Cheer up.

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.

Facial earwigs.

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.

Also, swingball.


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.