A fool

"'Ere, you, you can't leave this shit here!" said the middle-class middle-aged white man, waving his hand in derision at the recycling box and bag that sat in front of my home.

"Er, yes I can. It's getting collected tomorrow."

"No. It's a hazard."

I sighed, willing him to disappear somewhere (possibly to a low level of hell, or maybe IKEA in Croydon) and said, "It's not a hazard, it's next to our bin, it's impossible to trip over."

The man started waving his hands irately. "I nearly tripped over it."

"Oh, well the only way you could possibly trip over this lot is if you were clinging to the side wall of our house, walking sideways like a crab. Is that what you were doing?" I asked saracastically.

The man frowned at me. "I'm going to complain, you sarcastic bastard."

"Then complain."

"What?"

"Complain, and see what it gets you. I've got nowhere else to put this stuff. It isn't like I have a front yard or garden, is it?"

The man shook his head and said forcefully, "Then put it out later."

"I can't. It has to go out now, I'm off out somewhere and won't be back till late." A lie, of course, but I did have a valid reason for putting out the recycling early - I just didn't want to discuss it with him.

"You're an idiot!"

I was now beginning to get bored of this little man's tirade. "I'm not having this conversation anymore. If you want to continue it then you can talk to the door, because I'm closing it on you."

"But..."

"Goodbye!" I closed the door on him and heard him bellowing with rage. It was a string of incomprehensible profanities and nonsense. He was clearly having a bad day. And as he moved off down the street he continued bellowing, his voice fading with each step that took him further from my home

I suddenly see the sense in my blog. Better to get it on the page, even a computerised one, than ramble inanely like this fool!

Consumer madness

At the moment I want to buy shit I don't need. Books, DVDs, computers, TVs; you name it and the likelihood is that I've lusted after it recently! Nice shiny new shit!

It's the boredom thing I wrote about earlier. It burrows into your soul, if such a thing exists, and empties it, only to overwhelm you with the need to fill that gap!

The devil doesn't make work for idle hands.

No, the fucking evil cunt makes work for idle minds and empties the contents of your bank account into the coffers of Dixons, PC World, Waterstones, HMV and any other purveyor of useless stuff you don't need. And once you have your new 'stuff' you find it doesn't fill that gap quite as well as you first hoped.

So you feel the urge to buy more.

And those adverts you saw for that gorgeous new games console, and that fantastic looking plasma screen...

Having worked for a few of them in my time I think Satan might just be working in advertising and marketing.

Nutty Bars

Whatever happened to the 'Nutty' Bar?

As a kid it was my favourite sweet. Forget Mars Bars, Snickers (or the artist formerly known as Marathon) Milky Ways or Twixes. No; give me a nutty fudge/caramel centre wrapped in gooey caramel and covered with peanuts any day of the week.

Nestle (who bought up Rowntrees along with practically every other food company in existence) probably still own the recipe and the rights to the 'Nutty'.

Maybe they should get retro and bring it back.

Actually, better they don't. I'm probably remembering it with rose-scented taste buds!

In reality it probably tastes like a peanut encrusted shit covered stick!

Better to leave it in the past!

Misanthropy and rage

It’s been an interesting week in the world of the Nothing Man.

Firstly, I’ve realised that IKEA are cunts of the highest order and may very well be in league with Satan and divorce lawyers everywhere.

Last Saturday involved a trip to two IKEAs with my girlfriend. At the beginning of the odyssey we were in something resembling a decent mood. However, by the end of the six and a half hour journey through the heart of motoring darkness that is Cunt London we were barely on speaking terms, having raged at IKEA, other car drivers, town planners, each other and anybody else who we didn’t like the look of.

All this because IKEA won’t keep furniture in store if you ask for it. It’s more than their job’s worth you see! Fucking bullshit! It’s because they’re a bunch of lazy fucks who realise that so many brainwashed drones turn up at their stores looking to buy furniture that they can afford to treat them like cunts, and not have it affect profits in the slightest!

And the thing about IKEA is: firstly, it really isn’t that fucking cheap; and secondly, the furniture really isn’t that good. It’s the sort of shit you see at Homebase or MFI but it seems more exotic because it has names like Rypdaal, Kompliment, Koksuk, Kuntfaart, Arschloch.

Fucking bullshit; it’s MFI with a fancy fucking name!

And we fight each other tooth and nail for the privilege of building these pieces of shit in living rooms all across the globe.

Most of my time in IKEA (total: one and a half hours out of six and a half) was spent dodging the Deth Kaarts pushed at breakneck speed by housewives with a glint of insanity in their glazed eyes. Obviously these women had succumbed to the IKEA urge once too often. Arguments broke out all around me; otherwise rational men and women indulged in stand-up rows and more covert ironic sideswipes. Plus, people had parked their cars in any space they could (no matter how small) just so they could rush into this temple of consumerist doom. Oh, what cunts we all are!

That short trip to IKEA has refilled my well of misanthropy to overflowing. Yes, folks, I’m just brimming with the venom of human hatred!

And if I am going to hell I bet the place will look just like IKEA.

***

I managed to pay my tax with the help of my father. It filled me with dread to ask him, but he was surprisingly okay about it. He sent me a cheque and a note saying he hoped I could myself financially afloat some time soon! He probably just wishes his children lived up to their potential! Neither myself nor my sibling are filled with a quarter of my dad’s drive.

It must pain him.

***

I’ve also realised that everything bores me at the moment. My life bores me, my career bores me, my debts bore me, writing bores me, not writing bores me. Maybe it is the fact that I’ve hit my mid thirties and I still don’t know exactly where I belong in this crazy fucked-up world.

Maybe I should start an affair with some perky young blonde girl or a curvy brunette bombshell with an arse you could bounce coins off and a pair of breasts that defy the existence of Newton’s law?

Or maybe not.

I’m not the cheating kind (I love my girlfriend too much to pull a stunt like that) and I’d probably only get bored!

No. I need a lifestyle change of some kind.

I just don’t know what it is yet

But I'm thinking maybe a change of scenery might be in order!

Video Store Memoirs 6

The reason I left the video store was because of a holiday in Spain with my family.

The holiday was great for many reasons (a Spanish woman giving me my first ever experience of deep-throating being a major one) but the sole reason was I was able to cast off my problems for two weeks. Problems that sat upon my shoulders like the earth upon those of Atlas; problems, that in all honesty, I really should have let slide.

I didn't have to deal with false store alarm calls from the security company; fuckwitted troglodyte customers ruining my day with their ignorance; the dreary Northern town that I had to live in and last - but not least - my sense of total failure as a human being: failure because I was still unable to pursue the career that I had trained for at university.

The sun of the Costa del Sol, the cheap food and beer, the siesta lifestyle, the beauty of its women - all these things alerted me to a life far beyond the confines of a ludicrous video store.

These factors meant far more than worrying about debts and dealing with what was ultimately a job. The video was a job, not a career, and as such I knew I could walk away from it any moment I chose. And when I returned to England that was the moment I chose to hand in my notice.

Somewhat surprisingly my boss looked disappointed when I told him. He was even more disappointed when the top-brass told me I had to leave that day - give my keys to the boss, clean my shit out of the store and vanish forthwith! They didn't want me to work my notice, and would pay me double that week's salary and what was left of my holiday time to leave the place immediately.

Later, one of the part-timers told me the reason why. 'Some customer came in threatening to slit your throat.'

'What?' I asked, thinking back to the reason why I left the previous store. 'Was he a young guy?'

'No! Middle aged. He was a fat, bald loud-mouthed prick.' I knew immediately who he meant: a wife-beating psycho I had an argument with a couple of months before.

'So! Why's G___ disappointed?'

'Because he told the guy what night you were back in the store.'

I laughed without amusement and said bitterly, 'That sneaky fucking cunt.'

Before I left the store I asked my boss why this man was after me. G___ sneered. 'He said you called his wife a fucking whore.'

'I might not like the customers very much but I've never called any of them a fucking whore.'

'Why don't you explain it to him?'

'You'd like that, wouldn't you?'

My boss shrugged and said innocently, 'Whatever do you mean?'

'You told him what night I was in, G____.'

My boss turned white, casting a look at the part-timer who had snitched on him. 'I didn't...'

'I don't care any more,' I said, handing him the keys. 'I'm off to better things.'

I walked out of the store without another word. And that, as they is say, is that.

I never went back to the store, although I did have infrequent drinks with the part-timers every now and then. I never asked the company for a reference. And I was working in my chosen profession within a couple of months of leaving.

Spain was the push I needed.

If a butterfly flaps its wings in the east...

...fucking London Underground grinds to a great fuck-off halt in the west.

Points failure, signal failure, power failure, train failure, humour failure and, finally, stress related heart failure.

Useless fucks!

Video Store Memoirs 5

Haven't done these in a while.

This one is about my former video store boss. He is a piece of work is one way to describe him.

Although I prefer the term cunt

***

After several months of working at a new store, after leaving the old one under threat of death, I realised that some of the floats were down at the end of the day. It nearly always happened to the part-timers and had occurred whilst they worked with myself and the boss, so it didn't occur to me that any theft was taking place, in addition to their own incompetence.

But one day I had to cover for a part-timer and work a fourteen hour shift. I worked the morning shift on my own and my boss came in for the afternoon. I told my boss that I was taking an extra hour for lunch and counted my float. He watched me and asked, 'Is it okay?'

I nodded, replying, 'It's all there, see you later.'

And off I went for a nice leisurely two hour lunch at home, courtesy of my mum (as I was still living at home at that point). When I got back to the store I opened the till and started counting the float.

My boss looked at me with alarm. 'What're you doing?' he asked, before adding, 'You've already counted it.'

'Sorry, force of habit I guess.'

'Yeah, well customers need serving,' he said forcefully.

I looked round. The store was nearly empty. This made me slightly suspicious, so I continued my float count. Even though my boss grumbled about customer service I continued my count. When I finished it I looked at him and said, 'G___, my float's short.'

'What?'

'My float's short. By a tenner.'

'So?'

'It wasn't short when I left.'

'What are you saying?'

I looked around and smiled. 'I'm taking another half hour break...'

'But..'

'...and when I return, this float is right. Right?'

My boss said nothing, the pink flush burning his cheeks said it all anyway. I turned around and went to the amusement arcade across the street from the store and proceeded to lose a tenner on the fruit machines.

When I returned to to the store I recounted the float. It was still ten pounds short. 'G___, I'm still a tenner short.'

'That's your problem,' he argued.

'You saw me count it. You saw it was right.'

My boss shook his head and disagreed, 'Er, in the rush of the afternoon I don't remember now.'

I seethed silently. It was his word against mine, and his word was more likely to be one they believed. Then I had a brainwave; a way to force my boss to put the missing tenner back in the till. I decided to play my last card and play it hard. 'Do you mind if I make a call to head office?'

'What? Why?'

'Well, to inform them of the problem with my float. I also want to ask them which of us was working with the part-timers when the money has come up short.'

'I'd prefer you didn't.'

'Well, I'm not really asking.'

My boss pulled open a drawer angrily and said, 'We're missing scissors. I need you to do that first. Go and buy some from down the road.'

I smiled at him. 'Okay, G____, whatever you say. My phone call can wait.' And I left the store, making sure to take my own sweet time whilst buying scissors.

When I arrived back at the store it was busy–very busy–so I decided that was the perfect time to recount my float. My boss flashed me a seething glance, his face turning crimson in the process, but said nothing. After counting it I turned and said sweetly, 'My mistake I guess.'

'So it's right then?'

'Bang on!'

He nodded. 'Then don't ever pull a stunt like that again.'

And for the rest of my time there (barely a couple of months) there wasn't a single problem with missing tenners or twenties from the day's takings. But my relationship with my boss became distinctly frosty. We barely spoke and games of Pool and drinks after work became a thing of the past.

After I left the store I didn't see him again until I was working in London, some five years later!

But that's another story.

The city that doesn't work properly

Ah, good old Cunt London. A bit of snow hits the ground and the fucking place grinds to a slow crawl.

And this place is going to run the Olympics?

How in the name of all that is good and holy can a city run an Olympics when it can't even deal with a bit of snow.

We're not talking Siberian snowdrifts, Canadian snow or New York in the winter, we're talking about a bit of snow. And the moment that snow hits the ground there's fucking chaos.

Many of the tube lines stop working, buses get packed because people who should be on tubes clamber onto the buses, and those who don't take the tube get back in their cars and thus the roads of cunt London become gridlocked.

In short, everything turns to shit!

The Olympics really are going to be an abomination. Hundreds of thousands of visitors are going to be severely disappointed. Trains that don't get them to the stadiums on time. Roads that are gridlocked into standstill. Stadiums that are three-quarters built and crumbling away already.

It's going to be large

More Amsterdam

I think I could live in this city. I really do. It's relaxed (and until the spitting incident, really calmed my angry soul) and good natured, the people are incredibly friendly and the overall vibe of the place is one of extreme tolerance.

It is also one of the most beautiful cities on the planet.

And I'm not just talking about the architecture.

The women are gorgeous. I spent much of my time walking around with an erection, attempting to hide it underneath my sweater and spit-jacket (see first Amsterdam entry for more info on this) as I realised that my erection can really be seen through the fabric of my jeans!

Walking behind a twenty-plus dutch girl with one of the finest arses ever sculpted by the hand of God (or random chance, depending on whether you believe in God or Darwin) I was no longer interested in the Egon Schiele's and Karl Schmidt-Rottluff's.

This takes some doing, because I love my German Expressionism!

Throughout this city are some of the most fantastic looking people you will ever see.

Also, any city that is dominated not by the abomination that is the car (and I didn't see a single cunt-mobile - i.e. a 4x4 vehicle - during the trip) is wonderful in my eyes. Everybody either cycles or takes the tram or walks!

It is clean (unlike dirty old Cunt London), everything runs on time and the city is beautifully compact.

Fan-fucking-tastic

Amsterdam

This is my first post for about ten days, mostly because I have been having birthday celebrations during this time.

Yesterday, I got back from Amsterdam (a city which I love) after what was pretty good two a half day break: a fantastic meal at Janvier Profloekaal (and if you are in Amsterdam seek this place out, it's brilliant); a bigger room because of a booking error; not too many tourists because of the time of year; and one of the best sex sessions of my life (courtesy of fucking whilst stoned on mellow Jamaican dope).

It should have been brilliant and would have been, had it not been for the last day when some slimy, scrawny, sleazy eastern-european tube steak decided to hawk a nice green phlegm ball on my expensive new jacket.

Why he did it? Fuck knows.

I was walking along the shopping street with my girlfriend when this skinny guy and his friend (talking in loud eastern european accents) started walking behind us. He spat once loudly and then spat again on the floor beside us whilst he and his friend walked past, quickly. My girlfriend wrinkled her nose and said to me, 'That's such a disgusting habit!' She then went into a make-up store whilst I reluctantly followed her. We were talking about something when she noticed my back in a mirror. She groaned and said, 'Oh Christ!'

'What?' I asked with some concern.

'That guy...'

'What guy?'

'That guy's spat all over your back,' she said in voice tinged with disgust.

I took the jacket off and saw it. Slimy, green, gooey and clinging limpet-like to the fabric. 'That filthy fucking cunt!' I bellowed, loud enough to alert customers in the store to my rage.

I dropped the jacket on the ground and charged out of the store and ran down the street at full pelt, blood pumping with rage, somewhat eager to get my hands on this cum-gargler's scrawny fucking neck.

Needless to say, I didn't find him. And part of me is glad I didn't.

Had I done so I would be writing this from prison as I would have kicked the prick back to the stone age where he belongs.

There is something about spitting that I find truly repulsive. It is a sign of true contempt, the sort of thing which most of us wouldn't even do to our worst enemies, and yet this man did it to me (and for absolutely no reason). I wish I could say it didn't spoil my day, that I was able to rise above it, but I can't: it did put a dampener on my day.

And it cost me £7.50 today to get the jacket dry-cleaned.

Absolute fucking crab-munching scum.

The Big Clearout

Thinking about my Take That entry a few days ago (as I haven't been able to access my computer) I have decided to take the hate one step further.

I am going to give my list of ten abominations (regardless of whether they're people, things, places or situations) that are destined to go in the fucking incinerator forever, with no reprieve or mercy!

I will then nominate others to give their list of ten (if they choose to then nominate others then that is up to them) and they can either vent vent vent or not. The choice is theirs!

Here goes (swear alert):

1) Boy Bands: useless fucking cunts with absolutely no artistic merit or talent. Worthless, prancing pretty boy motherfuckers. Every one of them goes in the incinerator, not one person spared. Oh, you're now an actor Justin? Fuck you, and burn in the flames you Leo Sayer haired fuck!

2) Martin Lawrence: you bellowing, talent-lite, jug-eared, racist homunculoid fuck. His comedy involves nothing more than shouting, mugging and taking the piss out of women and whites. He has all the comic timing and subtlety of a fucked corpse. About as funny as being told you've contracted ebola. Has never made a single funny film. A cunt of the highest order.

3) George W. Bush: worthless, brainless, riding on daddy's coat-tails, paranoid, crusading, born-again Christian, oil thirsty cock-knocking fuck! The most dangerous man on the planet, but too fucking stupid to realise it.

4) Tony Blair: brown-nosing, cowardly, greedy, hypocritical cunt. George's little poodle has helped make the world a more dangerous place. He has overseen Britain's largest ever disparity between rich and poor (even more so than Thatcher). Has overseen the erosion of freedoms in Britain and he has helped create a strand of British politics that favours image over content. He. Is. A. Cunt!

5) Reality TV: useless, pointless 'entertainment' designed only to suck the IQ points direct from your head. Nothing good ever came of reality TV. Give me a good old fashioned drama or comedy any day of the week. All the shows and anybody who ever appeared in one goes in the flames - not one person spared!

6) Cunt London Bus Drivers: They drive like demented fucking monkeys who have just been introduced to Super Mario Kart. And when you ask them to go a bit easy on the breaks they give you a mouthful of verbals. The only time these fucksicles don't hit the breaks is when they are driving through red lights.

7) Back-seat DJs: They have also been called iSods, but I prefer my tag better. These selfish, no mannered cunts make the lives of all decent commuters that much more unpleasant. They pump out two watts of tinny, sybillant shit from the speaker of their mp3 playing mobile phones. I wouldn't mind so much but the music they play is always the worst shite imaginable. The kind of R n' B that even R. Kelly would turn his nose up at (and his music is bad enough)! I have two words for them: use headphones!

8) R n' B: I fucking loathe this music. And to think that this tuneless dirge derived from soul and funk and rhythm and blues. The exponents of R n' B aren't fit to lick the arseholes of Aretha Franklin, Sam and Dave, Otis Redding, Marvin Gaye, Curtis Mayfield or any other soul legend you can think of.

9) Bigots: bigotry makes this world a shittier place for all who live in it. It doesn't matter whether it is hatred of other creeds and colours or if it is hatred of women or religion or sexuality. Bigotry is fucking pointless. Just imagine how much nicer the world would be if we all just accepted that people are generally the same the world over.

10) My former boss: a useless, lying fat cunt who cares more for his yacht and his image than his employees. His existence has absolutely no point. At the end of my employment it was something akin to hell on earth. Shite. Total shite!

And that's yer lot. I nominate la fille mariée, Fwengebola and Fussy Bitch to nominate those they would like to dispose of in the imaginary incinerator.

Take That

I fucking hate this band... I've always hated this band.

Their music was fucking awful. It still is fucking awful.

Somehow these malevolent pube-twangers (probably thanks to their legion of twenty and thirtysomething female fans) have managed to have the second biggest selling album of 2006. This means that (pun intended) these cunts are back for good.

Great! Another God knows how many years of fat Gary Barlow, the homunculus Mark Owen and those other two cunts whose names I can't remember.

Whilst we're at it why don't we bring back New Kids on the Block or Kajagoogoo or some other fat, aged boy band for one more fat, aged pay day.

Fuck it all into a cocked hat!

Google, you cunts

Yesterday, I had lots to say.

That was the day when Google decided that the Old Blogger server was down. Yes, probably so that they could create a reason that might force everybody to port over to the new Blogger.

Today, I have nothing to say. Absolutely nothing.

Thank you Google, you world dominating, Chinese government placating motherfuckers.

Mind you, Google Earth is absolutely fucking brilliant!

I am about to be arse raped by the tax man

I have just filled out my tax return. The cocksucker is several hundred quid more than I was expecting.

This is just fucking great.

The worst thing about it is the fact that I didn't actually earn enough during the tax year 05/06 to save for my tax bill, I spent it all on actually attempting to live a normal existence.

Yes, I should have scrimped and saved what I could, but I had outgoings (including my fucking debts - which ironically, when added up for the year, amount to roughly the amount that I am now having to pay) which had to be paid for and many of these were eaten up by my savings from the previous year. Yes, I could (and should) have left the freelance trade earlier than I did. But I didn't, and hindsight is brilliant in retrospect but otherwise useless.

I don't have the money.

My tax is due January 31st. I expect to be buttfucked by the taxman on February 1st.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck

The Age of Nefarious

Fuck Aquarius...

Peace and love. Fuck that.

War and terror is where it's at.

In this age we live in getting old is a sin, and lines of age are treated like the devil's claw marks on your delicate skin. And God forbid you should be old and ugly. No, really, like please, just crawl away somewhere and just, like, die! Innit! And I don't care if you're talented, like, innit. Like, please, no, you don't even need talent in this day and age.

Experience counts for nothing, and wisdom can just get to fuck. And being intelligent? Puuurlease, Jade Goody is proof that success can come to those who aren't, innit!

And God help women who are size 8. Well, that's, like, just so fat, innit? And God help any woman with a normal body shape. After all, who wants to be normal? Don't you ladies just want to stagger around on broom handle legs with your razor sharp hip bones sticking out through your swim suit? Surely, you must do. Otherwise those in the advertising and marketing world wouldn't be trying to sell you the products that might enable you to achieve it. Or kill yourself trying.

Youth and beauty is cherished above all else. Shallow is the new depth. An ad campaign even tells us that 'it's what's on the outside that counts.' And when the good men and women of the advertising world, those paragons of moral virtue, tell us these things... well it just has to be true doesn't it? After all, beautiful is worth it. Isn't it?

Fuck that. As Bill Hicks once said, and I paraphrase, 'Marketing people are the ruiners of all things good. If there are any marketing people here tonight; please kill yourself. No, it's not a joke. Please kill yourself, now!'

Beauty is over-rated. Youth even more so.

And get this... they both fade.

I don't rate the people I know by that kind of fucked up value system. I judge the people I have befriended, or fallen in love with, by who they are and what they are and how likely they are to hold their own with me in a conversation. Looks do come into the love equation, but not in the sense that I would discount a relationship with somebody because they don't fit some insane physical paradigm.

Fuck advertising. Fuck youth. Fuck beauty and fuck shallow.

Read. Travel. Learn. Age. Gain wisdom. Do something creative. Respect your elders. Don't consume. Don't buy into celebrity culture.

And don't buy into The Age of Nefarious.

Big Cocksucking Brother

Celebrity Big Brother...

I can hear it filtering through the walls from the living room of my next door neighbour.

Obviously an addict.

I can actually hear some silly cunt screaming outside the BB house through the wall. What fucking volume does the cunt have his TV set at? The walls of this Victorian terrace are extremely thick, I've never heard my neighbours before but now, thanks to C4 (the C stands for Cunt by-the-way), I can hear the hideous harridan McCall screeching through my wall.

I fucking hate Big Brother.

I fucking hate reality TV.

It offers worthless fucks the opportunity to begin their fifteen minutes of fame and worthless "celebrity" fucks the opportunity to prolong theirs.

Talent doesn't even come into it. The ability to actually do something of worth to humanity is the antithesis of what these shows are about. The more uselessly fuckleheaded these malignant smokers of fetid horse cock are the better it is for ratings. I fucking loathe them all.

My swearing resolution is dead.

My rage has overwhelmed it.