The ghost of mouthf*ck.

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.

The sweet taste of cement

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.

Good bastard morning

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.

Here is the news

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.