A picture is worth 1000 calories.

Mental illness isn’t funny.

But that said, people are funny – and many of them are definitely mentally ill.

Ergo; stuff.

I was at a ‘restaurant’ the other day and I ordered myself a fat dinner on a plate, standard behaviour I assume. But somehow as the hot,  flat crockery of mouth hope appeared before me, I felt compelled to take a photograph.

And it’s not just me.

People are openly photographing their foods all over the place, like furtive hoards of perverted gob-obsessed tabloids.


They’re eagerly Instagramming the life out of dinners like there’s no tomorrow.

What the hell is happening?

Why have we become so anally retentive that we suddenly cannot bear to ‘lose’ the glory of our soon-to-be-orally-consumed delights, without desperately trying to record them for some deeply misplaced posterity?

Who do we think we are going to show?

In the old days, the technologically primitive world around us used to implicitly add effort to things; we didn’t have camera phones and magic apps that apply forty seven anus-filters to everything in the world so that you can pretend you have some kind of innate, magical talent.

Because of this, if you wanted to bizarrely photograph food at an alarming rate, you’d need a camera and film, and you’d get your Kodak 36 exposure developed at a chemist, before aggressively gluing your photos into a special laminated meal scrapbook that you would keep under your pillow and perform sexual acts on that involved salad cream and a rubber duck.

You see it was simpler then.

Back then, everyone would know you were a deeply troubled phoodtographer.

Now it’s like some kind of infectious mental illness.

And we’ve all caught it.

Public gobstew.

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.

Baby talk.

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.


Dinner is for idiots.

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.

Utter bliss.

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…!!”

*complete silence*

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 youand goodnight, to the backdrop of me beaming, humming the theme tune to a certain 1980s television show.

Just like the A Team.


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.

Or both.

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.


A brilliant omelette you can share with all the family.

Ingredients: Eggs, butter, cheese, fresh parsley, salt & pepper.

1. Smash the sh!t out of the eggs into a bowl or a jug.

2. Pick out those bits of shell you just noticed.

3. Beatf*ck it into submission and add a tablespoon full of cold water. That will make it all fluffy and sexual. Add S&P.

4. Melt your butter into a pan, but pop some oil in first so that the butter doesn’t turn into sticky brown crystalline sh!t when you inevitably f*ck it up completely, like a clumsy pony.

5. When the pan is hot – put the eggs in it and stop panicking like a primary school baby. Stir the hell out of the middle bit a few times then LEAVE IT ALONE.

6. Now wobble it about so you know it’s not stuck to the metal like a disabled Frisbee.

7. The top bit should still be runny – add grated cheese and chopped fresh parsley.

8. Fold it it over neatly.

9. Lamely chase it around the pan trying to do number 8.

10. Get a bit cross.

11. Do number 8 a bit roughly.

12. Repair it so that it looks like you did number 8 ok.


Recipes You Can Make Yourself.


That stuff we are forever pushing into our fat heads to keep us alive.

There really is a great deal of utter bullsh!t spoken and written about food and fooding and I think it’s about time that we stopped listening to it a bit. Food is basically a legal mouth sex that you can happily do in a public place without being arrested or placed onto some kind of register.

Not only does good food have the power to make you fully erect in seconds, but it tastes brilliant inside you too and you can savor the utter tastef*ck out of it without having to share the inside of your head with anyone else at all.

Anyway; food…

Here’s a plethora of gob genii you can make yourself and share with people:





Salad days.

Sometimes a crispy healthy salad can be a fantastic meal.

Or even a dinner.

Here is an incredibly simple recipe that you can follow carefully in order to get the very most out of your special salad and yet, still thoroughly enjoy yourself and your eating like you do with real food.


Ingredients: Green.

1. f*ck off.

2. Eat normally.



Toast is very important and I think it’s about time you acknowledged this.

Here’s another recipe you can make yourself in your house’s kitchen:

Ingredients: Bread & fire.

1. First off, do this in a toaster because frankly, it’s not the f*cking middle ages.

2. Right, get your bread and put it in the toaster like a normal person.

3. Don’t f*ck about with the setting, put it on 7 and shut up.

4. When it pops out, put butter on the toast but DON’T MASH THE sh!t OUT OF THE BREAD YOU f*ckING PERVERT.

5. READ 4.

6. Put the buttery bread back on the toaster, balanced across the still hot top.

7. Let it go melty.

8. Spread it all nicely and then add the topping of your choice; jam, marmalade, bovril, jam or bovril.

Now put it on a plate and eat it, but for GOD’S SAKE make sure you already brewed tea, because only perverts and f*cking animals eat their toast cold.



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.

Bye. x