Resolutions

In the spirit of New Year I'm going to make my resolutions. Things I'm either going to resolve in my life or things that I am going to change outright. These are what I am planning to do.

1) Get in shape: this year I said that I would lose weight. And I have done that. This year I shifted a stone and a half in weight. I have even managed not to gain too much weight over Xmas (less than a quarter of a stone). So now, with all that in mind, I could either do with losing another half a stone or just toning up what I have already. 2007 is the year where I see my abdominals again.

2) Finish some writing: I have been writing screenplays and novels for more years than I care to remember, but I have never finished anything - a few short pieces of work excepted. However, I am ninety plus pages into a novel and three quarters of the way through a screenplay. In 2007 I will finish these pieces of work. Getting them sold or published is irrelevant, that's not what this is about. It is about finishing something I have started.

3) Get out debt: my cocksucking, motherfucking debts are the biggest impediment to my life. They weigh down my ambitions and make me think twice about doing anything risky with my life. I know I should say, "Fuck The Man." but my parents brought me up with far too many morals and a far too clearly delineated sense of responsibility. Plus, I'm not a cunt - my debts are my own and I'm not going to leave them behind for my parents or others to deal with. But I am going to whittle them away this year, even if I can't get rid of them completely. However, the fact that I will have an extra £275 a month if I cleared all my debts is one hell of an incentive. That is the equivalent of a six grand pay rise (after tax)!

4) Swear less: now this is going to be really, really difficult. I come from an area where everybody swears... a lot! My mates swear... a lot, and even my girlfriend uses the word cunt regularly... because of me. And this is nothing to be proud of! I see no reason why a university educated man, like myself, can't communicate without continuous use of the words fuck and cunt. It is time I started communicating without the need to resort to a constant stream of vile language. I suspect this resolution may not last very long.

5) Appreciate my girlfriend more: I really should do this. She's the best thing that ever happened to me. And even if the changes I make are so subtle she barely even recognises that there have been changes... at least I'll know.

6) Make more money: not because I want more shit. I'm at that point in my life where having stuff really doesn't matter any more. No, the reason I want to make more money is because it will help me facilitate point 3 that much faster.

7) Spend less: I buy all manner of shit that I really don't need. I piss away money with almost nonchalant abandon! 2007 is the year where I say to myself, "Fuck the Pret mocha; fuck the lunch sandwich; fuck the DVDs I really don't need; fuck the books I want to buy, despite the fact I haven't even finished all the ones I already own and fuck the drunken visits to fast food restaurants when I stagger out of the pub." I need to learn - once and for all - that money really doesn't grow on trees.

8) Read more: you can never read too much (within reason of course). And only books that I already own. No new books allowed!

9) Learn a language: this year I started learning Spanish. I know some basic conversational stuff. In 2007 I intend to become proficient.

10) Travel more: self explanatory really!

I don't know how many of these I will manage in the next year, but I know I'm going to give them a hell of a try. These are all achievable goals. What's the point if you don't at least make an effort?

Ultimately it's the effort, rather than the end result, that makes you a better person.

I can't stop watching TV

I'm currently watching a sign language version of Nigella Lawson.

And I can't help myself.

I'm tired, it has just turned 2 in the morning, and I need sleep...

But I just can't peel my eyes away from the TV screen.

Nigella is beautiful.

I think I love her.

I think I should also get some sleep.

Critters

For some reason I am watching this godawful, wretched film. It is currently on BBC1.

I remember watching this Gremlins crossed with sci-fi abomination when I was barely a teenager.

And I remember thinking it was shit even then.

Now, with a skinful of booze in my system and hatred in my heart, I realise that this is one of the worst films I've ever seen.

Right now, two aliens (who resemble two gay extras who stumbled punch-drunk out of Duran Duran's Wild Boys video) are busting up a redneck ten-pin bowling joint. I'm watching it with tears in my eyes. This is all there is to watch on TV.

This film generated three sequels.

Which means that there are people out there who actually liked it...

I think I'm going to break out the methylated spirits.

There is no hope for humanity.

Psycho cabbie

Earlier this evening I had arguably the strangest taxi ride in my life. It was almost surreal. Most of my chats with cab drivers are mundane experiences - football, the town and the weather.

This guy was anything but mundane. Insane, yes. Mundane? Not a fucking chance.

I took a cab from my brother's house back to my parent's place. When I got in the taxi he turned round and said, "Coast, mate?"

"Yeah, cheers."

"Used to live there myself," he said, as the cab started up, and then continued, "Fucking proper shite, like. You know what I mean?"

"Not really," I said, hoping that the lack of interest in my voice carried enough weight to end the conversation before it started.

The disinterest in my voice was lost on him. "Proper shite, mate. Nothing there, I moved here to get away. Put money in my business, like, know what I'm saying?"

"Not really. I live in London."

"London's shite, mate; know what I mean, like? You must be glad to be back? I came here, like, because the money's being invested here. All the southern money, you know what I mean, like?"

I looked out of the window at the financially deprived streets whizzing by. "Yeah, we're just fucking rolling in it," I muttered sarcastically.

Before he had a chance to reply his mobile phone rang and he had a conversation with what quickly became apparent was his girlfriend. He laughed at some of the things she said and said a few sweet things to her in return. After a few minutes he finished, put down his mobile and said quickly, "Fucking proper tart her!"

"Sorry?" I said, realising what I'd heard but not quite believing it.

"Total cock fiend. I think I'm gonna have to drop her, know what I mean? Fucking pretty girl, fucking tiny, mate. I mean, yesterday I fucking pinned her against the wall yesterday and fucking rammed her. I rammed her so hard she started screaming, silly cunt came like a fucking express train. I rammed her so hard she fucking multipled, know what I mean? I'm too good, that's my problem mate."

I realised this man that I'd never met before was telling details about his life which would normally only be shared with drinking buddies. I was vaguely horrified at what he was telling me, not because I'm a prude (which anybody who reads my blog knows is bullshit) but because I hadn't asked to hear this stuff. But, at the same time, like a witness to a car crash I wanted to know all the gory details. So I asked, "Good at what?"

"Fucking, mate. What did you think I meant? The girl's proper addicted. I'm afraid she's gonna fall for me, know what I mean?"

"Of course," I said sarcastically. When you're as charming as this man the women are obviously going to throw themselves at you.

"She's twenty two, and has three kids, but she has the tiniest, tightest chuff you've ever seen."

"Three kids?" I asked incredulously.

"Yeah, but her fanny's like a fucking vice. Tight as fuck, know what I mean? And no fucking morals either. Her pussy's even tighter than her arsehole, know what I mean?"

Suddenly, I felt faintly nauseous. This man who I'd never met before was telling me stuff about his girlfriend that was private. The car crash effect had worn off and the desire to revel in the gory detail had dissippated. I just wanted to continue my journey in peace, so I said nothing.

Regardless of my silence he continued, "Cunt or arse, she loves it all. Filthy slut's addicted. She's gonna fall for me, know what I mean? No fucking morals. Fucking women are sluts, know what I mean?"

Hearing the potentially disturbing tangent that he was about to take I said forcefully, "People are what they are, mate. There's good and bad everywhere. Plenty of awful blokes out there, if you know what I mean? Total fucking dickheads." And what I meant was: fucking dickheads like him.

However, the idiot failed to recognise this. "Yeah, but where are all the good women, eh? There're all fucking gone. They've been taken by other men. They're all gone. All we're left with are the fucking sluts. Fucking filth, mate."

"Mate, I know plenty of women who are fantastic, all great women. And just because a girl is into sex doesn't mean she's a slut or a whore. She's just into sex, that's all."

"Yeah, I know what you're saying, mate. They are all fucking sluts, aren't they?"

"That's not what I said," I stated vociferously.

"Yeah. They're proper slags. I worry about disease, mate. Don't you?"

"I've been with my girlfriend for three and a half years. I'm not worried about shit. I don't wanna talk about it any more."

"Nah, I know what you're saying. Fucking filth, these women."

Just as I was about to say let me out now, he fell silent. I was thankful. His views made me feel sick. The hatred in his voice was frightening, he absolutely loathed women, and saw no distinction between any of them: in his world they were all filth.

He stayed silent for five minutes and then suddenly said, "You ever done gang warfare, mate?"

I knew what he meant - gang warfare is local slang for a gangbang - but didn't want to discuss it with him. I sighed and groaned, "No, nor do I want to."

"Fucking filth, mate. She let us come all over her."

"Let me out here."

"But..."

"Now!"

He slammed the taxi to a halt. He turned around and out out his hand. "Tenner."

I gave him the money and got out of the cab as fast as I could. I took a deep breath of cold night air and watched as his cab sped off.

The man creeped me out. His voice was becoming too unpleasant, the tone was conspiratorial, as if he somehow saw me as a kindred spirit. I felt sick. It is bags of putrid, hateful shit like him that give the rest of us men a bad name. When one of these fuckleberries takes advantage of a woman and treats her like shit, it is the rest of the male population that gets tagged with his crimes.

Women, ladies and girls of the world: not all men are like this. Most of us are just looking for someone to share our lives with.

But...

Should you meet a man like my taxi-driving friend.

Run. Like the fucking wind!

All I want for Xmas is...

Spam!

And fucking loads of it.

Yes. I hadn't checked my email for a couple of days and checked it a few minutes ago.

75 messages...

Every single fucking bastard one of them was spam!

Maris Q Piper (obviously related to Billie and the potato), Gesticulating V Wildly, Dennis Hopper (whose career is obviously on the rocks if he's resorted to sending me spam) and another email telling me that 'Five inches is not enough for a lady.'

I wish I could get my hands on these bastards.

I guarantee they would rue the day they messed with my inbox!

'Tis Christmas and I am ill

Oh what a surprise!

At least I didn't catch my boss' lurgy! He decided to make an appearance on our last day (22nd) in the office, (for what I suspect is the slightly sinister reason of passing along his affliction to everybody in the office) on the one day that I arrived very late (about 45 minutes late).

I finished what little work I had left to do and avoided getting dragged into too many co-worker conversations, not because I was feeling grinch-like but because I wanted to leave the officer with the clear conscience of the man who has finished all his work.

We started with drinks in the office and, in trying to undertake the epic, Homeric journey to open one fucking bottle of shitty Tempranillo, realised that the office manager had hidden all the fucking bottle openers, probably for reasons of health and safety. Maybe the OM feared that somebody could put out an eye with a corkscrew, or that I would stab myself in the balls with some cackhanded attempt at opening a bottle. Absolute fucking bullshit... which was exactly what I told everybody in the office within earshot.

So, no Tempranillo for me or anybody else!

Instead I drank cheap champagne, listened to my colleagues Xmas tune selections and got ready to go to our local.

Once in the local I decided that it was going to be a long day of drinking and to ease myself into drunkeness, rather than plunge fuckleheadedly into it, I would drink a pint or shot followed by a pint of water. That soon got knocked on the head as the booze flowed more freely and the conversation became increasingly profanity strewn.

I began flirting with a cute Muslim girl from the office, despite the fact that I knew it would go nowhere, and saying a variety of increasingly stupid and irrelevant things.

I became increasingly stupid with each pint and chaser. The last thing I remember proclaiming was that I could lift three female co-workers at once for a long time and challenged the barman. He said three was unmanageable and lifted two of them (cute Muslim girl and her friend) for about thirty seconds. I followed suit and lifted them for about forty five seconds. Before losing all sense of where I was, I realised that drink makes me a complete and utter twat and, for some reason, more attractive to the opposite sex (however, now, after the fact, I realise that the last part of this realisation is probably just in my head).

Completely drunk, I moved on to meet some friends in central Cunt London.

However, I fell asleep on the tube and woke up miles from my required destination. I realised that home was closer, so I decided that that was where I was going.

I then watched a depressing but brilliant Kieslowski film, A Short Film About Killing, and why a drunken man would decide to watch a film like this God (or random chance) only knows. I then ate a cheap Curry and went to bed.

'Twas then on to the girlfriend's parents in a lovely rural setting. Lots of turkey and stuffing. Christmas with her family nice, but slightly overwhelming due to the fact that I have to curb my natural propensity to use the words fuck and cunt. So I didn't say much!

Today I have driven myself and my lingering cold up the cunt A1, through several stinking traffic jams of miserable skullfuckery, the roads awash with wretched fuckers as miserable and desperate as I, to my parents' home in dreary, rainy Northern England. It's great to see my mum again, and my dad will return from his adventures in the pertrochemical trade sometime tomorrow.

It will be several days of heavy northern drinking at cheap northern prices. Fan-fucking-tastic.

Things I love - with the letter N

As challenged by the lustrous la fille mariée I have decided to do a blog on things I love, as opposed my usual list of rants about things I hate. All these are things that begin with the letter N. So here goes:

Nigella Lawson - absolutely gorgeous TV chef, and a poster girl for women with regular bodies. The complete antithesis of the skeletal broom handle with eyes look, as perfected by Skeletor herself - Victoria Beckham. The daughter of Nigel Lawson, a former Chancellor of the Exchequer, and the wife of advertising guru and art dealer Charles Saatchi. This woman has done more than most to make food sexy. Whereas most television chefs might merely get excited by a cucumber, this woman gets almost orgasmic about it - as if any minute she will deep throat the thing or place it into even more interesting areas! Her voice is fan-fucking-tastic too!

Tuna Nigiri - Sushi is another favourite of mine. Salmon is great but it is Tuna Nigiri that really nails it for me. A nice fresh layer of Tuna on a bed of sticky rice with a smidgen of wasabi in between. By now many of you will realise that I like to eat. Eating it off Nigella's naked body would be even nicer. Which segues nicely into...

Nakedness - women's naked bodies are about the most beautiful gift ever bestowed upon man. Every curve, every fold, every smooth and not so smooth surface; I love pretty much every inch of them. And I love kissing and licking every inch of them too.

Noodles - I love East Asian cuisine (Chinese, Japanese, Thai, Korean etc.) and I love noodle dishes most. Spicy soup noodles and fried Singapore noodles are arguably the things I love most.

Nipples - made to be sucked... literally!

Novels - great novels are a beautiful and amazing thing. The fact that words and concepts (often from centuries past) transform in the reader's head into mental images of astonishing intensity is truly a wonder to behold. The best novelists can literally transform the reader's life; whether it is making somebody want to see a part of the world described in a book, study a subject more intensely, or want to be a writer.

Neural power - ie. a bit of intelligence. I sometimes think there's not enough of it on this planet. And I love women with something between the ears. Looks are one thing, but looks without substance - fucking forget it! I once finished with a girl because she looked at a Claude Monet book I had in my collection and bellowed, 'I love Monnett'.

Nastiness - Another factor I love in a woman, and a little of it goes a long way. After lack of brain power, prudishness is the biggest turn-off. Again, beauty is a wonderful thing, but if the beauty concerned has no interest in deeply exploring matters of the boudoir then I am not interested! Nothing makes a man lose interest quicker than a missionary girl!

Necks - made for kissing... all the way down.

Nameless Nobody - because it gives me a sounding board to rant and rave like a crazy fool!

There you go. Ten. That took me less time than I thought it would!

University

I have no idea why but I started thinking about my University life today.

My reminiscence has been brought about by the fact that my boss is still off ill and that filling the empty hours of my working day (ie. all of them) involves sitting around and thinking about my past.

I loved University.

Everything seemed possible. I was away from the dreary town of my birth for the first time ever and meeting people outside of my usual circle of disinterested friends. The world was fresh and new and filled with possibilities.

Much about that period involved firsts for me. It was the first time I lived away from home. It was my first time living in a city of any size or note. It was the first time that I felt in some way responsible for the course my adult life was going to take.

But somehow I managed to take all this possibility and potential and fuck it all up.

I left the place with huge gambling losses. I went back to my dreary hometown when I should have taken a risk and attempted to kickstart a career in my university city or Cunt London. It took me well over a year to find a job in my chosen profession (and involved working in a video store, behind the counter of pharmacists and a turn as the world's laziest gas meter reader). And whilst my career eventually kickstarted itself with such power that I have managed to achieve comfortable mediocrity here on the mean streets of C London, I still carry some of those gambling debts (along with a few others that seemed like good ideas at the time).

I'm not saying that I am sorry at how my life turned out. Because I'm not. I've got more than many and therefore less reason to complain, but I sometimes wonder how things might have been if I had shown a little more tenacity and bravery as a younger man.

If I could go back in time and get hold of the little twat I used to be, I think I'd give him a fucking good clip around the ear and whisper, "Say no to the fruit machines, you fucktard!"

Spam

I hate Spam.

Not the tinned processed meat, although that is pretty repugnant, but the electronic stuff.

Spammers are cunts.

It is as simple as that.

They phish for those with no technical savvy, intelligence or common sense. And they must really be succeeding too because every day my fucking inbox is awash with the stuff - for every decent email I must get six doses of Spam, even with a spam filter! And plenty of blogs I know used to get spam comments too!

But how they succeed is beyond me. Wouldn't you delete an email if it came from Phoenixes R. Excreting or Blaspheming S. Gaslight or Hawkwind L. Franklin? I do. Every single day! If I don't know its origin I don't even open it.

And yet there are people out there who think these emails are worth looking at and the links worth clicking. These are people who end up losing money and are too ashamed to take it to the police. Because it would reveal their complete stupidity!

Therefore the spammers win every single fucking day.

Absolute wankers!

No Xmas Skiving

I love to skive over Xmas, and the build-up to it. There's nothing quite as satisfying (in an almost sexual way) as watching colleagues work whilst I put my feet up and relax.

However my boss is ill. Work needs doing. Problems have arisen and the skive is over!

Bloody Xmas illnesses.

I bet every unpleasant disease known to man - from MRSA to the Bubonic plague and smallpox - began over the Xmas skiving period.

Still, at least I can slouch, sloth and skive my way through Friday 22nd all the way through to the first few days of the New Year.

Fucking brilliant!

Video store memoirs - part four (brief stuff)

"D' you have Photonix, mate?"

I looked at the video cover in my hand, the same one he had just looked at, I was slightly confused. "You mean this?" I asked, holding up a video cover with the title Phoenix.

The man smiled. "That's the one. My mate told me about it, he said it's ace."

"Are you dyslexic?"

"No. Why?" asked the man with a befuddled shrug of his shoulders.

"Is he?"

"No. Why?" queried the man with more emphasis.

"No reason," I answered.

***

The man came to the counter with a selection of videos, about eight of them, more than we rented to customers at any one time, and tipped me a wink. "I'll take these, mate."

"You can only hire out four at any one time."

"Really? That's not what I was told."

"Who joined you?"

"Your boss?"

"I doubt that?"

His cheeky chappy smile faded. "You calling me a liar?"

"Not at all. But I know my boss. I think you're mistaken."

"Maybe I am. Anyway, can I take four?"

I shrugged. "Sure. Can I have your card, please?"

"I don't have it."

"Then I can't lend you the videos. You need a card. Sorry!"

The man rubbed his chin. "My girlfriend's got one."

I nodded. "Okay. Well, if you go and get her I can lend you the videos."

"She's abroad."

"Okay!"

"But I've got it with me." The man scrabbled around in his jacket and came up with four empty pockets full of lint, fluff and snotty tissues. "Damn! Can I just give you her name?"

"Why don't you give me your name."

At this point he pushed the videos off the counter and stomped out of the store like a stroppy teenager. "Well, if you're going to be like that then you can keep your videos," he shouted as he slammed the door behind him.

He tried the same stunt four times, with every one of the store employees. The fourth time it happened I was showing a new part-timer the ropes. The man pretended that I never existed despite the fact that I kept saying to him, "But you tried this on me three weeks ago."

As he left for the last time he bellowed, "You're insane. I've never seen you before in my life."

***

One day, at the height of my gambling addiction, a customer left behind a pound coin in the store. During my lunchtime I picked the coin up, took it across the road to a fruit (slot) machine arcade and put it in the first machine I saw.

I won the jackpot twelve times in a row and walked out of the place about a £100 ($200) richer than I was when I walked in.

I went back across the road and continued my shift.

About an hour later the man who left the coin behind walked in. "I left behind a pound coin and some coppers, fella."

"Here you go, " I said whilst handing him the money and tipping him a wink. "You'll never know how glad I was that you did!"

The man frowned at me as he took his money. He kept frowning back in my direction as he made his way out of the store.

To this day he's still probably puzzled by that enigmatic statement.

Losing our freedoms

Slowly but surely, like a creeping affliction, our freedoms are being taken away from us by Tony Blair and his government. And we are doing nothing about it.

Seriously, it isn't a joke.

Firstly there is the ludicrous ID card scheme which is ultimately compulsory, whether you want it or not, and which we will all be forced to pay for. Forced to pay for something we never voted for by referendum, regardless of whether we want it or not, regardless of whether we can afford it or not!

Secondly there is the Serious Organised Crime and Police Act 2005, which takes away people's right to free speech and peaceful protest. The Police can now stop any peaceful protest if they or those they represent don't like what you have to say. You can be arrested, fined, imprisoned - or both at once - if what you have to say isn't what they want to hear!

Thirdly, there is the police DNA database which, despite claiming that this would never happen, is collecting and cataloging the DNA of innocent people throughout Britain. People like you and me! Over 1 million of us!

Fourthly, several councils have piloted a scheme where people are required by law to provide ID to purchase alcoholic drinks in bars even if they are over 18, thereby assuming guilt until proven innocent, which inverts a fundamental tenet of our legal system. Other councils are already clamouring to force the scheme upon us. Any establishment not wishing to participate can have its licence revoked by the police!

Also, there is the NHS supercomputer network. Already a £12bn abomination. Further injury has been added to the insult by the fact that all of our medical records will be placed on this system, where it can be shared freely. If we say nothing then it will be assumed that we want our records put on this system, where it can probably be accessed by any spotty cunt with enough C+ programming skills to hack the thing.

The fact that there is the hippocratic oath counts for nothing. The fact that we have data protection laws counts for nothing. The fact that we have privacy laws counts for nothing. The fact that many of these things flout EU human rights laws counts for nothing.

Blair and his cronies don't give a fuck about us.

So, why should we care about them.

Let's start using the laws they use on us upon them! Come the build-up to election day let's all use this particular tenet of the Serious Crimes Act upon them:

"Section 121 of the bill prohibits people from “pursuing a course of conduct which involves harassment of two or more persons”, in order “to persuade any person … not to do something that he is entitled or required to do, or to do something that he is not under any obligation to do.” Harassment, the bill explains, can involve “conduct on at least one occasion”, “in relation to two or more persons”. In other words, you need only approach someone once to be considered to be harassing them, as long as you have also approached someone else in the same manner."

In other words, any politician who knocks on your door and asks you to vote is harassing you in your home. If he does it again (ie. your next door neighbour) then you can invoke the law and - in theory - have the motherfucker arrested.

Maybe if a few of these guys were dragged down the station whilst trying to harass members of the electorate they might choose to show some balls and stop these laws before they take all our freedoms from us.

Fight for the right to anonymity and the freedom to say what you want (within reason, of course).

Richard Hammond - Hero?

Recently readers of Metro, the free morning publication found on buses, trains and tubes everywhere, voted this man as their hero of 2006.

Excuse me, did I miss a fucking meeting or something? This fool did a test drive in a 300mph car without adequate preparation and fuck-knuckled it, doing himself a nasty on the noggin in the process, and then recovered. And for this he is a hero?

What the fuck?

Here's me with the romantic notion that a hero is somebody who, to quote the dictionary definitions is:

1. a man of distinguished courage or ability, admired for his brave deeds and noble qualities.
2. a person who, in the opinion of others, has heroic qualities or has performed a heroic act and is regarded as a model or ideal: He was a local hero when he saved the drowning child.

Frankly, Hammond falls into neither of these categories. He chose to get into a car he was patently not equipped to handle and fucked it up. Normally, doesn't that brand of stupidity qualify you for a Darwin award?

1.) Reminds me of a conscripted soldier who saves his squadron despite not asking to be in that situation.
2.) Sounds like the exact description above or someone who rushes into a burning building to save somebody from a fire without due thought for their own safety because the person would die otherwise.

These people sound like fucking role models.

Hammond is a TV presenter. He was paid to do a stunt. He chose to drive a car capable of 300mph speeds despite not having enough preparation. He fuck-knuckled it. End of fucking story.

Whilst we're feeling all sentimental over fools who injure themselves or take their own lives through acts of complete stupidity, why don't we wander down to the local Tescos supermarket and lay a wreath for some fucking boy-racer who irreparably fucked himself and his Xenda bodykitted chavmobile whilst trying to do a hand-break turn at 60mph.

"It was here that Barry 'Bazza' Coleman, also known as 'The Coalman' to his friends, did his last handbreak turn. Here was a real hero, living a life on the edge - of Romford - doing feats of speed in his luminous green Xenda bodykitted XR3i that most would never contemplate. He was never one to shirk a challenge, cutting a swathe in his Burberry tracksuit. He was challenged to do it by friends, and despite inadequate preparation attempted to do it anyway. He turned the car several times and broke his neck and his skull. He is survived by his sixteen- year-old wife, Shazza, and their four-year-old daughter Burberry Apple. This wreath is to say we're thinking of you, Bazza - hero and role-model for our times."

Sounds ludicrous in that context, doesn't it?

But if you voted for Hammond then you voted for Bazza writ large.

Video Store Memoirs - part three

When I moved over to the second video store after my first death threat I thought things would get better. Firstly, I was doing quite a bit of writing; secondly, everybody who worked there seemed very nice (including one very pretty girl with huuuuge breasts); thirdly, it was closer to my home and I knew the area well, including all the bars and pubs.

However, I was well into a gambling addiction that I had brought with me from University and racking up debt faster than my (pitiful) salary could cope; secondly, girl with large breasts was already taken and my boss turned out to be a complete fucking ponce who liked to help himself from the tills; thirdly, I was going through a woman drought that was to last another year.

And finally many of the customers were still cunts. Fair enough, a high proportion of them were very pleasant, but a large minority overshadowed them to the point where I felt nothing but despair for myself and the general state of humanity. Plus, I wanted to do the job I trained for at University; I was getting sick of hawking videos to members of the public.

I remember one time that a ten year old child came into the store with his father's membership card and said, "My dad sent me. He wants Striking Distance, Clerks and Showgirls."

All were certificate 18. All were out of the age range of this child and therefore illegal for him to rent. If I was caught giving the child the videos I would be slapped with a thousand pound fine.

"I can't give you these, I'm afraid. You aren't old enough," I said sympathetically. I felt sorry for the kid, he didn't know any better.

"Oh. But they're for my dad."

"I can't do it. I'll be breaking the law and I'll get fined."

"But he's given me permission."

"I know. But, even with permission, I can't do it. I'll get fined and fired and I can't afford either. I'm afraid your dad has to come in and get his own films. Sorry!"

And with that the child went. He didn't make any fuss about it.

However, five minutes later his angry father stormed in and charged up to the counter. "Why wouldn't you serve my son these films?" he demanded angrily, pushing his way in front of several customers in the process of saying it.

"Well, it's illegal."

"I sent him!" he stated emphatically.

"It's still illegal. It can cost me a fortune and my job if I'm caught doing it. And he's also supposed to have his own video card, he can't use yours. I can give him a child's membership card if you like?"

"You fucking jobsworth faggot," came his response. "Just give me my films."

I took his membership card and cut it in half in front of him. "Right, you're banned," I said with calm nonchalance.

Several of the customers in the queue started laughing. The customer, understandably, went apoplectic with rage and made a grab for me across the counter. He was rather surprised when several customers grabbed him, dragged him off the counter and threw him down on the carpet. "What the fuck're you doing?" asked the man as he clambered to his feet and dusted himself down. "You saw what he said to me?"

One customer, a regular who was more intelligent than most, said, "Well, I heard what you said to him."

The guy look nonplussed, as if reaching to beat somebody for not wanting to break the law was the most natural thing in the world. "He called me a cunt," stated the guy, genuinely believing that what he had just said was the truth.

Another regular, an elderly woman who spent most of her meagre pension on videos, said angrily, "No he did not. But you swore at him and tried to beat him up."

Other customers now chimed in with yeahs and barracked the man. He looked more confused than ever, probably in the mistaken belief that he was a working class hero rather than a total cunt. He pointed at me and bellowed, "You. Cunt. You'll fucking get yours."

I nodded. "Okay, thank you, don't come again. Bye!"

He stormed out, slamming the shop door behind him with enough force to crack the glass.

I realised that the longer I worked at this video store the less likely I was to get a job in my chosen profession. I also realised that my temper was getting shorter with family and friends. I just had to leave.

Video store memoirs - part two

I remember the first time I was threatened with death by a customer, or at least a representative of this particular customer.

It was December, the snow was falling hard, and the store was like a refrigerator. It was getting towards the end of my shift when a stocky, well built man with facial hair that came from the Craig David school of beard construction (and several years before the R&B papster was old enough to construct a beard) walked into the store, browsed, picked up a couple of blockbuster titles and threw his membership card on the counter. "I'll have these, mate."

I typed in his details and gave him the news, "You've got overdue fees, mate."

"I sorted that out with your boss," he stated emphatically.

"Well, it hasn't been taken off your record. Unless you pay I can't give you these films. Sorry, but he hasn't put anything down or taken anything off."

"It's sorted."

"Mate, there's nothing I can do. Unless you pay, I can't do anything about it."

"I'm not your fucking mate, mate. And you can rent me these films. Actually, no, phone your fucking boss." His rising voice and twitchy movements made me feel fearful. The shop didn't have CCTV and I wasn't working with an assistant who could help me if the man became violent. I can handle myself in a fight but, the area the shop was in was a rough-arsed Northern town, many of these people were as hard as coffin nails.

Feeling nervous and angry at the same time I phoned my boss. He was not pleased to hear from me. "I'm at home. What is it?"

"I've got Mr W***** here, he claims he has paid off his overdue fees, but they are still on his record. Three films were overdue, it comes to nine quid."

"Him? I don't remember this, put him on."

I passed the phone across to the customer, who watched the scene playing out before him with an arrogant smirk. "He wants to talk to you."

They proceeded to get into an argument very quickly and the guy slammed down the phone and pointed at me, "He said serve me."

I don't like being pointed at, rudeness is something I particularly dislike, and I don't know many people who slam a phone down after getting their way. "No he didn't," I mumbled.

"Are you calling me a liar?"

I shrugged and remained silent. He pointed his finger and said with some relish, "You haven't heard the last of this."

Ten minutes later, what appeared to be another customer came into the store. He didn't browse, he came straight up to the counter and said, "He's gonna stab you."

"What? Who are you talking about?"

"N**** W****** stabbed a guy to death a few years ago. He got off on a technicality. He's spitting blood over you. If you apologise he might go easy on you."

"Are you his mate?" I asked with some sarcasm.

"I know him, yeah."

"And he sent you in here to say all this, right?" I continued derisively.

"No. I thought it best for you if I came in and warned you to watch your back. He's spitting blood, and he will fuck you up."

I felt a slight degree of nervousness, but nothing too unpleasant. But that changed when my boss phoned back just before I was about to close up and leave. "That guy earlier, what happened?" I told him the story and he fell silent.

My automatic response was to say, "What?"

"Er, I did say to serve him. I told him to put me back on the phone to you. He slammed it down before I had the chance."

"What?"

"He's a psycho. He stabbed a guy a couple of years ago."

My heart skipped a beat, actually my heart performed a Keith Moon drum solo in a chest that suddenly felt two sizes too small to contain it. "Killed him?" I managed to croak.

"No, but he put him in hospital."

"What about that argument?"

"I told him he had to pay, but once he started insisting I thought it best not to argue with him."

To cut a long story short. I locked the store within a matter of seconds. Alarm on. Door locked. Shutters down. Ran for my fucking car. Started it. Bolted. Under a minute!

For the next week, which was about as long as I worked there (I managed to convince the management to move me to another store), I spent my time going to and from work with only a baseball bat with nails hammered into it for company.

The guy spent most of that week sending people into the store to tell me what fate had in store for me. A couple of times he walked past the shop and made throat slitting signs.

That week was one of the most stressful of my life.

One night I could hear voices laughing and giggling as I was locking up the store. The laughter wasn't pleasant. And I couldn't see them, but I'm certain they could see me. I felt unbelievable fear, so palpable was my panic that every action I made was slow and clumsy and each action was followed by an overwhelming urge to vomit. So, with what little bluster I had left, I began swinging the baseball bat I was carrying around my head and smashed it against the bricks between the video store and the greengrocers next door. The nails cut the bricks to shit, pieces of brickwork shattered everywhere. The voices fell quiet.

However, I still ran for the car. And drove home like a fucking maniac. I jumped red light after red light, just so I could get home

When I moved stores a few days later I was almost tearful with relief. Although that relief didn't last long as I realised that the new shop was no better than the old one.

That whole incident, and everything that lead to it, still sends a chill down my spine to this day.

Video store memoirs - part one

This one is a bit of an epic, so if you've got a short attention span look away now...

In my younger years I fancied myself as the next Quentin Tarantino, despite my complete lack of discernible talent, and thought that some day I would write the next great indie film masterpiece and all would be good in the world. But if I couldn't do that I would at least work in my chosen profession, the one I spent learning during my time at University.

But, before that, and to earn extra cash, I took a job in a video rental shop, as any good Tarantino wannabe should do.

It was a big chain, but despite this I thought I would be able to find plenty of quality on the shelves, recommend them to customers and hopefully enrich their lives and gain a few friends in the process.

It was one the worst years of my life.

During this year, I was threatened with murder...twice, my brother's car was stolen (after I had taken it to work), I was moved from one store to another one because of my general lack of diplomacy and customer skills, often woken in the middle of the night because the burglar alarms failed and had to drive back to work to sort it out, I had a boss who stole from the tills but not enough evidence to prove it and quite possibly the worst customer base you would ever want to meet.

Thick as pigshit doesn't even begin to describe how lacking in basic intelligence many of these people were. Not all the customers were bad, in fact many were perfectly intelligent and very pleasant, but there were a large minority who had barely progressed beyond a cro-magnon state. A number of things spring to mind but I will describe a few. Firstly, the Jonny Mnemonic incident.

Jonny Mnemonic, for those unfamiliar with it, was an abysmal cyber-punk film based upon work by author William Gibson and starring an abject Keanu Reeves. This film did more to confuse customers than any other. I'd say at least 3 in 5 were unable to pronounce it properly. One man came into the shop, dragging his knuckles across the floor, took one look at the cover and said, "Er, mate, can I have Jonny Men...Maman. Jonny Menen...Monem...Nama. Jonny Manana,' before bellowing angrily, "Just give me that fucking Keanu Reeves film!"

"Oh, you mean Jonny Mnemonic?" pronounced Ne-mon-ick!

"Oh, a fucking clever cunt, aren't we?" was his rhetorical response.

"Not really," I said.

"Which is why you're working behind the counter of this fucking store, isn't it?"

Oh, how I laughed when I tore up his membership in front of his eyes.

He threatened to beat me like a woman.

I was tempted to ask whether he meant to beat me like I was a woman or beat me like he was a woman.

***

Another prime, though more harmless example, was a customer who came in and said, "Do you have that film with Tim Robbins in. Oh, er, yeah, The Crankshaft Deception!"

"You mean the Shawshank Redemption?"

"Yeah, that's what I said."

"Sorry, my mistake!"

***

Another tale of woe was a customer who demanded his money back because I had recommended Twelve Monkeys and he had proceeded to rent it.

"Why do you want your money back?"

"Because it was shit. I didn't understand it."

"I followed it perfectly fine. However, you watched it all, right?"

"Right. Twice."

"Well then, you're not getting your money back. We don't give refunds because you don't like films."

"And it was broken too!"

"What, after you watched it twice?"

***

Then there was the customer who brought back a film I had recommended, within an hour of taking it out of the store, and practically thrown it at me with the snort of derision, "I'm not watching this shit."

"Why not?"

"It's got fucking subtitles. I don't do foreign films. Give me my fucking money back."

I was so appalled I actually did give him his money back.

The film he borrowed was Das Boot, one of the finest anti-war films ever made...

Sarah Kennedy

This woman is easily the worst DJ in Britain, even worse than that fat tub of arse lube Chris Moyles, and may be one of the contributing factors to my constant low-level rage.

She presents a morning slot on Radio 2, which I am forced to listen to because my girlfriend likes Terry Wogan - who follows on from Kennedy - and because I am too lazy to put my foot down and change the station. I'm also forced to listen because the radio is the alarm that wakes me every morning.

All Kennedy does is comment inanely on stories that she has read in the newspaper and more often than not gets her facts completely wrong. This wouldn't be so bad if she didn't commit the worst crime that a DJ can do and that is only play - at best - half a track before rambling over the song with more inane drivel in her annoying clipped, middle-English voice.

For instance, she will play something classic like Otis Redding's 'Dock of the Bay' and something like this will occur:

'Sitting in the morning sun,
I'll be still here when the evening comes,
watching the ships roll in
and I'll watch them roll away again.

I'm sitting on the dock of the bay,
watching the ti-de roll away...'

'And yes, in the Daily Mail on page seven there's a delightful article on the lifespan of the bandicoot. Yes, really informative and, um, it tells how this bird of prey takes off small children in the night...'

Then I'll sit up in bed screaming, 'No, the fucking song's barely started. Oh, you evil fucking bint. Why is this happening?'

Then my girlfriend will say, 'Why don't you calm down?'

'Because, once again, that fucking buffoon has ruined my day.'

She also uses sound effects for comedy...

I thought that particular tehnique had died a death in the eighties. I was wrong. The radio of the eighties is alive and well in the form of Sarah Kennedy.

Right now, I feel nothing but hate. I must end this posting...

Recycling update

The council finally took away our recycling after only seven months of trying.

Sometimes, complaining forcefully can be successful.

I feel there's a lesson in all of this, however I'm too bored to seek it out.

Health and Safety

Where I work, the office managers are obssessed with health and safety. We frequently have to attend lectures on it and things like Xmas decorations are vetted for suitability - ie. fairy lights are a definite fire risk so they are off limits - and emails frequently circulate telling us how to do things like switching off appliances or not using certain appliances in certain plugs etc.

It's ludicrous, grown adults are being treated like retarded children. Don't do this, do do that, don't do that like that, it is ridiculous and frankly a little pathetic.

It is also one of Blair's legacies to Britain. Nanny state Britain. Let's suckle on Britannia's bosom before she reinserts you into her womb! Yes, that's right, you are a child, you can't make decisions for yourself. You are a fool so let us guide you and make it right.

In fact, if you want to know how ridiculous it is then get this. My grandfather was an electrician for over forty years, the man knows his shit. Yet, he is not allowed to wire up his own bathroom or kitchen because he doesn't have a recognised qualification! The fuck-knuckles who are hired to do jobs on his kitchen have less experience and less knowledge but, because they have qualifications, they can wire up his kitchen... badly. He can do the job very well, but if there was a fire he wouldn't get any insurance because he isn't qualified. But if an incompetent monkey causes a fire because of incompetent wiring then that's okay the insurance company will pay up because the man has qualifications. Where is the fucking logic in that?

It's no wonder that proper DIY is now a dying artform in this country.

Bureaucracy... right up the jacksy.

That's the Britain we live in.

New Game Show Idea - The Council Challenge

Throw four normal people into this godforsaken borough and attempt to get the useless tubesteaks on the council to provide all the standard facilities that a council is supposed to within a given timeframe.

The winners are the ones who get the most facilities within that timeframe.

The timeframe is ten years.

I don't expect anybody to get everything they are entitled to in that time.

The Council

This lot are a bunch of fucking monkeys with hammers. Let 'em loose on the asylum and see what damage the useless fuckleberries can do.

In an age where councils are now fining people for not recycling I can't even get this bunch to take the stuff away.

Several months of phone calls, emails and threats have resulted in zero action. Not a single recycling collection has been collected... in nigh on seven months.

During this time, the girlfriend and I have had to drive (and how environmentally sound that is) our recycling bags and boxes to the local waste disposal facility to put them in their recycling facility - where I assume they are collected for recycling, although the useless cunts probably incinerate it and release the vapours into the atmosphere.

And for this I pay council tax...

These cock-smokers should give me a fucking rebate or at the very least an apology for all the time wasted but I doubt I'll get one.

I know I live in a rather deprived area of central Cunt London but, at the very least, we should be getting the service we pay for.

Too many monkeys and not enough fucking organ grinders is the real problem. Lot's of people pushing paper and data around and not enough people to organise where this data is supposed to be going.

I expect to be moaning about this in a years time.

Either that or running amok with a high powered rifle...

Other reality show ideas

How about Victoria Beckham's Celebrity Anal Gangbang? Street Fighting with Russell Crowe? Or Jade Goody's Bukkake Challenge?

Members of the public, please feel free to add your own reality show in my bulging comments bag!

Celebrities and altered reality

If I ran up to you in the street with a steaming piece of shit in my hand and said, "You absolutely need this, it's the latest big thing for the home," you would probably be well within your rights to beat me to the ground with a stick and brand me a cunt. But one thing is for sure, you certainly wouldn't take the piece of shit off my hands.

And yet, if a celebrity came running up to many people with that turd in hand, there are some out there who would chow down on the thing if the celebrity told them to. You all know who you are!

What is it with celebrity and the modern world's reaction to it? At work the other week, a rather silly girl mentioned with some excitement that Matt Willis had won I'm a Celebrity....

My response was - who?

Who the fuck is Matt Willis? And why is this girl so excited about it?

Did she know Matt Willis personally? No. And yet her excitement was unbelievable. Christ, I've had girls react with less excitement whilst I've been going down on them. What the fuck? And she wasn't the only one reacting like this... there are millions of them out there!

It is exactly these same tubesteaks who made Jade Goody a millionaire and buy celebrity magazines by the truckload if some bozo who once won a reality show is on the cover.

What ever happened to hard work, talent, and application? Once upon a time if you wanted to get to the top being beautiful wasn't enough, being in the right place at the right time wasn't enough, being a great publicity whore wasn't enough, you had to have the talent, charisma and application to make it. Now, if you suck cock on Youtube you're a star by lunchtime.

It isn't right.

I'm sick of hearing about reality show chavs in newspapers and magazines. I want to live my life free from having to hear about some mongoloid fuck from reality shows past vomiting in a z-list club in front of greasy paparazzi lowlifes.

And to ensure this happens I'm starting my own reality show which is called Celebrity Death Island. Anybody who has ever appeared on a reality TV show, or even applied to be on one, is put on Anthrax Island. They have to get off that island alive. And preventing them from doing that is a crack Brazilian death squad, you know the kind I mean, the nasty squalid fuckers whose speciality is killing street kids by crushing their heads with paving slabs. These unpleasant fuckers are given high powered weaponry, a licence to kill, and a bounty for each celebrity that gets whacked.

I'm not sure whether it will take off, but I firmly believe it is the future of light entertainment.

And it might strike a blow for those of us who believe that being famous should be as a result of real talent and hard work rather than because you said something really stupid on public television once.

Cunt London

'Corrrrrr blarmey, Meeerrreee Poppppinnssssaah, Laaarrrnnndun's thaa besss faarrrkinnn sittteee orrrnn the faarrrsss orvvv thaa urrrrffff.'

For those not blessed with the ability to understand English accents and dialects, that was a mockney way of saying, 'Cor blimey, Mary Poppins, London is the best fucking city on the face of the earth.'

I say, 'Is it shite!'

It isn't even the best city in Europe.

It's way too expensive: rent, food, drink, theatre, cinema, transport, it's all too way too expensive if you don't know the place like the back of your hand. The transport is fucking awful, even the buses are turning back to shit now that Ken has put too many of them on the roads. The people are miserable and politeness is at a premium. It lives off its history to the detriment of modern culture. And the place is awash with arse clown tourists who clog free movement in the streets like too much shit in a toilet u-bend.

And yet, oddly, I love the fucking place.

I'm one of those miserable bastards who roam its streets, and I know some of it like the back of my hand - and could find you a cheap cinema, restaurant, theatre deal or booze den with an insoucient flick of my wrist. The place is flawed beyond all belief and yet, despite all this, people come here and never leave, knowing that very few places in Britain come close: Edinburgh, Bristol and certain parts of Manchester and Glasgow springing immediately to mind. Nearly all my friends live here and we feed like parasites off each others rage and misery. London, for all its flaws, is now my home.

Cunt London - he says, wiping a bitter, salty tear from his eye - I love you, you fucking bitch!

The 176 Bus - riding the whirlwind

The second half of the title is pure vitriolic sarcasm. Whirlwind it most certainly was not.

It took this bus over half an hour to get down the Strand this evening. For once the phrase I could have walked it faster really was true.

Whoever planned the Waterloo Bridge works, and took away several bus stops in the process, are fucking imbeciles of the lowest order. Somehow this gaggle of fuckwits have town planned this already slow stretch of road into oblivion. This is the town-planning equivalent of a double-anal, ie. the placing of two cocks into an orifice that isn't even supposed to take one! The Strand is now a log jam of hideous proportions.

I think I'll take a different bus tomorrow!

The left hand side of the escalator...

...is for those who wish to walk up the stairs.

It is not there for you to stand in the way of people - chatting to your friend - you ignorant, dawdling, lanky piss-streak fuck.

You then proceed to get offended when politely told to move to the right-hand side.

Ignorant, ignorant, fucktard.

If good manners earned us all money - you sir, would be a pauper.

But, in the real world, what you are is...

A cunt.

Figures of Derision - Blair, Tony Blair

Never trust a man with more teeth in his smile than a fucking shark.

Has helped to make the world a more dangerous place.

Has taken away numerous personal freedoms from us all, including our right to peaceful protest... because he helped make the world a more dangerous place.

Has overseen the unholy abomination of the NHS supercomputer system, despite being little more than a computer illiterate. Super, it is not! Money pit, it is!

Has used more overpaid consultants on projects than any other prime minister and wastes millions of taxpayer's money in the process. Depsite the fact that he spent much of his time as shadow leader mocking the Conservatives for this exact same flaw.

His legacy remains intact alright.

He was, is, and always shall be...

A cunt.

2012 Olympics

I can't wait for these to come around. I'm so excited I'm like a giddy schoolgirl, albeit with a beard and men's clothes!

But not because of the events that will be on display. No, that's not it...

It's because of the events that won't be on display!

Is that confusing? It shouldn't be. It is simple...

What we are facing is the first Olympics that will miss its deadline. Cunt London is going to fuck it up. Look at the Wembley debacle and the Millennium Dome abomination as evidence. This country can no longer deal with major projects. And Cunt London is Britain writ large. We are too lazy, beauracratic and arrogant for our own good. Now I've heard people say, 'We ran an Empire, for God's sake.' Yes, we did, but so did the Romans - and a fat lot of good that was when it all inevitably fell apart.

I must seem awful, enjoying the schadenfraude that is unfolding before our very eyes, but I'm not really. This might just be the making of us. When it all goes wrong we will have nobody to blame but ourselves. The fact is, if we miss the deadline we might just be forced to say we really aren't that good. We might be forced to cut back on the paperwork, the red tape, the fucktastic rip-off construction companies who fleece the taxpayers dry, the smugness that comes with the mistaken knowledge that we are the best city in the best country in the world. The project is already a billion over budget, and it has barely started. If this really was the best city in the world, then the project wouldn't already be over budget before any meaningful construction work has begun!

I can't wait for the BBC coverage featuring an empty half built stadium, a camera pans and zooms over nothingness, a commentator screams, "And this is where the East German would have broken the high jump world record, if only the useless cunts who ran this had done their jobs properly!"

It's going to be something to behold!