinking and you need to work something out which will, amazingly, resolve itself EXACTLY at the point of acknowledgement.
“The stooping floor walker” ~ this is where you simply keep your head down and keep walking so that you look like a f*cking awkward teenager. It’s effective but it can be hard to then judge when to come out of it, leaving you with the possibility of then having to use one of the other strategies for another few agonising seconds if you peak early and shoot your emo-powered floor-load.
None of these things fool f*cking ANYONE.
We ALL know that it’s just playing for time because that stupid thing happens where we start over thinking the most simple f*cking things, yet we repeatedly do this DUMB sh!t anyway.
And it’s always with people we don’t have any real need to acknowledge but you just oddly feel that you should. Like some fat bloke you met for the first and only time about three days ago, or a pretty girl who works in a shop you sometimes go in, or the ugly woman who you think lives six doors down.
Who even f*cking CARES if you do that stupid nod and eyebrow raise thing with a sh!t eating grin from ten feet away instead of four?
And don’t even get me started on the f*cking IDIOT faces we pointlessly gurn and the BOLLOCK SHAPED mouth noises we stupidly vomit up like seagulls, all in the vain hopeful-faced HOPE that it comes out as a normal greeting.
We FROWN nod.
We tilt our heads back with our eyebrows TOO f*ckING HIGH.
We do that f*cking one-fingered wave…
WE EVEN COMBINE THEM ALL.
And all with the desperate stomach panic of someone who is STILL convinced they got the proximity slightly wrong and therefore didn’t properly acknowledge an utter random stranger that DOES NOT MATTER.
I’ve always been a square peg in a round hole.
I willfully hammer myself in deeper because I f*cking love it. I’ve always been a firm believer in doing whatever the f*ck I like and making sure every stupid train-wreck of a situation I regularly, repeatedly, constantly find myself in, at least adds something to the bubbling pot of wrongf*ck that is me.
It usually does.
I’ve met some amazing people and made some incredible mistakes too.
I guess we all have.
Everyone is unique, but some people are more unique than others.
I once saw a man take a long run up and kick a full (hot) roast chicken, as hard as he could, directly into the surprised face of another man. I’ve slept on a snooker table two nights in a row, a deer once spat right into my open mouth and I once pissed on a donkey that wasn’t on fire.
I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of… oh, hold on. f*ck that sh!t.
Secrets are interesting things.
I was recently accused of writing a sh!tstorm of insanity in order to hide occasional, beautiful, poetry. I don’t know about poetry but somebody really smart once said that sometimes the only way to make sure that everyone ignores you is to shout the loudest. Or something.
Nothing validates the soul like the unforced and beautiful smile of a stranger you would love to get to know better. Except maybe that rush when you realise they might want to know you too.
They say life is a journey, I say it’s such a shame that death is the destination.
Earlier today I made a small boat out of a leaf and sailed it across a puddle. I’m still wearing wet shoes now, because I made my tiny boat whilst out on an adventure with my puppies (not tits) in the pouring rain.
And I have muddy knees, because as I was walking along I saw a mouse, a f*cking impossibly tiny mouse, cowering in the middle of the grassy path like a teabag with a face, I think it had been roughed up by something bigger.
I picked it up and popped it into my pocket… I found a little mouse-cave in some tree roots in the next field…and gently put him in there. Safe. Rescued.
Maybe I have a soul after all.
What exactly is the f*cking point of fingernails?
It’s not like they are usable as CLAW WEAPONS because they just break or snap or do that weird thing when they get a dark bruise under them because they got slightly bumped. You can’t properly use them as a screwdriver – believe me, every man has tried – because all that happens is they twist into a pathetic ragged little tw@t.
Fingernails are f*cking sh!t.
At their very pampered best, on women, they can look feminine and sexy – assuming they’ve been coloured in properly and falsely and painstakingly filed into a nice pleasing shape. But even then, they are susceptible to constant sh!tty cracking and breaking and general hand-based disaster.
If the colours are done wrong or left to wear off a bit so that they look like tiny weatherbeaten gravestones, then they just make their owner look like a completely dirty GUTTER SLUG who gives below average handjobs in a piss ridden bus shelter. For a tenner.
But it’s worse for men.
On men the fingernail is an entirely wasted evolutionary strand of flimsy NATUREf*ck Because the bottom line is that we are UTTER sh!t at actually doing anything that involves bodily maintenance and we have almost no concept of bathrooms, towels or hot water.
Cutting your nails is tediously boring and simply results in a sh!tload of ugly nail clippings being fired carelessly into an inappropriate place and left there. Or even worse that thing where you cut your nail too short and it doesn’t hurt at first, but then about twenty minutes later and for a full 24 hours thereafter it’s the most sensitive TOSSf*ck THROBBER in existence for no obvious reason.
Biting them isn’t any better, because it’s repugnantly foul and you run the risk of doing that other thing where you end up with a loose bit of nail limply attached by just a tiny bit of skin in the corner. And when you pull it, this peels a strip of YOU off from the nail itself all the way up the side of your finger like you are some kind of biological but bizarrely compliant human sellotape.
The fingernail is a complete and utter pointless tw@t.
It’s not like your fingers would wear down without them.
Although they come in handy for dealing with itchy bits they are, overall, just a pointless translucent receptacle for the most unimaginable and vomit inducing substances that exist, all helpfully collected stored with the EXACT part of your body that you most often put in or near your actual face’s mouth.
Desperate and pointless overtaker tw@ts.
You know exactly who I mean: those f*cking pathetic car idiots who, upon exiting a roundabout or entering a stretch of road where two lanes merge into one, suddenly feel the insatiable need to froth themselves into some kind of traffic orgasm in order to ejaculate themselves ahead of you to irrelevantly gain TWENTY f*ckING YARDS OF ROAD.
What is the BASTARDING point in them trying to grunt their way past and then force their way back into the EXACT SAME LINE OF TRAFFIC in twenty yards’ time like a f*cking BABY?
You can look straight ahead all you LIKE you utter foaming PISS TANKARD, I’m not going to move a f*cking inch for you and I’m going to stare right at the side of your massive c*nty face and BURN A HOLE IN IT with my ANGRY EYES.
Frankly I’d rather crash my f*cking car than let you drive away with fully erect peanus and a fully intact superiority complex that is rooted in your obsession with animal porn and role-playing games.
f*ck you very much.
Today’s game is called #Twize!
Just take your HEIGHT IN INCHES and multiply it by your WEIGHT IN POUNDS.
You have your #Twize index!!
Here is the story so far:
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I hate killing things and I get really cross at idiot tw@t people who are cruel or nasty to animals and stuff.
I once punched a man who was wearing braces and Cherry Red Dr Martens boots, right in his f*cking oblong face because he stamped on his own dog. The dirty c*nt deserved it in a massive way.
I mean him, not the dog… obv.
Anyway, cruelty and death and that sh!t – I hate it.
Not so say I don’t think it’s OK to rule with a rod of iron, or humanely kill to eat things, or punch the odd deer in the face, obviously that’s fine! But generally if you heartlessly stamp on a little puppy dog’s back whilst laughing with your inbred mates, I certainly will knock you over the wall you are standing by. Hard.
But I’ll tell you what…
I f*cking LOVE hearing my MASSIVE BASTARD ELECTRONIC FLY DESTROYER zapping those foul sh!tty footed buzzing PESTERf*ckS one at a time from the other end of my kitchen.
I f*cking LOVE it.
I cannot STAND the little hairy flying rabbit-sh!ts, spreading their sh!t VOMIT all over my house and w@nking their wings off into my tea.
I f*cking DETEST them and the way that they effortlessly avoid any f*cking attempt to destroy them with a tea towel and every f*cking pointless swipe with a magazine or rolled up newspaper.
And that dumb f*cking thing they do when they just fly in little circles under a light bulb, what the f*ck is that?
Plus they move funny.
Welcome to ELECTRONIC DEATH you horrendous sh!t eaters.
Unless you are a small baby or a sh!tfaced tramp, falling asleep in public is pretty f*cking undignified.
It kind of singles you out as a gormless tw@t – not so much because you have actually fallen asleep – no, it’s much more the process of falling asleep and that pathetic battle we fight that makes us look so f*cking terminally dumb.
Firstly we do that thing where we feel all warm and our eyes go heavy and we instantly realise that we could sleep if we let it happen. We tell ourselves it’s not an appropriate time and we sit up and we try to focus.
Secondly we do that thing where we try to tell ourselves that we could just close our eyes for, say, ten seconds… and somehow we bizarrely pretend that will be alright or that it will help us become a bit less tired, like a little sleep to keep us going or something equally bollocks.
We know FULL WELL what it will do.
The final phase is that f*cking STUPID head nodding thing. Where the sudden action of your head lolling forward like a poisoned giraffe wakes you up for just long enough to realise that you are a total PUBLIC c*nt and sit back upright – before you immediately begin telling yourself the exact same lies from phase two in the belief that it might just irrelevantly ‘be fine’ this time, as you drift back.
It’s a cycle of utter f*ckwittery.
Once you’re in the cycle, you are trapped, endlessly nodding and then jerking yourself upright repeatedly like some kind of startled tw@t of a human daffodil caught in a breeze. It’s utterly, tragically pathetic – unless of course you are observing someone else doing it, then it’s utterly f*cking hilarious.
The only thing that can really break it is if you let yourself go fully to sleep.
The downside of this being that you will definitely snore, definitely drool and almost certainly begin lazily sleep-w@nking yourself like a grinding tosser before a particularly big pothole or a sufficiently loud railway announcer rudely awakens you to a carriage full of embarrassment and sexual guilt.
Best bet in this situation is to get off at the next stop, finish yourself off furiously in a hedge, then walk home with your head held high like a nodding w@nker.
It’s often a little bit of a thrill when you discover something entirely new.
You know, a bit like your first secret w@nk; exciting, different, happy ending. Etc.
It’s such a massive f*cking horrendous sh!t of a shame though, that it’s also possible to make the same kind of big internal discovery about a bizarre strand of human behaviour that allows you a proper mindlicking insight into what people can convince themselves is OK and what kind of awful soulless c*nts are out there disguised as normal people.
I guess whoever penned the whole ignorance is bliss thing was a smart little sh!t and probably a journalist or an ambulance chaser. Or both. Or neither.
Am I surprised to imagine that a newspaper could have hacked into personal voicemails to try and get any kind of salacious filthy gossip they might be lucky enough to hear?
Am I surprised to imagine a newspaper could have used a Magnum PI to root about into other people’s private business in the quest for some printable sh!t?
No. Of course I’m not, I’m not six years old.
Because in my mind, these are the same awful people who make pure sh!t up just to sell their newspapers and selectively invent and twist and exaggerate so much, so often and so routinely that they must be all but f*cking blind to it.
I imagine these are the people that hide like animals in hedges, chase ambulances and blatantly appear to have a lower level of awareness of moral fibre and integrity than a f*cking starfish.
And a perverted starfish at that.
But what has surprised me is that anyone who is actually a living, breathing human could knowingly decide that their own potential to sell some words, was so important, so vital and so much of a f*cking ‘priority’, that they would willfully do something to cause the terrified, grieving, pain-stricken parents of a missing child to feel a f*ckload of extra false hope and additional, needless pain.
False hope and additional, needless pain.
It’s f*cking disgraceful.
What’s more f*cking disgraceful is that somehow that is how our society is now.
It’s also disgraceful that we even need to see the kind of immense reaction against this that we are seeing from various spheres. Not to criticise the people who are pushing hard AT ALL, because they are TOTALLY f*cking awesome and TOTALLY f*cking right for getting stuck in.
But how did we get here?
Anyway, enough pissthinking and mumbling.
What needs to happen is simple: Anyone or anything that puts money in the pockets of any organisation that routinely behaves like TOTAL f*ckING APPALLING SCUM should just get their cash THE f*ck OUT of that organisation without any f*ckdithering about.
And that doesn’t mean callously using it as an even better and more positive form of promotion than the previously expensive ads from that filthy sinking ship either. No, have some f*cking DIGNITY and just quietly stop funding anything or anyone that is happy to peddle f*ckING AGONY as a commodity.
Mental illness is an odd thing.
I mean on the one-hand it’s about as funny as a firm kick in the gentleman’s testicles, because it f*cks up people’s lives and causes all kinds of miserypain and unhappiness. But on the other hand, if we are honest, it does offer some genuinely f*cking superb comedy – the kind you just know you are going to hell for laughing at.
Mental illnesses creates the kind of utter street randoms that we all see wandering about in town centres doing the most bizarre and terrifying things. No matter how f*cking non-PC it might be to find these people amusing, unfortunate and scary, we ALL DO IT, even if we PRETEND NOT TO STARE.
Seriously, you think blanking them and staring straight ahead makes it all OK..?
Don’t tell me for a SECOND that if you walked past a grunting man dry humping his own bike whilst proudly wearing a Tesco carrier on his head, you wouldn’t laugh at least a little bit? I saw that spectacle only last week, laugh? I nearly sh!t the road in pure joyous celebration.
A few weeks before that I encountered a “shouter” sitting on a wall outside a library. I have NO idea what he was saying but it seemed like it might well have been “GALLOPING w@nkER!” repeated at immeasurable decibels and accompanied by a steady stream of shouting mouth spit.
I think I notice these characters more too, or at least I attract them somehow, I must be psychotically magnetic – like an oozing blob of sex honey to an OVARY WASP.
And I almost have this inbuilt feeling that one day I will actually BE one of them you know. And in some ways I look forward to it… after all, normality is f*ckING overrated. I think I could get quite vocally involved in spending my days pushing a supermarket trolley full of filthy shoes up and down a crowded high street whilst irrelevantly screaming WORM RUBBER! at the top of someone else’s voice.
But I digress.
The mental illness I am really talking about are more those funny little small things.
I know a woman who cannot possibly go more than sixty seconds without furiously looking at her watch. What’s worse is that she moves like a f*cking insect, or a stop motion film, but frowns angrily at her watch each and every time she JERKf*ckS it up in front of her livid red face. It’s like the f*cking watch keeps shouting to her or something like an invisible wrist pest.
I know someone else who has to nasally smell every single object that they hold. No matter what, they NEED to smell it and then they can operate it or handle it as normal from that point onwards.
This, of course, means that incredible amounts of comedy potential offer themselves up to the right kind of utter c*nt of a friend, obviously. STOP LOOKING AT ME.
Anyway, shut up and let me finish.
People are f*cking NUTS – and I mean all of us, not just the ones who we all THINK are nuts… in fact, you know what the only difference is between us all?
They don’t know how nuts they are, they are immune and blissfully ignorant to their own crazy.
Deep down, we know.
sh!t cheap hotels.
You know the ones I mean – they all look exactly the same on the inside and have enough ash-fronted formica in them to tip the earth off it’s sodding axis. The receptionist is always from eastern Europe and has the asexual charisma of a slightly distorted reflection of an attractive woman.
Last time I was unlucky enough to be stuck firmly inside one of these awful places, I discovered (whilst naked and naively hopeful) that there was an approximate water pressure of f*ck ALL per f*ckING NOTHING AT ALL. I ended up having to ‘shower’ under a tepid trickle of water. It would have been more effective to make a toddler cry then hold it over my head. But less morally correct.
And why the twisting f*ck do they put that long and ridiculous fecal smear of selfishly patterned cloth along the bottom of the bed -what the f*ck even IS it?
Why is it that these crappy chain hotels also seem to arrogantly deem it necessary to spitefully nail paintings to the walls in their rooms that you wouldn’t expect find in a third rate, heavily abusive old people’s home?
It’s always either a crock of f*ckawful smeary abstract vomit that looks as though a wounded cat has run mouth-first through a full English breakfast, or sterile prints of ancient bollocks that no one bloody liked the first f*cking time round.
What, exactly, do they think this w@nkART brings to that BOXf*ck of a room?
They must hopefully imagine a weary businessman is going to loosen his tie, make himself a cup of tea using the f*ckING STUPIDLY TINY kettle (which still manages to be louder than the f*cking Hadron Collider) and gaze up at whatever smear of toss they’ve chosen to enhance the room with and think to themselves ‘Goodness, that picture of a couple of fat naked cherubs looking winsome has perked me right up. I think I’ll cheerfully crack one off and then get going with that ninety-eight slide presentation RIGHT NOW!’
No. The grubby business-pervert is going to loosen his tie, perch on the bottom edge of the bed with his stubby member proudly between his thumb and forefinger before tumescently unleashing his three minutes of free porn and furiously cry-w@nking himself into a lonely slumber.
THAT is what those f*cking stripes of cloth are for: w@nk shields for the acorn wielding business minded spunk wranglers. Fair enough.
You dress like a bastard, act like a bastard and by the very fact you wander around an artificial field of spunk with a bag of sticks stuck to your head, you are a complete f*cking bastard.
Let’s clear this up, no more mincing around, let’s really clear it up; golf is primarily for bastards. Fact. Of course not everyone who plays golf IS a bastard, but it’s utterly clear that it is FOR bastards.
Right? Yes. Of course I am.
So imagine my utter internalised dismay this afternoon when I was told I should play a round of golf.
To be frank, I was less dismayed than the person that had just said it to me, because I inadvertently replied: “thanks but no thanks – golf is for bastards” before walking away rudely. But that’s just how I rollercoaster.
What is it with golf and golfers?
So many f*cking ways to dress like a complete FANNYCANNON and then trot about in public looking like a a f*cking clown but irrelevantly believing you are somehow brilliant or clever or good or important?
And all that sh!t about swing dynamics, posture, technique – f*ck OFF, nobody believes a word of it. Just tw@t the ball hard and stop making sh!t up you horrendous cat raping LIAR.
Golf is basically a fat man’s excuse to walk carefully around a field and then drink cheap beer with people you don’t like at all but somehow feel that you need to try and like. Clubhouses are always full of old weird sh!t so the socially inept “couple” that run the place can pretend they are some kind of f*cking important museum.
A museum of sticks and balls.
f*cking great, humanity is forever indebted to you. Well done.
Some people are so f*cking SKIN CRINGINGLY awful it makes me want to cheerfully sick up my last meal and fashion it into the shape of a cock.
When you are in a busy social situation there is a RULE LAW that all humans need to f*cking well make themselves properly aware of in order to avoid looking like an over-eager c*ntbottle.
It’s the three times rule for any excited story telling.
If and when you attempt to f*ckBURST into an already running conversation like an eager toddler, then you run the risk of doing that thing where your words simply drop out into the collective airspace like a particularly unwelcome sh!t, leaving you looking and sounding like a vaginal hammer as the conversation rolls over your wet face and continues on it’s way.
The rule is: that you can drop out a maximum of THREE of these stinking unwelcome sh!ts… but if you so much as attempt a fourth you are an utter, utter, f*cking c*nt and you should die.
Today I witnessed a high-pitched, headwrong terminally dull woman break this rule by attempting to begin a sh!t story that nobody wanted to hear….. SEVEN f*ckING TIMES.
It was literally like watching a bull elephant violently rape a car crash right in front of my f*cking tender ears.
She kept leaning forward into the group – who were already talking about something else – and just blindly firing off the first few lines of her mule’s dirty COCK of a story trying to ease her way in like some kind of slippery reverse tw@tsnake trying to f*ck it’s way into a tight anus.
It was horrific, because NOBODY wanted to listen and NOBODY gave a sh!t about her floundering face.
It was like watching a fat child sh!t into it’s own hands desperately hoping it would still be cake.
It wasn’t cake.
I had to leave the table on the cusp of the sixth repeat and I heard the seventh as I left the room, there could even have been more… for all I know she is STILL sat there now like some kind of echo-voiced spacehopper made of purest HATE.
f*ck ME I hate some people.
This story is dedicated to my beautiful ovary-faced partner in crime.
You moaning, lumbering red skinned f*cking gormless sunc*nt.
You are ENTIRELY to blame for the fact that your neck and shoulders are now the colour of a cherry tomato and producing more heat energy than a coal-fired power station.
Mincing around like a fat ballerina trying to put your shirt back on over your white belly just makes you look like more of a giant f*cking bizarre baby. And your choice of tattoo – a tiny circle on your massively fat arm – looks exactly like a f*cking hateful solitary green fridge magnet awash and alone on a GIANT SMEG FRIDGE.
THIS is why everyone in the world thinks that the English are stupid c*nts.
YOU are why everyone in the world thinks that the English are stupid c*nts.
And your three quarter length combat trousers over the top of Lacoste trainers make me SICK WITH ACTUAL WATERY VOMIT.
You make me sick.
I want to be sick ON YOU and IN YOUR MOUTH and ON YOUR SUNBURN.
You enormous, ejaculating, spherical PENIS.
It’s probably quite a big topic and it’s definitely caused quite a bit of sh!t recently – and by recently I mean the entire time we have been wobbling about on two legs pretending that a magic invisible friend exists.
It’s a bit of a conundrum isn’t it?
Here we are all brilliant and monkey-faced-clever because we climbed out of the primordial ooze and began bumming each other senseless up some trees, until one day one of our distant ancestors bummed a fellow tree monkey so hard in the back of it’s arse, that they all fell out onto the floor and turned into hairy humans. Ergo. Thusly. Us. Science.
So how does magic God fit into that?
Years ago I was at University and a militant lesbian vegetarian animal rights person stormed angrily into the bar and began putting up posters of animal experimentation, mostly on monkeys, mostly with large black and white images of monkey faces staring back at us.
You know that slightly greasy, permanently PMT and horribly difficult yogurt-weaving tw@tbint you are imagining?
It was exactly her.
She was so incensed in her angry work that she was sobbing like a dirty nappy as she plastered the bar with images of monkey torture. It was quite annoying. I mean I’m absolutely for animal rights and all that sh!t but some people are just f*cking annoying.
Unfortunately I had a selection of stickers with me at the time that I had got in a set of photographs I had just collected from the Chemist’s. Oh…and young people, f*ck OFF before you start – that’s the way it used to happen.
I can only apologise for what I did next.
I carefully took a large speech bubble message sticker and placed it on a poster right next to the massive face of a particularly tragic looking monkey that appeared to be bolted to a tray full of Meccano.
It wasn’t an offensive message, it had come in a packet of cheerful fun stickers designed for fun and fun after all.
All it said was “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”
The yogurt-weaving tw@tbint went apoplectic with rage and threw a full pint of beer at me. It hit me full in the face, precious ale sprayed everywhere and despite the damage my colleagues and I continued to laugh until piss mixed with spilled ale and fury and lo! – we were cavemen once more.
The circle was complete.
But the real question remains; why do mentally-ill people pretend there is a magic imaginary cloud friend in the happy sky when there are monkeys being f*cked in the bum and eye with Meccano?
How f*cking stupid do you have to be to try to embarrass a f*cking dog?
I’m walking through a park and I see a woman with an empty pushchair, two dirty children and what looks like a young Bull Mastiff running about buggering inanimate objects and bothering the sh!t out of everything.
The woman is mid thirties and not unattractive in terms of nature’s gift of face, form and physique. And yes, that WAS a phonetic alliteration, what the f*ck of it?
She’s kind of attractive in a very council estate way, I mean she isn’t marriage material, she’s more like a disposable razor or a late night filthy kebab. She’s also smoking a Silk Cut cigarette and ignoring her children as they spin, like tiny irritating helicopters, towards a busy main road.
It’s about the point where she opens her mouth that I realise I actually am more attracted to the Bull Mastiff.
For some reason she has irrelevantly let her utterly untrained pupface dog run off and f*ck up everyobody else’s day. It’s leaping about trying to bite dogs and people and generally causing bastard havoc.
She is standing with her hand on her hip, shouting in some kind of mockney throatc*nt that the pup “better get ‘ere – or else…”
Better get ‘ere or else.
Is she f*cking insane?
Yes. Yes she is.
This continues for a few minutes, with the dog taking some where between NO notice and f*ck ALL notice as it begins to helpfully chew a poodle and then dry hump the f*ck out of a park bench.
And this is when the genius began…
She shouts loudly across to the dog;
(The dog is pulling the sleeve of a confused elderly gentleman)
“Fine. Stupid dog” She turns to tell the bystanders “he’s such a stupid dog”
(The dog is now energetically eating some sh!t)
She walks a few feet behind a hedge before peeking out again, expecting, perhaps, to see the dog running – fear in it’s hairy canine face as it suddenly heard her say goodbye! It must be thinking “who will feed me?” and “how could she leave me?” and “what will become of me without slutmummy!?”
The dog was idly pissing against a little shrub, the two dirty kids where somewhere in traffic, and slutmummy looked like some kind of plastic errorface.
BECAUSE IT’S A f*ckING DOG YOU RETARDED THUNDERc*nt!
Sometimes in life I think these situations are sent to test me, to test my dignity, resolve or even my propensity as a human being to show empathy and genuine support to my fellow human woman as I join her in that struggle we call life.
As I passed her I turned and said;
“It’s not a stupid dog you pathetic disease – it’s generally accepted that in a human/canine interactions it’s the two legged mammal, not the one that sh!ts in public that has the intellectual edge. But I can see in this particular case the jury is still well and truly out. TAKE SOME f*ckING RESPONSIBILITY”
That possibly is a fail.
But I smell WIN!
And as she stood there open mouthed, fag smoking from the hip, I also pointed out that her children were now getting into the back of a transit van.
f*cking jesus some people are rubbish.
There is little life is more turgid with misery than the unfortunate sight of a child’s birthday balloon, deflated, hanging limply on the railings of a church hall. Like a small and effortlessly melancholy used condom it sits, flaccid, full of the metaphorical ejaculate that are broken dreams, unfulfilled promises and uneaten birthday cake.
That’s metaphorical spunk. Obviously.
Because urgently cracking one off with a delighted grunt into a balloon that excitedly says “SIX TODAY!” on it is really, really f*cking sick and wrong in a way that even disgusts perverts. And they are perverts.
I was wondering again about the animals and the dual carriageway?
You know… what’s the biggest animal you could successfully carry across a dual carriageway with only your wits, a pair of gardening gloves and a large role of duct tape at your disposal?
I think it’s pretty important to consider these thing facts with a spirit of togetherness, tolerance and mild arousal.
I have decided I’m going to revisit my previous research on this and have a crack at a pig next weekend. I think the key think will be pinning the oinking bugger to the floor, or any floor in fact, so that I can fashion his trotter-capped legs into the basic shape of a rucksack.
A pig rucksack.
I would use a female pig too – lighter frame and less chance of inadvertently getting a pig’s spiral peanus in my favourite earhole or neck.
I’m pretty certain I would absolutely f*cking nail it under these circumstances, what about you?
When’s your Dolmio day?
I had to sit in the waiting room of a medical centre surrounded by what can only be described as impossibly old people and Reader’s Digest magazines.
What a f*cking depressing sh!thole. As if it weren’t bad enough that pretty much ever other f*cker in the place was MADE of beige there is a bastard great telly in the corner of the room that you HAVE to watch to get told when to go into the consultation rooms… and what does it show?
A constant f*cking stream of bland, depressing and worrying illness videos.
Are you prepared for Cancer?
How high is your blood pressure?
Signs of Alzheimer’s!
A three point handy guide to having a brilliant heart attack.
Strokes – the sexy way.
ARE YOUR ORGANS FAILING!???
WHAT MIGHT YOU HAVE GOT!?
What the shuddering DOCTORf*ck? What kind of a c*nt would make those poor old sh!tters sit and stare at that stuff whilst they wait to have whatever it is they are f*cking always having done, done.
Like f*cking advertisements for diseases.
And another thing, the place looked like a f*cking whale had greedily mouthswallowed all of IKEA and then pushed a salty fin down its own massive throat in order to violently sick the lot back up into a childrens play area.
And some tight-fisted boxlicker had clearly got a job lot of bird posters from somewhere and plastered them over every sodding wall space in the entire building. I’ve got nothing against horrendously tacky avian-themed imagery, I even briefly admired what appeared to be a fat retarded owl at one point… but they had doubled up on some of the photos and used the same Kingfisher three f*cking times on one wall.
The stupid rouge-crested tw@tBEAK.
I f*cking HATE those places, you can almost TASTE the illness just sitting in there, the whole room just reeked of elderly.
And what the f*ck is self check in?
It basically means you piss around with some sort of anus console after watching several completely clueless and frightened ancient people repeatedly get it badly wrong for up to 25 minutes.
And all that time the mindc*ntingly arrogant and horrendously leather skinned receptionist (who thinks she is a f*cking expert Doctor) sits bone bastard idle or roughly fingers herself in the filing room.
And their Goldfish was ugly.
Of all places why do some people stop in shop doorways to look at their mobile telephone phones?
How do they bizarrely believe that the EXACT f*ckING POINT that is a natural stinking bottleneck for quite literally every single awful person trying to go in or out of a building is a good place to dither about or simply STAND THE f*ck STILL?
Also, why is it ALWAYS some old f*cking crank-handle wearing inoffensive putrid pastel colours standing bow-legged like a sexual toffee-apple and straining his creased old FACE right into the pathetic screen of the same f*cking Nokia babyphone that we ALL had for three months in 2003?
As if you EVER get a f*cking text message you dithering w@nkPLANET and as if you have ANY idea what ANY of the perverted noises your phone ever makes ACTUALLY MEAN.
Somebody else set it up for you.
If you were actually burning on actual hot fire you still wouldn’t be able to operate the thing would you?
No. No you would not.
Picture the f*cking scene.
There I was, on my way back from another long day working tirelessly like some kind of amazing Saint for various charities an sh!t, giving a little something back. Only to find my whole life RUINED by something so f*cking awful that when I got to safety I had to drink a whole bottle of Vimto just to calm my bastardised nerves.
I also seem to remember on this particular day I actually saved a horse from drowning.
A f*cking horse.
It must have panicked or sh!t itself badly and fell into a river or something. Or a lake. Either way – it doesn’t matter does it? The fact of the matter is I was like a f*cking superhero. I stripped down to my smalls and dived fearlessly straight in to the Lake. River, f*cking whatever thing. And heroically pulled the struggling f*cker to safety to rounds of applause and appropriate touching.
I even gave it mouth to mouth.
I mouth to mouthed a f*cking pony horse.
And people cheered all over me.
Anyway, I don’t like to mention this sh!t because I’m a very private person you know and I keep myself to myself, quietly get along with my altruistic f*cking hero faced life. I’m not one for a fuss or for making a drama or getting worked up by things… f*ck no.
I like to think of myself as a kind of quiet but ultimately brilliant stranger.
Like a mysterious bloke that women want to do a sex on.
Imagine my horror, after all my f*ckING HEROICS to find out that when I got back to my little seaside cottage that I had been f*ckING MASSIVELY ROBBED.
I’m not talking about my worldly possessions here, f*ck no, this is something MUCH WORSE, this is a f*cking betrayal wrapped inside a molestation pretty much nailed to forced backside bumming.
This was a theft from my PERSONAL f*ckING SOUL.
These f*cking devious, conniving, RUTHLESS monsters had stolen my stories from this VERY SITE and dragged them screaming over to Facebook to use for their own evil games. I found just a hollow black void where “Staggering tw@t Boy” used to live… ripped from my bosom and pulled away to fuel all sorts of perverted f*cking sh!tfilth.
After DESTROYING MY LIFE the pair of f*ckpesterers then hunted me down on Twitter and began taunting, provoking and generally BULLYING me in a way that made me sick in my own mouth.
A gentle soul… a little egg loose in the world of Twitter. A softly spoken, helpful little character with kind words and good spirits for all. I mean COME ON… I’m just not used to the kinds of foul language and sexual predation that I was made to endure!
Let’s just get one thing straight…
I’m the victim here.
I’m the victim.
I won’t make a fuss… I’ll struggle on, I’m a f*cking survivor.
The moral of the story is that I have learned the hard way that this world is full of thieves and perverts and staggering beautiful but DEADLY sisters who will tear your f*cking heart out in their quest to rule Facebook and c*ntSpace and MYf*ck or whatever the sh!tting Jesus those places are.
Just be careful of these two if you ever see them, they are utter SHE DEVILS…
@gracieloufen & @Dawnthebesom
Don’t have nightmares.
What is it about trains that bring out the absolute f*cking worst in human beings?
First off, it’s a hot and sweaty BALLGAG of a place to be, it’s not relaxing or fun or brilliant and you cannot sit and read a book or anything vaguely interesting because you end up STANDING UP by the MOTHERf*ckING TOILETS nine times out of ten.
Also – all trains inherently stink of STALE ARSEHOLES.
Then you get people who clamber aboard carting and dragging all sorts of f*cking sh!t like bikes, pushchairs, ugly babies and overfilled suitcases on badly disabled wheels. Then stand gormlessly near their f*cking trophy blocking the aisle for the rest of the human race.
People crowd into stupid places then become terrified to move in case they fall the f*ck down or do an accidental effort-shart due to fighting the inertia of the train. Personal space becomes a distant memory as an elderly man pushes his beige groin into your mouth like a Werther’s Original.
Every train has a bleary eyed drunken tw@t with an armful of tinned booze on it regardless of WHAT time of day you travel or what your destination is, he’s often a squaddie, often wearing a football shirt, sometimes asleep…
Always a c*nt of the highest order.
Fat people: STOP BEING CROSS BECAUSE YOU ARE TOO BIG TO FIT – THE WHOLE POINT IS THAT YOU ARE THE WRONG c*ntING SIZE YOU MASSIVE SWEATY FOOD OBSESSED VIRGIN PIG.
And to top it off, it’s too expensive, the staff are ignorant over smart-arsed COCKWHEELS and the bastard things are always late.
If I wasn’t sh!tfaced I’d be driving.
Why in the name of f*ckING JESUS do we suddenly need people dressed as mascots popping up like unwanted FACESORES at random events?
We never used to have them and I don’t remember everything failing miserably and falling to pieces because we didn’t have a seven foot tall rat squirrel dancing around like a massive animated dogsh!t.
Children are f*cking frightened sh!tless of them and adults think they are complete and utter furry animal bollocks. And if they don’t think that then they are definitely both perverted and stupid idiot babies at the same time.
It’s because we keep f*cking blindly copying things that America do like some kind of wide-eyed childbaby who just cannot wait to be just as awesome as the idiot f*ck teenagers it idolises for smoking fags and being utter c*nts at every given opportunity.
Why is this?
Why do skin-crawlingly American things keep being dragged like rancid dog carcasses into that tiny little fragmented vomit-stain that is the only remnant of what we used to smugly call our culture ?
f*cking hot dogs, coffee shops and Harley Davidsons and stupid bastard bunting and shopping malls. – are we really that f*cking sh!t that we need to just bizarrely steal stuff and rub it furiously all over our throbbing collective genitals?
I mean don’t get me wrong, America is f*cking great – fun and massive and full of amazing people and mountains of food to put inside your mouth. But for f*ck’s sake – roller-coasters are pretty cool but I wouldn’t irrelevantly try to use one to get to work every day like some kind of f*cking CLITORIS, would I?
I really think we need to stop it.
I really think we need more black pudding and real ale, less therapy and compulsive dental fetishism that results in teeth brighter than the sun. We need more farmer’s markets and cloudy cider and less bodily girth and oppressive shouting from inside a f*ckNEST of horrible mismatched clothes.
We’ve only got ourself to blame for being so easily pleased with TV programmes like Airwolf, Knight Rider and The f*cking A Team. Our childhoods were spent wielding plastic toys shipped in from a foreign dreamland like f*cking bottled imagination for the terminally hard of thinking.
Well I’m claiming back my f*cking culture and making a stand.
I went into MacDonald’s earlier and demanded a beefburger and chips and a drink of pop. I steadfastly refused to acknowledge the word “fries” – instead electing to stare blankly through the apocalypse-skinned teenager in front of me until they gave me CHIPS.
I love it when a plan comes together.
So I’m sitting outside a pub being me.
You know… ME…smoking a fat cigar and reading a magazine about motorbikes and guns and sex, drinking a pint of cloudy ale.
When a group of f*cking unusual children seemingly dressed as f*cking court jesters appear at the next picnic table.
Skinny freakshow babies dressed in jeans so tight that they looked like f*cking patio chairs with ugly coats thrown over them on a rainy day.
So many stripes and their Walkman things make a relentless tinny noise.
STAND UP STRAIGHT YOU CRIPPLES.
Why are they all covering their faces with awful weird hair that makes them look like ugly girls?
Between them I’m guessing that their net dry weight divides up at about 7 stone each. And they seem to only be able to look at the floor rather than eachother. Also they smell weird and a bit like ham.
They are wearing fingerless f*cking gloves.
And now they are pretending that the smoke from my fat cigar is making them cough, but I’m already wondering how they think this is going to go. You know – how do they REALLY see this little circus of f*ckIDIOT panning out?
So I’m looking at them now, they haven’t even bought a drink or gone in the pub yet. I don’t know that they are old enough even.
One of them has f*cking NAIL POLISH on.
I’m staring at them like a large hairy motherf*cker.
I asked them if my cigar smoke was bothering them.
“Passive smoking” they bleated.
“Stop breathing then” I helpfully offered.
“It’s really bad for you” they said.
“Yes” I replied.
“But, you know, it’s not as bad for you as having a picnic table umbrella FORCED UP YOUR ANUS you f*cking weirdly dressed circus children. f*ck OFF and leave me alone or one of you will DIE TODAY”
They quietly left.
Stupid millionaire pathetic baby tw@ts.
First off you play a f*cking game as a job and on top of that you get paid inordinate amounts of money. Yeah, yeah I f*cking KNOW about supply and demand and the amount of cash in the industry and the inflated nature of it all, but I don’t honestly give a stinking sh!t, in a world where you get a good yearly wage EVERY TWO DAYS to PLAY A HOBBY GAME AS A JOB, so f*ck off. Ta.
Anyway, that’s not my real point here – so shut up, sit back and f*cking listen for once and stop with the interrupting.
My real point is this; WHY IS ALL FOOTBALL SO f*ckING PATHETIC NOW? Football used to be f*cking great; massive enormous crowds and REALLY sunny world cups and insanely tight shorts. There was style and flair and all kinds of different strengths and weaknesses in all teams, including players who relished playing the game hard, all mixed in with the brilliant superstars and the skillful and the sublime.
So what the f*ck happened that turned a fantastic sport into a f*cking MILLIONAIRE ARSE BALLET full of lying, pretending, idiot f*ckwits who seem to think that blatantly cheating, moaning, crying and lying is somehow ok and somehow part of the game?
Have you SEEN these dithering man-babies somersaulting and leaping like perverted sports salmon across the pitch, trying to feign injury at every single f*cking tiny touch?
What I don’t understand is that the WHOLE WORLD is watching this sh!t and thinking, in unison, that these so called sportsmen are just embarrassing and cringe-worthy vaginas who should f*cking well know better, but nobody is telling them?
Why is nobody telling them?
And as for the FA, really, has there ever been a more ineffective bobble-headed bunch of tossers in charge of something? Actually, don’t answer that. But the point is they are rule-obsessed worms who seem to care more about protecting their GOD-AWFUL referees from the opinions of anyone and everyone, than they actually care about the WHOLE f*ckING GAME GOING TO sh!t RIGHT IN FRONT OF OUR EYES.
And FIFA are no better, and by “no better” I mean f*cking worse.
Nobody is allowed to touch anybody anymore and referees are told to pretend they can guess the “intent” in a tackle in case it’s dangerous. What the shuddering f*ck?!? If you get hurt you get hurt, play the ball and f*ck the man. YOU’RE RUINING THE GAME YOU DUMB c*ntS.
The whole game is now a mismanaged sh!theap full of cheats and pathetic money chasers. The gulf between the truly big clubs and the next in-line clubs is widening and the inconsistency in decision making, standard process and even just administering the rules of the game are f*cking staggering.
Referees are ineffective, burdened by stupid rules and unable to stop bleating cheats from angrily flouncing around at their every decision. Rather than attack the root cause, the FA simply hand out arbitrary fines without any real thought or consistency – after all, money is the f*cking blood in the veins of football now so why ever look any further than cold hard cash as the answer to every single glitch. Idiots.
Football is eating itself and nobody seems to care. FFS.
Testosterone is a funny thing.
I can only assume that it’s some sort of overactive gentleman’s sack syndrome and the resultant testosterone surge that creates some of these funny little man-creatures that I see scowling their way through the world like complete anus faces.
Maybe they’re eating too much cheap quality red meat or drinking too much of those bizarre energy drinks. Probably one of those numerous cheap alternatives to Red Bull that come in a f*cking enormous can that’s irrelevantly decorated like a horrendous pair of British Knights from 1991.
Whatever it is… it’s making 9 stone men with bad moustaches – that look like two earwigs delicately felching on a top lip – strut about the streets like they are f*cking Conan the Destroyer on a half-dozen lines of coke and nursing a painful erection the size of a police cone.
What’s going on?
What’s the f*cking deal with these man-worms, the scrawniest little Hobbits you can ever find, swaggering about with their pencil legs too far apart and elastic band arms carrying imaginary beer barrels?
Why is this happening?
Notice how each of these unusual little creatures very often seems to have a strange kind of disgusting gravity that only effects other, younger versions of itself. Thereby pulling in two or three teenage dogsh!ts, usually in a similar outfit (shell suit top, white trainers, red baseball cap – mix and match as you like) but with a little less Elizibeth Duke gold-wear and not quite yet sporting the lip-earwigs or the obligatory tattoo under the ear.
They are f*cking and breeding like dirty piss beetles in our streets.
They gather in car parks and assorted public areas and playgrounds and they always have a bastard motor scooter – the proud owner abandoning the baseball cap in favour of the scooter helmet itself worn right on the top of his empty head, creating the overall impression of a large retarded f*ck lollipop.
If there isn’t a scooter you can be sure one will turn up soon and in the meantime there will be a Staffordshire Bull Terrier off it’s lead, wearing a six-inch thick collar studded with gold coloured metal.
News just in;
The dog is not only the smartest member of the group – it has the biggest cock and best job prospects too.
Amended title thanks to the simply amazing @helenruthbs
I bloody love cameras.
I love all sorts of different models and all the old accessories that come with them I have old analogue units from all over the world, beautiful leather cases with endless patina. Lens cases and lenses from years gone by, kit-bags and boxes of quirky old stuff. As well as endless contemporary kit that gets added to regularly.
I love taking photos.
So it’s not a massive surprise to imagine that I might be hugely distracted as I stride through a busy street, by a large double fronted and totally old-school retro camera shop that had it’s largest window filled with an enormous range of retro equipment, cameras and cases EXACTLY the things I collect.
Of course it isn’t.
What was a massive surprise to both me and to the half-dozen people already quietly browsing the window display, was that I irrelevantly walked straight over and leaned in to see the beautiful toys, smashing my face very f*cking hard into the Victorian glass. Loud enough to make the other people jump and hard enough to rattle the whole window.
It made a hell of a f*cking noise.
And every single person in the street saw it and heard it.
Like an enormous f*cking idiot I had mistaken the location of the steel cage that sat inside the boundary of the glass, for the actual periphery of the glass itself. And with typical tw@tegic intelligence I had gone in at a rate of knots like an enormous cock-hungry bollock lobber.
Not a chance. I just continued with exactly what I was doing. No recognition, no words, nothing but a camera obsessed stare. Until people just drifted away.
I pretended it never happened.
It never happened.
*nods slowly and stares*
Lets discuss crockery.
And by discuss I mean you shut up now and read my words and I’ll just keep shouting until this painful erection subsides long enough for me to shift in my seat. Ta.
Why the f*ck do restaurants insist on loading your table with so much of the f*cking stuff that you can’t even pick your knife and fork up without inadvertently activating a noisy tw@t ceramic version of the 1970s board game Mousetrap?
How many f*cking saucers does anyone need?
Why are there perverted things like ramekins and teaspoons all over my f*cking table? I don’t need individual sh!t and I certainly don’t need a pubescent child to come and recklessly spill black pepper on my food from an enormous wooden COCK when I am trying to eat.
Why have you placed a vase with the smallest base possible on the middle of my tiny table, only to fill it with either irritating dead sh!t or something plastic and luminescent that appears to have come from an Aldi Christmas cracker? And how many tablecloths do you need for the love of Jesus?
What is the point of putting ice cold butter on my table along with thinly sliced ponce bread? I may as well simply drag the sh!tting bread across the car park using my f*ckING SHOE until it is sufficiently torn to shreds to look like an elderly whore’s oldest gusset.
The table is too small and you have PUT TOO MUCH ON IT.
Stop trying to look clever and make my dinner you awful bastard.
You know when you have people trying to get on your bus? Well here’s the thing, THAT’S WHAT YOU ARE f*ckING WELL THERE FOR YOU IRRELEVANT c*nt.
So don’t gasp and sigh and wriggle your FAT f*ckING ARSE about when an elderly lady needs to take a bit of time to get on board and get her card out. And don’t look down your sh!t covered nose at a pile of money as if you don’t understand what it is. IT’S MONEY YOU ENORMOUS COCK EATING TAMPON.
And another thing…
YOU DRIVE A c*ntING GLORIFIED LORRY – YOU f*ck!
So why don’t you get some manners, find some respect, and get some f*ckING EXERCISE…?
You massive f*cking waste of skin, pseudo-lorry-driving, blue-jumpered, arrogant, fat, c*nty, BOLLOCK FACED MOTHERf*ckER.
Thank you for your time.
Hospitals f*ck me off in so many varied and offensive ways that it’s almost impossible to make sense of the raging cloud of hot piss that fills my mind any and every time I need to go near one.
I f*cking hate the places.
Full of tiny transparent elderly people and massive-arsed nurses, dark corridors and posters that are so dull and so beige and sterile that they make me want to physically hurt myself just for the sport. They sell sh!t food and always stink of the same gag-reflex cleaning fluid that they used my infant school and it just makes me remember that time I got bollocked for throwing up into a drinks fountain.
f*cking awful places.
Hospital radio is sh!t.
Hospital carpet is brown.
And what’s worse is that no matter WHAT f*cking time you arrive for any kind of appointment, you end up waiting around like a f*cking frightened pervert until bastard ages after the appointment time.
So imagine f*cking delight when I discovered that I have to go and have things pushed into me and slapped against my actual self and sucked out of me for tests.
I do hope I will get the chance to be manhandled by a cold-handed bored man with a blank clipboard and a barely concealed erection the size and shape of an acorn.
What ever happened to the good old days where if you blacked out with a nosebleed twice in a week someone just poured you a stiff drink and offered you an unfiltered cigarette, before encouraging you to just get on with things?
We’ve all gone cripplingly soft!
We’re all pathetic minded babies and we need to toughen up!
Please don’t let them put a pipe up my pipe.
This morning an idiot of a blackbird stupidly flew right into my massive face and mouth whilst I was going for a horrible run.
It made me jump almost to the point of involuntary faecal action which would, to be fair, have taken the edge off of my morning exercise in some significant ways. Mostly because it would have involved me being out in public, obviously covered in my own stinking bottom sh!t. See?
But it got me thinking…
What would I have done if I had accidentally sh!t myself?
At the time of the Kamikaze feather f*cker I was running by the sea – so my first thought was that I would simply jump into the brilliant water and wash myself in the anus, before running home wet but clean.
But what if I had been away from my beloved ocean water?
A really good friend of mine once had a bottom accident on a night out.
A bizarre event because we had been drinking since roughly midday due to the fact that he had just had his actual wife leave him and he was particularly in need of that special kind of destructive tw@t bonding that only f*cking idiot men can offer each other in times of great w@nk.
We were absolutely monumentally smashed.
We had been talking in such earnest, so much affection was flowing between our barely separated brotherly foreheads as we put his tiny world to rights, when he suddenly turned to me with these haunted, soulful eyes and an expression of sheer pain and remorse and said…
“What it is mate?” I said, putting my hand on his shoulder lovingly.
“Mate….” He said, his eyes falling to the table…….
“I’ve sh!t myself”.
There was a moments pause, before I patted his shoulder hard and nodded.
“Let’s go to another pub…”
This was a turning point for us both.
Sometimes we are pushed hard by the limits of our very existence. Sometimes we are challenged by the very foundations of all that we hold dear and true. But look inside yourself… look past that darkness.
What price dignity?
What price humanity?
How drunk is too drunk?
And finally, what kind of perversion is an all day breakfast pizza*…?
Honestly, I’d rather sh!t myself.
* Researched and developed by @bdj101
They say happiness is a dish best served sweet.
Hold on, no they don’t… happiness is a revenge best served cold.
No, that’s not it either.
Happiness is the best revenge…?
Aw f*ck, I had a whole great thing planned about how this is all bollocks and real happiness only comes from within, but you can only FIND it within you with the right people to help you look for it. And how they have to want to find it for YOU not for THEMSELVES.
This is just a f*cking SHAMBLES now.
OK, whilst I’m here I will at least tell you about the dog I saw trying to f*ckpester a bag of shopping earlier. It was a West Highland Terrier and it sexually rampaged onto a fat carrier bag with it’s little happy lipstick in full sexual overdrive.
I’m pretty certain it dogspunked onto a box of Yorkshire Tea.
I watched in tears from the relative safety of my car but did beep my horn with sheer delight when it enthusiastically fired off the canine money shot.
Post offices are f*cking disgusting sh!tpans of Satan.
No wonder they keep those f*cking inbreds behind a glass wall, they shouldn’t be allowed out on their own. And the TV nailed to the wall shows things that make me want to self-harm.
Old people smell.
There is ALWAYS a drooling, screaming mental in there with his dope-smoking pointlessly laid-back carer. Who is ALWAYS wearing shorts and a Kagool.
It’s like f*cking groundhog day.
I want to post a parcel and I don’t want anything else.
And another thing.
Those f*cking automatic voices ALWAYS sound like a smug c*nt speaking with a mouth full of cock.
First class please.
Sometimes stupidly heavy drinking returns to my life like a dirty old fat cock of a friend that I absolutely know is a total and utter c*nt, but can’t help liking more than I should.
It’s like a trapdoor.
A trapdoor from a nice safe place that leads straight into a forty foot drop into a paddling pool full of white dogsh!t, broken glass and Ronnie Corbett.
But what can you do?
Sometimes I think sitting in light rain, wearing a dirty vest with a bottle of Scotch and a cigar, whilst people wander past and wonder what the f*ck you are doing. Because you look like a filthy tattooed giant shaven-headed tramp and they want to put some distance between you and them, is just f*cking ACE.
Tomorrow might smell difficult though.
But why change the habit of a lifetime?
Besides, it’s my f*cking party and I will cry (and masturbate) if I want to.
I saw a very fat Mother today waddling angrilly towards an ice-cream van with a very skinny oppressed man and a very ugly and badly behaved child that looked like a badly drawn cartoon character with a dirty mouth and a tiny rattling scooter.
She was a vision in Londsdale and black wet-look leggings. Her hair was scraped aggressively back away from what I think was her face and she looked like a highly confused emotional hybrid of cross, angry and terrified.
She dragged the wriggling kid in front of the ice-cream van asking him loudly, for all of our benefit, what he wanted. Before instantly telling him, loudly, for all our benefit, what he was having – which was nothing like what he wanted. He had a 99, the silent skinny bloke had a Calypso and she had a massive tub of sh!t.
She was fat as hell.
The kid’s name was Clinton – like the US President that got sucked off and like the place that sells all those overpriced cards and that other f*cking awful tat.
She’s clearly f*cking angry because she is fat, painfully ugly and wearing sh!tAWFUL clothes that really don’t compliment her impressively large red face or her horribly big neck.
She has just spent 25 minutes publicly bollocking Clinton in a way that was somewhere between child abuse and an impromptu dramatic performance for the benefit of the assorted public.
Why do sh!t parents do that?
And it is sh!t parents who do this because out there, like little gems on a coal face, are some f*cking awesome parents who let their kids blossom perfectly whilst making sure there are real boundaries. Parents who put in REAL effort and who fill the lives of little ‘uns with a warmth that will NEVER leave them.
But the sh!t ones are f*cking everywhere.
Why do they choose supermarkets and pubs to try to act out some kind of twisted parenting fantasy to try and justify themselves to themselves? Why do they put on a drama for the bloody world to see whilst their child ruins everything for everyone by wailing like a tiny irritating gramophone?
Why do they put on that voice deliberately toned to be an audible f*cking commentary of the pretend judicial process they are currently inventing around their confused and idiotic child!? It’s as if they don’t realise that the rest of us are NOT f*ckING INTERESTED in the crying, whining little bastard.
Not. f*cking. Interested.
We DO NOT CARE that you already told Clinton not to throw a stone at a pissing duck. We DO NOT CARE that Clinton knows what happens when he doesn’t listen to Mummy. And more than anything we definitely DO NOT CARE that you are giving Clinton his final warning.
Just f*cking kick him into the f*cking duck pond or I f*cking will.
This is the fifth day that I have had the same exact headache.
I know it’s the exact same one because it has spent the entire time lodged inside my f*cking throbbing head. Like a hot angry tw@t screaming blue murder in my mind. I’m bored of it now.
I’ve tried drinking water – I drank so much water last night I woke up at 3.00AM and pissed into my f*cking slippers. I lie. They were my regular slippers.
This is utter bumsh!t.
I’ve even got flashing bits of crap at the edge of my vision.
I tried eating all sorts of pills but they just make me feel sick and wrong. Well, sicker and wronger I think is a better explanation. Even excessive masturbation just made it worse. I kept at it though.
AND I had a nosebleed on my run yesterday.
I think I am actually f*cking dying. If I am I want something horrible and tacky and pseudo-charity organised for me through Twitter and all the proceeds to be spent on coke and hookers.
Also; who wants my stuff?
My best friend once pissed into my actual mouth.
He was fully asleep at the time, but no matter how you frame it up, the guy pissed piss from his penal cock and it went onto my face and mouth. This is including in.
So that’s piss, in my mouth.
Incredibly, it’s not the most unusual places I have seen him piss either. We were once kicked out of quite a cool party because he had done a private slash into the pocket of a full sized snooker table.
Another time, we were chased by a relentlessly angry taxi driver because my friend had done a quick little piss through the open window of the cab, from the outside, onto the driver.
It’s like a disease.
It’s pissing Tourette’s I think.
I sometimes wonder if I could help him, you know… support him more and see if I could be a part of getting him through it all. This disease. I even feel guilty sometimes for using it extensively when writing my speech as his Best Man.
But then I think no, f*ck it, it’s f*cking hilarious watching him get wasted and start slashing everywhere like a f*cking stray dog.
Well done that man, piss is f*cking hilarious.
So here is the scenario – and it’s not as unlikely as you might think.
This one is for straight, ladypumping hetero men – but I am currently working on some socially diverse alternatives so don’t go burning the rainbow flags on my front garden or writing “f*cking bummer basher” on my wall just yet.
Ok, so here is the thing.
You lose your actual own cock part in a horrible accident where it ends up chewed into utter f*ckpulp by a small and angry dog. There is no way it can be repaired as it is basically minced pork now. Lean minced pork.
You get the amazing chance to have a replacement gentleman’s peanus put right back on there! It’s a complex operation but the chances of success are very high. And it will be a proper working penal attachment part.
You only have two options before you run out of time and have to live out your days with a manvaginal cockstump that looks like a flesh coloured Rolo.
Option one is a nice cock, but it’s a little small, but it’s previous owner was a brilliant guy who worked for various charities and once saved a baby from a house fire. Small cock though.
Option two is a solid nine inches of lovemeat. But it belonged to an utter raving bummer who has certainly put it inside of another man’s bottom on more than one occasion.
Which one would you have?
And why are you even THINKING about this at all?
Thanks in advance.
First of all lets get something straight; this COCKRIBBON was eating a salad with his own personal mouth.
The only people who eat salad are models, homosexuals and people who are dressed by carers in very dark blue ASDA jeans, rock gently at all times and sometimes wear a crash helmet.
These are established facts.
Second of all, if you are going to eat a salad – for example if you have no other choice or are some kind of proud and dangerous paedophile, then for GOD’S SAKE do you really need to slice it up as if it was meat?
I mean hold the f*ck on, what part of a salad needs to be cut…?
CUTTING IS A MEAT THING AND SALAD IS MADE OF PLANTS AND FLOWERS AND PLANTS.
So anyway, there I am eating a tuna baguette, a man’s meal, I was taking massive bites and deliberately letting the crusty bread scrape my masculine gums without so much as a f*cking glance. I was also painfully erect – but that’s not really the point.
It was my man’s meal and I was my man.
And the salad-eating f*ckCOIN did that thing when you scrape your knife hard against the plate and it does that squeak that simultaneously makes your balls tighten, your saliva glands weep and your sinus bite the inside of your mindbrain like a f*cking long Cornetto up the awful backpipe.
But here is the thing.
He did it THREE f*ckING TIMES and all he was eating at that point was a slice of BASTARD tomato the size of a slice of tomato.
Some people actually need to be killed.
Anyway, it made me wince and it made me f*cking angry because of all the reasons I have already shouted into your tender ear. So there you go.
And you know those quite tall pepper grinders you can get in slightly trendy food places?
I pushed one so hard into his fuchsia stained anus that it’ll not be coming out without general anesthetic.
Rarely in life is something as simple as this.
But dithering retard thunderc*nts who cannot and will not make a f*cking decision when driving, slowly, in front of me, need to be taken outside and cheerfully punched in the actual anus or gob.
Don’t sit there looking at my wife, move your f*ckING mouth and teeth out of our f*ckING MOTHERf*ckING way.
We. Are. Stationary.
And. Dear other idiots; if you pull right across in front of us like some kind of pregnant w@nkplanet*…
I will kill you.
Thanks in advance.
*Invented by @TheDollSays
So there was this bloke who was awesome.
He was quite long-haired and his Mother hadn’t had any sex done on her but she did have him as a little baby in a minger or something and stuff.
And his Dad wasn’t his real actual Dad. A nice carpenter bloke looked after him and probably had a pretty hot thing for the Mum and stuff but his real Dad was an actual God Dad.
And LO! He did mad sh!t all the time!. He turned water into Special Brew and he had f*cking enormous picnics in the desert where everyone ate bread and fish and bread.
But bad stuff happened too.
Some people were really f*cked off and jealous and stupid and like babies so there were fights and some rucks.
And LO! there were rucks and fistf*cking.
So they ended up nailing this fella to a massive wooden thing to kill him in the face. They would have stapled him but that is part of an ongoing copyright litigation, so f*ck it, nails.
And he got deaded.
And he got pushed into a small cave and a rock was put on his mouth.
He wasn’t in the cave and it definitely wasn’t animals that took his corpse and there is no way anyone had robbed the grave because he was massively famous and things. No way.
And then he was alive again!
And the fact that even the Bible pretty much says he looked and acted like a completely different person, he was definitely the same magic God-Dadded person.
At it was awesome.
And then heaven.
Also, there was a raft and some bumming in hell but all that sh!t is also under litigation.
You know I wonder what the f*ck is wrong with me sometimes.
I used to play a bit of football, I wasn’t bad, I enjoyed it. I think my first ever toy was a football and I guess my second was probably a pair of tiny football boots.
It’s in my blood.
My Father was a decent player as was his Father before him.
If it wasn’t for an extremely unpleasant injury a few years back I would still be playing. You know, pub sides, fun, in it for the laugh and the social side – keep in shape, still got a few things to show the young ‘uns too.
But here is the thing, why is it that the part of my brain that can control a football, f*cking insists on taking the controls of the entire me, whenever I drop f*ckING ANYTHING AT ALL?
For f*cks SAKE.
I was just handed a mobile phone by a relative stranger in a public place, because he wanted me to take a photograph of him and his wife. As he handed me the phone it was much much smoother and smaller than I had internally predicted in my headbrain.
As entered my hand it slipped through, falling towards my feet – towards the GRASS at my feet.
My first reaction?
I tried to take the pace off it with my f*cking size 12 foot.
Tried to take the pace off it.
I only f*cking connected with it and kicked the bastard ten feet past the couple ONTO A CONCRETE PATH.
How the f*cking hell do I explain away what they just witnessed me do?
You know what?
I just walk the f*ck away. Shaking my head. Again.
Honest to God I need to stop doing this sh!t.
However you weigh this up – Easter is f*cking stupid.
I mean on the one hand you’ve got the magic-pretend-friend people getting all tightly wound and erect about something that they imagine happened like a bazillion years ago, because a really really old book kind of said it did. In a fairly obviously lying way.
Then on the other hand, you have the rest of us, blindly buying chocolate sh!t from stupid places only to then pray hard to that God we don’t believe in to make it SO f*cking sunny that we don’t even eat that sh!t anyway.
Instead we go out and burn chicken legs and beefburgers whilst our skin cooks better than the food we bizarrely intend to eat.
And what the f*ck is it with eggs?
How would you like it if confectioners lovingly recreated YOUR time-of-the-month into something brown and sweet and then forced children to eat it? Ovumesque pervert horrors.
Why do we do these things?
What is wrong with a deserted cliff top, a retro flask and a sandy bag of Maryland cookies?
Nothing. Nothing at all. Fact.
As if Jesus would be pleased to see us still making such a fuss of all this over a millionbillion years after he floated off. I imagine he would be f*cking stoked to see that not only do we continue to make the very instrument of his agonising death the main symbol of EVERYTHING to do with him, but more than that, we’ve now taken to eating chocolate in his honour. Shaped like eggs. With Smarties.
Excellent. Respectful. Insane.
If all that crazy Bible stuff is real, yeah… we dirty BBQ obsessed idiots are f*ckED, clearly.
But seriously, mark my words, all the tightly wound cross-wearing scary people are in SO MUCH sh!t TOO.
If I am just wearing a pair of scruffy shorts and a vest covered in paint and motor oil, it’s pretty f*cking likely that this moment is not the best moment for me to be diverted away from whatever perversions I am currently undertaking.
Now if you add to that the fact that I am carrying a claw hammer in one hand and wearing a single leathery glove on the other, you might even begin to consider that whatever I am doing, it’s best to just leave me the f*ck alone.
Wrong – Jehovah’s Witnesses have both the timing and the tenacity to knock on my door AND actually attempt to engage me in conversation whilst I am dressed exactly like some kind of f*cking awful muderer freak.
You have to love the little f*ckers though, they must get about a 99% hit-rate of utter, crushing failure and yet they still trundle on and on and on doing their thing. Being nice. Smiling. I bet they go absolutely APEsh!t when they get back into the secret lair or whatever.
Well done to them.
I can only apologise for the words I used and if you are reading this ladies, anytime you are back at this end of town could you leave the handle of my claw hammer on the front step?
What’s the most impressive animal you could win a fight against if you were totally unarmed?
I’ve done a bit of research* on this and I am going to go with a fully grown gentleman horse.
My plan would be to sneak up to it and try to look like the sort of fat country sh!tter who spends time sat on top of a horse shouting and drinking Sherry.
This would put the horse at ease.
As soon as it relaxed and dropped it’s guard I would carefully position myself roughly ten feet in front of it’s massive face – then literally run like f*ck right at it and punch it as hard as I could on the end of it’s enormous mouth.
I would literally go f*cking mental punching it’s face until it fell over. Right over. I would be like a f*cking whirlwind of sweating horse beater.
I estimate this to take about twenty seconds.
Then as it hit the deck I would angrily kick it in the gob a couple more times, shouting “STAY DOWN – STAY DOWN” as a kind of warning threat.
At the end of the day, I absolutely know I could kick the f*ck out of a sheep… but I’m not really ready for a cow or a bull. And a horse is like, the next one up… isn’t it.
(*No research whatsoever)
Why on God’s green earth is it that wasps only seem interested in human stuff?
They are like tiny black and yellow flying bastard rats, hovering around cafes and beer gardens. Pestering and circling just looking for any f*cking excuse to force their filthy bumstinger into your skin.
What the f*ck do these little sh!ts do when there are no people around?
They live entirely on that tiny bit of spit-riddled fizzy drink that pools helplessly at the mouth bit of an open can. Or the filth in and around a rancid overflowing rubbish bin.
At least bees f*ck flowers and sh!t honey.
What do wasps give us?
Wasps give us aids.
Sunny days do nothing but bring out all the utter f*cksh!ts from every God forsaken crab-bumming sh!thole in the known and unknown universe. And Wigan.
The streets are full of women who smell like fruit or unusual food but look like three-week old dolphin carcasses that have been suddenly and roughly used as window mannequins by Primark.
The streets are full of men who look like they accidentally wore the clothes of a teenage boy, their aviator driven self-conciseness reeking like the stench of middle-aged defeat as they slither by sporting a semi.
The Streets is a British rap project from London, United Kingdom fronted by famously talented talker, Mike Skinner.
Every public area instantly becomes completely rammed with bloated, skin-wearing Argos people. Suddenly it’s as if it is absolutely normal to wander about with tins of lager or sit, open legged, on a wall outside a pub in your three-quarter length paedo trousers in the middle of the f*cking day, with a Staffordshire Bull Terrier on a short piece of rope. Oily rope.
Babies are being sunburned.
Paddling pools are being sucked off.
Every motherf*cker in the universe wants a BBQ for tea.
And what’s worse, what is SO MUCH WORSE… is the fact that all the rest of you awful, awful people are about to start invading the beautiful seaside where I live, with your stinking beach balls and roof boxes.
Summer is canceled, move away from the outdoors – there is nothing to see.
Computer people are those unusual pale people who know the kinds of awful sh!t that the rest of us not only don’t understand but genuinely don’t WANT to know because it makes us feel a little bit f*cking sick. Mouth sick.
You know, computer people.
These kinds of people are clearly smart. Clearly intelligent. Clearly capable of remembering loads of hideous computer related bumstuff and making it all work when the rest of us are either utterly, agonisingly bored to f*ck or simply unable to care anymore about what is even happening.
But here’s the thing.
Why is it that they have to be absolutely f*cking unable to communicate with other human beings properly without being total f*cking sponge-gummed weasel-licking tw@tS who pretend to step outside the natural pecking order of the universe in order to show off to people who ALREADY HATE THEM?
And what’s with the white shirts?
And why is it that they can’t keep a f*cking room or even a cupboard tidy or organise their sh!t?
They always try to f*cking TELL YOU OFF when you ask questions that they know the answers to. Am I missing something here?
YOU ARE PAID TO FIX THIS sh!t OR TELL US THE PROBLEM YOU f*ckING PATHETIC MASTURBATING VIRGIN.
It’s like a f*cking sub-human species who spent their formative years firmly rubbing their acorn-shaped cocks against a BBC Micro whilst shouting “Granny’s GARDEN” at the vinegar strokes.
It lives in the basement and it answers my questions…
It makes the computer work and it doesn’t talk to me…
It puts the lotion on it’s skin…
Or it gets the hose.
Or in real terms – act like a c*nt to me again and I’ll pour f*ck-STINGINGLY hot coffee into your top pocket again. Brainf*ck.
Shops piss me off.
A while ago I bought a bottle of water and a newspaper at a little shop on a busy major railway station platform.
Ten I think.
The small goblin inside the cabin bit watched me grumpily select a bottle of water and then pick up a newspaper and put it in front of her on the counter. I’ve seen the shop, the contents, the various wares and trinkets and I’ve clearly selected the two minimum-fuss items that I wish to buy.
I am holding a £20 note now.
At this point she said possibly the most bizarre sentence in recorded history:
“Do you need any flapjacks or muffins to go with that?”
I looked at her, with the expression of a man who had just eaten a fist-sized lump of his own earwax and been made to chew it before swallowing.
“What?” I asked.
“Would you like any flapjacks or muffins to go with your water?”
I think I might have stood and looked at her big teeth for about forty seconds at this point. Because, irrelevantly there was a part of my mind trying to figure out why the f*ck she was insinuating it was normal to need flapjacks and muffins to go with my water. I was floundering about inside my own angry head when the words just fell off my lips…
“Why are you saying that?”
“Why would you ask if I want flapjacks or muffins to go with my water?”
“Do you think I don’t know you sell flapjacks and muffins?”
“Do you think I actually really NEED them?”
“You see the water and the newspaper in front of you?”
“I’ve put them there so that you can sell them to me – do you see any flapjacks or muffins with them?”
“You know why that is don’t you?”
“You don’t want any do you?”
“No. No I do not”
Why in GOD’S NAME do places tell their f*cking till monkeys to do this sh!t? What kind of empty-headed bubblef*cker would arbitrarily buy some crap sh!t because somebody bizarrely checked if they “needed” it when they arrived at the checkout?
Idiots. That’s who.
The same idiots who buy a full set of UPVC windows on the way out of a large DIY store.
It sometimes makes me happy when I have bacon in my mouth.
Or at least it makes me as perilously close to happy as I am comfortable admitting to. I often wonder about vegetarianism but then I remember that I live my whole life inside a ball of sh!t anyway, so why make it a f*ckload worse?
Plus, if God had wanted us not to eat animals he wouldn’t have made them out of food.
So I tried to fill my empty and bleak day by filling my empty and bleak face. Unfortunately I need to report that it didn’t really work. Sure the bacon was good and the rolls were crusty – but it’s still pissing it down outside and I’m still stuck in the middle of bumblef*cknowhere with nothing great to do to cheer me up.
Maybe I should open a shop.
I could sell happy things like flowers and crystals and wind chimes and fish. Goldfish, not risotto fish. Obviously.
But then I remember.
f*ck that, I hate people and I just want to hide inside a cave.
God I love caves.
Why do the edges of my stairs go dirty?
I walk up the f*cking middle for f*ck’s sake.
The squeaky middle.
I NEVER stand at the edges.
Who the f*ck is coming in here and walking up and down my stairs like they’ve sh!t themselves, grinding dirtf*ck into my carpet’s face?
I’ll find you.
And when I find you I’m going to WALK UP AND DOWN THE EDGE OF YOUR HEAD.
I f*cking hate shaving.
Since when was it deemed somehow smart or presentable to arbitrarily scrape hair off a portion of my stupid face?
Nobody expects you to shave your top head to be smart or presentable so WHY MY f*ckING FACE?
I hate shaving and I am utterly certain that only perverts and bum babies do it by actual choice.
Dry shaving is a massive, conceited, BONALD* of a lie. None of those adverts represent the reality of limply pussy-berking a pathetic buzzing tw@t around your gob whilst it painfully tears out the odd hair like some kind of random pain generator.
And why do shavers smell like food mixers from when we were kids?
And wet shaving is a f*cking labour of COCK. Shaving gel always goes in my ear and the only good bit is when you splash on some aftershave and for a second you feel exactly like your own Dad.
I just splashed on some aftershave.
I feel like exactly my own Dad.
*Invented by the amazing @MrLloydSpandex
Lets get something sorted straight off the bat; beans do NOT mean Heinz, beans means beans so you can f*ck off before you even sit down.
I’m not even going to get into the perverted f*ckTUG nonsense I’ve written about before where complete paedophiles put their breakfast beans too close to their breakfast eggs, no… I’ve done that and I need to address some new rancid stupidity here. Seriously.
Firstly Heinz beans are bitty and chalky, beans should be round and shiny like a f*cking BEAN not a gloopy lump of congealed piss sh!t. Right?
And the best beans you could ever get were Cross & Blackwell. Fact.
So without further ado lets just stop all this silly sh!t and lets not forget the pecking order of these things:
2: Spaghetti Hoops
Right, now that’s done.
PLEASE can we stop it with this f*cking HORSEsh!t now.
Thanks in advance.
“”Your nine inch worm will amaze her!”"
Wait…what? My nine inch worm will AMAZE her?
This is f*cking fantastic
According to my Hotmail in-box anyway.
This can only be a revelation and I am absolutely de-f*cking-lighted to discover that I now have a nine inch worm. Even better, it’s going to amaze her. I’m not sure who she is at this point but I’m going to be honest and say that I’m already getting real feelings for her… after all, she f*cking adores my worm right?
“”Your sexual performance is something that deserves great attention and care! Don’t wait too long!”"
Talk about reality check… there’s me still riding the hip grinding high of my new worm and already it’s clear that there is some kind of time limit in play here. “Don’t wait too long!” – how long IS too long…?
f*ck this sh!t!
Ok, take a deep breath and lets look at this with a clear head.
It’s MY work that amazes her… it’s MY worm. So the cockbollock is my court here and I need to grow some decent sized balls and make the most of this just like the Doctor said. And lets face it, if my worm amazes her it’s pretty likely that my massive spastic balls will bowl her the f*ck over.
And who IS she?
All this enigmatic communication… the coy use of disrupted medical-sexual filthwords.
God I want her.
And I f*cking know she wants my worm.
This is a film about some massive spider monster octopus aliens that sh!t eggs into Mexican trees.
It’s great because right at the start you don’t know what the f*ck is going on at all. But then, as the film slowly unravels like a massive ball of crap… you realise that actually you don’t give a sh!t what is happening in the slightest because you just want to see the big spider bastard thing eat someone. And because the main characters are about as endearing as a train full of pissed Sunderland supporters.
So there are these two people and they have to get somewhere and there is a massive fenced off place where most of the disaster alien spider things live and they have to go through it, despite the fact that they spunked money on a boat and then got pissed.
They are pretty much the most annoying people in the whole f*cking history of people too. Because despite the fact that the whole world knows that alien spider-squid nob giants are on the loose, they insist on asking the DUMBEST f*cking questions I ever heard. All the time. Loads.
Here is a tip; If you are inside a massive compound where alien giant squids live and you hear a really weird, inhuman, giant monster-esque guttural noise. When you ask… “what was that?” – IT’S ONE OF THOSE f*ckING GIANT BASTARD ALIENS YOU KNOW HAVE LANDED ON THE WORLD YOU SPASTIC!
Here is a second tip; If you are inside a massive compound where alien giant squids live and you notice the people you have met up with have guns. When you ask… “why do they have guns?” – IT’S BECAUSE OF THOSE f*ckING GIANT BASTARD ALIENS YOU KNOW HAVE LANDED ON THE WORLD YOU PIG LICKER!
Too much shaky camera sh!t. The telly went funny a few times halfway through, not really the film’s fault though. But that’s no excuse to pretend you are Blair Witch or something you awful copying muff.
I had chicken pieces and BBQ sauce and they left the f*cking bacon off my pizza. Right off.
If this film was a day of the week it would be a Wednesday. And it would be a sh!t Wednesday that made you feel a bit sick and you probably wouldn’t go to work but there is NO way you would be able to summon up the energy for masturbation either. See?
Sometimes I utterly f*cking despair of purveyors of the Full English Breakfast.
What kind of monumental pervert would EVER place beans and egg in direct contact? Honestly, you would have to have a real deep penchant for animal porn and touching highland cattle to even consider it.
The egg must be really close to the toast. Really close.
The beans can either be near or on another piece of toast or they can be next to the sausages. But the bacon must be next to the egg and the hash browns can be used as a temporary bean barrier if the sausage is otherwise engaged.
This sh!t matters.
All the other ingredients can be mixed and matched to fit into this formula but the bottom line is that the f*ckING BEANS CANNOT BE NEAR THE BASTARD EGG.
And if you so much as offer chips with it… f*cking CHIPS… I will immediately conduct a month-long dirty protest in your kitchen and possibly also kick your head off with my actual feet.
Don’t f*ck this up.
This film is about a pissed f*ckup of a tramp superhero who then turns out to be some kind of magic angel.
There is another one too, but she’s a kind of housewife and is hiding so that nobody can see her magic powers and all that mad sh!t. But really she knows the first pissed-up superhero because they have had thousands of years together, trying to find how they can stay close to each other but it all keeps f*cking up because when they ARE close to each other they get weaker and might die and be dead and things.
Anyway, I think this film was based on an actual true story but the locations and names were changed to protect the angel superhero things or the real ones in the real world. Or the other ones.
Hancock throws a whale onto a boat, this is good.
She throws him through a house, this is really f*cking good.
I watched this with some toast and marmalade and a cup of Yorkshire tea, that was brilliant. I love it when the butter melts in to my toast, I think that’s important. I think sometimes when the butter stays yellow on toast and the marmalade kind of ‘floats’ above it it’s really sh!tty.
I can’t remember how it ended but I don’t think I went to sleep.
This film starts with some bloke falling off the sky and landing in a dirty alley. He’s covered in sh!t and tattoos and is definitely one of God’s mates and he has a bad back.
He fixes himself using string.
Somewhere else, a pregnant woman smokes loads of fags and Dennis Quaid looks rough as f*ck. Like a drunk who just woke up and hasn’t opened his eyes yet. Or shaved.
A cook has some kind of a metal hooter for a spastic hand.
Then there is a granny who looks just like a filthy demonic sh!t – turns out that she is a filthy demonic sh!t. She eats some flies and then a bit of bloke and then crawls upside down on a ceiling.
It’s the Apocalypse.
There are guns.
I had pizza and chicken wings with a garlic dip.
There is some acting and some people who are just filmed talking words that other people have written for them.
*After half an hour I went to bed.
Ever get the feeling that your own personal mouth is haunted?
Yeah, well, I do… so f*ck you!
I swear sometimes it just does its own thing, has its own agenda… sometimes even makes its own decisions purely to spite or wholeheartedly bastardise the rest of me. Spiteful sh!t.
Things either fall helplessly out of my spirit-ridden gob, or it begins to somehow channel all kinds of monkey spunk in the form of a metric-f*ck-tonne of words that all vomit out at once, only ever bearing the merest of passing resemblances to the general train of thought I had inside my miserable brainhead.
I’ve had enough of my own sh!t!
I’m just going to give up speaking and communicating altogether.
f*ck the world and all the little elves and pixies in it, sometimes I have to be kind to be cruel.
It wasn’t bad enough that one of my dogs was sick in the exact place I wanted to put my hammock up.
This was a sick made entirely out of sh!t.
So cleaning it up was about as enjoyable as paying a Polish cabbage picker to repeatedly punch your favourite bollock right in the bollock.
Anyway, I get the poo-esque vomit cleared up, with minimal retching, get the fat hammock out and up and into place, only to discover that one of the motherf*cking hooks I bolted to the wall had moved.
So I replace it.
I’m hot and bothered now and wearing a very grubby vest.
I have no hat. Repeat, no hat.
I get the sh!tting thing up and hung and climb aboard, I get approximately thirty-eight seconds in the sunshine before the phone rings and some utter peanus is trying to sell me a window or something similarly useful.
I told him I live in a lighthouse.
He hung up.
So I go back out to my hammock only to see that the same dog that did a sh!t-eating vomit in my hammock area has done a happy little piss next to my beaker of juice and my copy of TV Quick.
I give up.
f*cking dog bastard.
So today I mostly knelt on top of a four hundred-year-old barn, stuffing cement into the dozens of stupid cracks and holes that have decided to present themselves all over the f*cking place.
Winter really pisses on my face and mouth sometimes.
But anyway, it gave me the opportunity to get some fresh air… a bit of sunshine… and a sh!t load of cement inside my mouth. My actual mouth.
First things first, cement isn’t as salty as I imagined it would be. In fact I was quite surprised at its neutrality but I’ll be quite frank and say that I think it still tasted worse than actual person sh!t.
And by that I mean another persons sh!t.
Not your own.
I nearly threw my mobile telephone into a f*cking river today.
Yeah, yeah – it wouldn’t be the first time I had hacked off my own technological nose to spite my irritated, red face either.
What the f*cking sh!t is wrong with it that means every call I make is full of little crackling f*ckpops that make it seem like I am having a hammered conversation with Norman Collier?
And another thing…
Why does it know so much?
Why does it ask me so much?
Why is it forever asking f*cking permission for things from me? It’s not my child and it certainly isn’t my wife, so why the f*ck is it constantly bleating or harassing me about something I DON’T f*ckING CARE ABOUT?
It’s like a mewling little pocket-f*cker that seems to spend all it’s f*cking time (and my pricking battery) sending out pointless nonsense that I have no interest in. “Pingush!t 9 wants to use your location!” it eagerly spits at me like a street-hawking, homosexual whore.
You are a telephone.
Somebody told me a story today.
It was a bloke wearing a funny tie.
And by funny I mean a f*cking horrendous mess of sh!t.
It was a tie with a cartoon on it and a pair of movable wobbly tw@t eyes. Honest to God I don’t think you could make yourself look worse if you wore a Gary Glitter t-shirt to work and had a slice of dismembered child around your neck.
He told me a story.
But it was more of a joke – or at least I think it was supposed to be a joke.
He told me how all women tell you that they don’t want something when you are ordering food and that they say that they will just have some of yours… then when the food arrives they eat yours anyway.
But he finished it like this;
THEY EAT YOURS ANYWAY!!!
Then he did a big pervert smile really close to my face and had his eyebrows so high up I thought he was wearing his face on the wrong side of his head.
There was an awful pause.
I just don’t understand why this dithering f*cklamp would try to impress me with a story that he clearly borrowed from EVERY f*ckING sh!t COMEDIAN EVER and also that isn’t even funny or true. Or funny.
And I then said it had never ever happened to me. Ever.
And that in that situation I would just order them their own serving of the food anyway, because I really like eating. Oh, and I’m not a cheapskate motherf*cker who f*cks farmyard animals and has never touched a girl.
I think I lost another potential friend.
You know what the only good thing about waking up at five am is?
Don’t you give me any of that rancid spastic stuff about sunrise or the dawn chorus. Don’t even start me on the freshness, or the stillness, or the little bits of dew clustered like tourists and perverts all over my stuff.
No, the one and only good thing about waking up at five am is ABSOLUTELY f*ck ALL NOTHING.
It’s a stupid time and it looks warm but it’s still cold.
Even I feel some trepidation about turning back to hard, dirty sleep-inducing alcohol to make sleep happen… at this time in the morning.
So there I am, sat up like a f*cking corpse and not even the silver-lining of a painfully engorged morning gentleman’s peanus to onanise myself back into a filthy stupor. Pointless wake up. Pointless morning. Pointless.
I’m going to go make a trap for the postman’s legs.
Do those mildly unusual people who talk to their pets really think that they can understand, or is it a new form of mental illness spread by communal changing rooms, fingering and the dirty internet?
When animals look at us it’s because they want us to feed them or rub their f*cking faces or pick them up or pick up the sh!t or piss that they just made or something. Their actual piss and sh!t.
Unless its a fish. Obviously, in which case they don’t even f*cking KNOW that they are looking at you. Because they are a fish. And because they swim around inside their own actual sh!t and piss.
Putting on a special retarded pet voice to talk to an animal is basically a full and frank admission that you are a really f*cking dangerous pervert. But even worse are those people who put on yet another voice and actually say the pretend answers for their bewildered and starving creature out loud.
It isn’t talking.
It ISN’T talking.
And what’s worse is that now both me AND your f*cking boring hell kitten think you are a massive c*nt. Massive.
Imagine some mindless f*ck-buggerer sitting next to a constantly changing baby cartoon of f*ck ALL.
Now imagine them gurning incredibly overwrought faces at you whilst they mind-w@nk you from inside their suit and tie… all the time showing you BABY PICTURES of the things they are talking to you about.
So you feel grown up.
Maybe you even frown.
THAT is the news.