Sick and wrong.

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.

Or…

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…

You have a missed call.

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.

A lot of steak.

This one is a real winner with the carnivores or any particularly crap vegetarianers.

Steak.

1. Get some steak. Make sure it isn’t cheap sh!t for f*ck’s sake – this isn’t the third world.

2. Leave at room temperature and rub it sexually with olive oil and pepper. f*ck off with your salt.

3. Make a pan hot. If you are a pervert you could use a grill now, but if I’m honest – I’d rather you didn’t follow the rest of MY recipe if you intend to because frankly, you disgust me and I think you should leave.

4. Cook the steak a bit.

5. Only a bit, unless you like the taste of f*cking shoe.

6. Read four again. And five.

7. Don’t f*ck about with the steak, just cook it a couple of minutes both sides.

8. Your steak is now done, you can add salt to taste if you like.

9. Rest your steak a bit on a warm plate and put the pan juice on it.

10. f*ck off and eat it.

What could be simpler?

Fun run.

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.

Point X.

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.

Christmas time.

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.

f*cking Norfolk.

#Twize.

Today’s game is called #Twize!

Just take your HEIGHT IN INCHES and multiply it by your WEIGHT IN POUNDS.

Et voila!

You have your #Twize index!!

Here is the story so far:

@CyrilCacoethes 19500
@ReedfaceJ 7424
@angryplumber 17640
@juniewal 8179.5
@_gAiL__ 9055.7
@loubence 7520
@longpablo 14308
@sarahs_mindtank 7370
@Morsh_ 9841
@DelphDahling 6985
@twitkat 13662
@Hemeloid 15950
@ellaboheme 8820
@nick_hell666 18434
@NemesisUK 17248
@applescrapples 14490
@Jinks67 18480
@WadyWiwwow 11830
@Bridge101 9996
@jamie0hara 10500
@YurtTheSilent 14112
@fukkwit 8960
@RuthBlackett 11375
@habarosen 8320
@diggle30 10425
@AlsoAstrid 9450
@BOOYAxxx 6944
@MellissaFC 10295
@MistyBlue1208 9548
@mightytonka 11288
@mattpoo 18056
@chrisleaning 14768
@Twit_Ahh 7140
@JonnoBass 13838
@Mrs_Sarcasm_101 15008
@HillyFoz 6615
@Polnyintdt 9756
@alivicki 7434
@rey_z 9588
@bdgr 8970
@MrBoffly 15330
@david_daly 7616
@fiatpanda 12740
@TomFoxTom 16352
@ianpearse 12274
@lizimina 8442
@Blonde_Batgirl 9996
@ohlittlecloud 7524
@emskills27 7872
@Kimbers_World 8527
@badhedgehog 11122

Join in!

Hashtag your Tweet with #Twize or namecheck me, @CyrilCacoethes…

Play with us!

Dirty dancing.

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.

So!

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.

Moving on!

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
f*cking irrelevant.

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.

Perfect.

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!

The £nd.

I am not the walrus.

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.

Super Furry Animals.

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.

Cartoon animals.

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.

Anyway.

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.

Or something.

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.

Driving Miss Daisy.

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 allwhilst 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 coator 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.