Nameless Nobody

A Conglomeration of Cunts - or why there should be a revolution

2009-02-08T20:23:00.002Z

Is it just me, or should we line Pall Mall, right up to Buckingham Palace's gates, with the severed heads of Britain's banking industry?

Okay, maybe it's just me, but the thought of walking down Pall Mall drinking in the sight of the severed heads of numerous Giles', or Ruperts, or Edmonds roughly jammed onto sharpened spikes fills me with immense joy.

And I will be leading the procession whilst carrying the head of that bald fucking cunt Howard from those fucking repugnant Halifax adverts. Mark my words, that fucksicle is the first to go come the revolution. Try singing now, motherfucker.

These fucking cocksuckers built an edifice of greed on shifting sands (paying themselves a lot of bonuses in the process, despite the fact that these bonuses were built upon lies) and then watched blank-eyed when the whole structure came tumbling down.

However, will they pay for their mistakes?

No. They will not.

The government has bailed them out using our money, and lots of it. So we have bailed out these useless motherfuckers with money better spent on educating children or cleaning up areas of hideous deprivation. And the irony is that we still have to pay back our debts despite the fact that our money is being used to pay back theirs.

I wouldn't mind so much if several billion pounds of the bail-out money wasn't being spent on yet more bonuses for these ballsucking fucks. That's right, despite many of these organisations being mostly government owned, they are still planning to give themselves nice fat bonuses. The government claims there will be a brain drain of our best talent if they aren't paid the bonuses they expect.

Well, at least, we know the government is well and truly in charge of the situation. Way to show your power there Gordon, you spineless, toadying, gaping-mouthed, world-saving fuck.

Now we have the power, why don't we tell the banks to go fuck themselves?

In my business, if the company has a bad year then we all have a bad year - no pay rises, no bonuses, nada, zip, fuck and all...

The notion of special folk receiving bonuses because they did well would be thrown out as the nonsense it actually is.

"Oh, you did well this year, did you? So what. Fuck you. And if you don't like it then go and talk to the idiots you work with - you know, the ones who couldn't turn a profit. Now close the door on your way out, cunt," is probably something like how the conversation would pan out if I ever asked for a pay rise during a bad year.

And what is this nonsense about brain drain? What makes this government so arrogantly assume that any other country in the world would be so keen to poach the mongoloids who helped fuck-knuckle our economy into the dust?

Why not test their resolve by saying: "Okay, Rupert, if you don't like your lack of pay-rise then there's the door. Good luck on getting a job on the same salary in this recession that you helped create. Try putting that on your CV, fucko. Now close it on your way out."

Of course, Gordon would never dare do such a thing.

After all, he helped create the current financial climate, by arse kissing the very people who have now turned around and brutally butt-fucked him, and will continue to do so until they are taken to task.

We live in a country that nowadays maufactures very little, that sold off all its gold reserves at the very bottom of the market (nice one, Gord), that shafted many of Labour's own 'hardworking families' out of their pension money, that is throwing even more money at an Olympics that is bound to be a disaster.

How does a country bounce back when it has no products to trade or gold to sell and its own currency is now becoming about as valuable as toilet paper (without the velvety softness required to be even much use for the task of wiping your arse)?

Welcome to Britain. We are in a recession that will be long and deep and hard. And we will all feel the pain. Except for the cocksuckers clammering for their bonuses.

But, wait, maybe the fall of the banks is a good thing...

No more money for those fucking Halifax adverts.

Fuck it, bring on another crash now. It's worth it so I never have to watch another one of those fucking adverts ever again

Pri-Cunt

2008-06-10T10:52:00.000+01:00

Welcome shoppers, to Primark Oxford Street in glorious Cunt London for all your cheap couture needs.

Yes, welcome to shopping hell.

If there is a hell, it'll resemble either Primark Oxford Street or IKEA in Croydon. Two massive stores, which despite their size are still too small for the volume of human dregs who stumble punchdrunk through their open doors; wandering aimlessly like cattle seeking cud to chew.

Of course, I include myself amongst their ranks!

I should have known better - I really should - that POS (as it shall now be known) was going to be like Hell on earth. But, no! I convinced myself, in my infinite wisdom, that a trip to London's shopping Mecca at 6pm would be like a trip to the countryside; a genteel stroll through pastures green as I rubbed shoulders only with nature.

How wrong I was.

I bumped shoulders with the doziest fuckers London has to offer, including a fat fucking pork bone who was practically dancing up the fucking street, eyes closed, weaving like a boxer who's taken one punch too many, whilst listening to his fucking iPod.

As this arse bumped into me, he looked round - now that he'd managed to open his eyes - and bellowed: "Watch where you're fuckin' going, you twat!"

I eyeballed him before retorting: "That's a laugh. Try opening your eyes once in while, dickhead!"

"I'll fuckin' twat you, you cheeky cunt."

I laughed at him. "That's the funniest thing I've heard all year. Now go and jiggle your tits for me, fat girl."

Understandably he started to go for me, but was prevented by a gaggle of shoppers who walked through our little melee, all of whom were completely oblivious to the conversation that had just occurred.

As I walked away (quickly) I heard him bellow something unpleasant in my direction and I realised that one day my fast mouth will probably get me killed.

By the time I got to POS I was sweating like an eskimo in the Sahara, the stuff was practically oozing from my eyes (no, wait, those were just tears of frustration).

The scene that greeted me was one of chaos. Shoppers scraped shoulders, picked things up, threw them down, fought over items of clothing, wandered aimlessly as if seeking the Holy Grail of tat, stood in queues of unspeakable boredom.

And that was just the women's section.

Once I made it upstairs I realised the men's section was just as bad. Alpha males barged into Betas, men and women rifled through racks of clothing with crazy-eyed abandon throwing stuff over their shoulders as they sought out the perfect fit. Couples argued amongst themselves loudly enough to share their displeasure with the people closest to them, regardless of whether they wanted to hear it or not. Amongst these scenes of chaos I managed to find several items of summer clothing I considered acceptable and stood in a queue - a queue that didn't seem to be decreasing.

I was confused. I leaned across to the bored man next to me and asked: "Is this the queue for the checkout?"

The man laughed: "Funny, mate. Like me you're in the queue for the changing rooms. And like me you're probably praying this stuff fits."

He wasn't wrong. For twenty minutes I stood there until finally I got into the changing room.

I peeled off my soaking wet shirt and tried on item after item with a growing sense of dismay.

Nothing fit. The items were either too baggy or too small. Six items I tried, and all were unwearable.

I put my shirt back on handed the items back to the assistant who said: "Nothing fits?" with some degree of disgust.

I shook my head and, realising it meant more finding, and much, much more queueing, walked away shaking my head.

I wandered out of the shop with an empty sense of numbness and vowed never to come back - until next time.

As there's always a next time - regardless of our best intentions.

Distressed

2008-06-02T22:50:00.003+01:00

I'm rather distressed at the moment. I've started writing my next novel before I've even finished my last one.

I always do this, and I really must stop it.

My novel at 120,000 words is in very real danger of coming to a halt if I don't.

So I'll leave my new magnum opus as it currently stands until I get the one I'm working on out of the way:

The thing that was once Dave lay before us. It wasn't a pleasant sight to behold but, then again, Dave hadn't been much to look at whilst he was alive, so the only thing he'd really lost out on was his life.

Judging by the state of his corpse, that life had been beaten out of him. He looked like he'd taken on a herd of elephants and come a distant second best.

Poor Dave, always second best - even in death.

He lay on his stomach, face down. The brains that should have been inside his head were being worn on the outside, where they'd do him no good, not that they'd been much use to him, anyway. Dave was strictly muscle.

In the end, it turned out his muscles had been of no use to him, either. His arms and legs had been broken, several times, and his head and face resembled raw hamburger meat, pulverised, ground down, and nasty; the kind of stuff you get fresh from the mincing machine, still dripping blood.

In life, Dave had been a big man. It would have taken several men to hold him down and pull this off, several big men, or a herd of elephants.

In this neck of the woods I wasn't prepared to rule out either.

"Who the fuck did this?" asked my brother.

"Sienna Miller," I said sarcastically. When my brother sighed, preparing himself for the inevitable retort, I answered, "How the fuck should I know?"

"Was just asking, like."

"Well, don't. You took the same call as me. You took the same car as me. And you're stood in the same place as me, looking at the same fuckin' body.Well, do you know?"

"No," he snapped with teenage surliness.

"Then don't ask me if I know, cos I don't."

Last Orders

2008-06-01T18:30:00.005+01:00

Yesterday or, more accurately, from 12.00 this morning, London's new mayor, Boris Johnson, implemented a drinking ban on all London transport.

Londoners mourned by getting thoroughly pissed up and rowdy, causing untold disruption and damage, until 12.ooam, June 1, GMT.

What bothers me about this is not the ban (which, frankly, isn't that much of a big deal), or the vandalism and arrests (again, there's little surprise there), but rather the fact that Londoner's gathered to mourn the passing of their right to get pissed and cause distress and misery to other commuters. It seems like an odd waste of energy better spent doing something useful.

The normal modus operandi of any Londoner, be they natural or naturalised, is apathy. Normally, if a baboon ran on to the platform at any underground station and started shitting and wanking and causing a general ruckus, 99.9% of Londoners would ignore the incident with that heads down, nose in a book or newspaper, attitude of oblivious ignorance, consumed by apathy and their own affairs. However, God forbid somebody should mess with a Londoner's right to get pissed and it's a case of: "How dare you? Fuck you! How dare you mess with my right to be a cunt."

Yes, what a protest it was, folks: A procession of morons going nowhere fast on the Circle line screaming, "Not in my name," to the notion of a ban that might actually make life on the tube and buses a bit better in the long run. Yes, that really makes me proud to be a Londoner. God forbid we should stand up against the rising cost of living or the fact that the police are slowly but surely storing our collective DNA on a big fucking database, or that we're still in Iraq and Afghanistan with no sign of things getting better, or that a bunch of city boys ripped us all off and now normal working stiffs can't get credit or mortgages any more. No, instead, let's all go in a fucking circle and get pissed, because that's what our forefather's would want. Now that's what I call protesting.

Useless, apathetic motherfuckers.

If you're going to protest something, how about protesting the increasing, and distressing, right of the police to break up any gathering or protest, thus negating our freedom of speech, by using the laws designed to protect us all from terrorism. Or how about protesting all the other far more insidious ways our governments chip away at our rights and freedoms.

No? Oh, well, have it your own way, here's a big bottle of Tesco's 'Value' Vodka for you to suck down. Whilst you're at it, here's a big fat fucking Crack pipe for you to smoke, you fucking dumbbells. And whilst you're abusing your system here's all the reality television you can handle.

Now, put your nose back in your newspaper, London, and go to sleep!

The Toxic Bachelor

2008-05-29T17:07:00.003+01:00

I've been on a dating site, a well known dating site, for several months and despite the plethora of choice and numerous dates with a lot of lovely women I can barely muster the enthusiasm to continue with it.

However, it's not them, it's me.

No, really, it is!

I think I'm becoming what the women's mags call a 'toxic bachelor'. However, I don't mean to be, it's not intentional, and I would love to find a way to puncture the thick vapour of apathy that seems to fog my every decision nowadays!

I find reasons not to see them again almost from the moment I meet them.

One girl, who was pretty and had a good personality, didn't make the grade because I decided she was too tall, and her perfect bob was too perfect and in the wrong light resembled a wig. It didn't matter on the first date, she was nice enough, and I was charming enough (which is something I can do when I'm pressed) to ensure there was a second date. The second date went well but the height and wig-like bob gnawed away at me with annoying persistence, like a terrier gnaws at a rubber toy. We kissed at the end of the second date and a third one beckoned. But when the day came round I didn't bother to shave, turned up looking much scruffier, and assumed an air of aloofness.

On the third date, the girl's bob no longer looked like hair, it was simply a mannequin's wig badly placed on her head and, at that particular moment in time, no woman on earth was taller than her, she was like the Gulliver of females, even though she was only an inch taller than myself. I had blown these random observations up into enormous deal breakers. Needless to say, the third date was the last.

She texted me later to say she didn't want another date and I breathed a huge sigh of relief!

Still, I hope she has found a guy who actually appreciates her because she had bags of personality, really was rather attractive, and was bright with it.

Another girl was actually quite taken with me. We had two dates and she was keen for a third, but I never called her back. She was pretty, slim, shorter than myself, bright, had great taste in films and music, and she even had her own place, but she looked too much like Cameron Diaz for my taste. On the first date it was a slight resemblance, but on the second date she was Cameron Diaz in all her annoying, sparky glory. It was yet another stupid gnawing 'foible' expanded to a full-blown existential crisis. I didn't want to hear people say, "Hey, Nameless, your friend is the spitting image of Cameron Diaz!"

And for that, and that alone, I had created an escape clause for myself.

Pathetic! Another word for me would be - cunt!

There are plenty of other girls too, but it seems pointless to catalogue my litany of errors and insecurities.

However, the upshot is that the problems are mine and I seem to be suffering from Groucho Marx Syndrome: ie. I don't want to join a club that would have someone like me for a member. But, I also don't want end up like those fat, fifty-something single blokes, with their red, saggy jowls, pissing and moaning about the state of the world around them, weeping into their pints with their other single mate in some forbidding east-end pub.

And maybe I just need to finish the first draft of my interminable never-ending slog of a novel. Maybe then my libido and self-esteem will return with a crashing of hearts and bedsprings. Who knows?

I just know my current cloistered life is starting to look pretty fucking dull!

Ennui

2008-05-28T13:50:00.003+01:00

Jesus, I'm bored!

I'm so fucking bored you wouldn't believe it.

I took two extra days off this bank holiday weekend and used them to achieve the sum total of...

Fuck all!

My flatmate went off to Budapest this weekend, on his own, stayed in some hostels, explored, ate, drank and had a good time. He made it sound great, like nobody else on earth could have that much fun in Eastern Europe without also getting laid! Bastard!

As for me, I stayed in my room; listened to copious amounts of rain fall on the roof of my flat; read; ate fast food; fretted about my novel and did only a small amount of writing because of said fretting and met, and bonded through adversity, with my downstairs neighbours.

Firstly, fast food. I've eaten so much useless shit this weekend I can actually fucking hear the free radicals as they proceed to undertake a revolution and violent coup of my internal workings. Before the weekend started I was able to run up the three flights of stairs to my flat with barely a change in my heartbeat. After a weekend of burgers, dirty chicken, delivered curries and pizzas, I wheeze and gasp like a sixty fags a day asthmatic and my heart pounds like a drum kit that has been kicked down a flight of stairs. And I really can see my head getting rounder and fatter as I write!

I wouldn't mind so much if it was a lifestyle choice and I really enjoyed what I was eating. But it wasn't. It was laziness.

Yesterday, I had a choice: walk for ten minutes to my local Sainsburys, buy some nice food, some vegetables, salad, fish and meat or walk two minutes - in my slippers - to the local dirty chicken shop and have a greasy, mayo smothered, chicken fillet burger with chips that were smothered in a vaguely radioactive looking chilli sauce. I took the latter option and felt like a right arsehole when I realised I didn't actually like what I was eating. All in the name of saving myself time - being efficient, in other words.

Do you know what I did with all that time I saved?

That's right. Bugger all. What. A. Tit!

I realised something, though. What is the point of all these labour saving devices when all we do with the time saved is a sweet load of nothing? Do you know what? I think I'd rather spend my time filling my life with useless tasks if it meant I could avoid the spirit and will sapping boredom of sitting around in my room.

I did go out on the Sunday, for a date, but that was sadly nothing to write home about either! I went to a gallery with a girl who, whilst a very nice person, wasn't really my type and didn't exactly thrill me with her personality. But, I can say, without fear of contradiction, she felt the same way about me too. We tried chatting in the gallery cafe after we'd had our fill of the exhibition, but the conversation was fairly stilted and at times I felt like I was trying to draw blood from a stone. She discussed her job, I asked her questions about it, along with a few others about her hobbies, but the conversation was a real stop-start affair with no natural flow, and as I wasn't that attracted to her I found it difficult to muster the enthusiasm to keep the words and questions coming. So that was that! We said goodbye, kissed each other on the cheek, and went off in our separate directions. Oh well, back to the drawing board I suppose.

And at least it got me out of my flat!

One good thing about these days off, though, particularly when you're hanging on by the skin of your overdraft!

I can't wait to go back to work. I'm actually excited at the prospect!

On a further down note: the new series of Big Brother starts again this week. Oh great, more conversations with people at work and after work drinks about the teachings and sayings of a bunch of cunts whose opinions wouldn't even hold water in the boozy confines of a fucking pub. Fandabidozi!

I've been trapped in a flat long enough without also being trapped in a flat with dullards who are trapped in a house!

And now my DVD player's gone on the blink. Great. I'm going to be doing a lot of reading over the next few weeks. Anything to avoid the idiot-fest that is Big Brother.

Celebrity

2008-01-01T20:33:00.000Z

2008 is the year I pursue my plan to terminate the public's obsession with celebrity.

Why do we care about the social lives of some fucking mongoloids who once lived in a house together on national television, and yet we don't give a fuck about the lives of our families? We all cry for some fucking 'Princess' at her funeral and yet many of us can't get away fast enough from the funerals of our families and friends? We watch some whining fucksicles as they stomp and moan their way through some reality TV wankfest and yet we switch channels when the reality of Darfur, or Kenya, or Iraq, or Pakistan intrudes upon our carefully planned lives and schedules. We all salivate over the latest sexual, alcoholic or narcotic misdemeanour of Lindsay Lohan, Pete Doherty, Amy Winehouse, Britney Spears or Kate Moss and yet if we lived next to these self-obsessed morons we would be tearing our hair out at their anti-social activities.

Why?

Why do we care?

The reason we care is because the media tells us we should. Newspapers, gossip magazines, television shows and entire television (Channel 4 are particularly culpable) earn massive revenues on the back of this bullshit. Advertising revenues are built on the back of this bullshit. Products are tailored to milk the public dry on the back of this bullshit: Christ, just think of the celebrity exercise videos, diets, records, autobiographies, perfumes, clothing ranges and other assorted dreck sold to us on the back of this shite.

Some people actually care and love these celebrities and yet if these same obsessive people were on fire in the street most of these celebrities wouldn't even piss on them. You should look at forums salivating over celebrities, fighting over them, threatening to kill each other over them, butchering their faces to look like them.

I for one am glad I've been without a TV for the last six months. I don't have to hear the self-pitying whines of some titwank celebrity pissing about in a fucking pseudo jungle; I don't have to watch some has-been ballroom dancing to make a payment on their second home; I don't have watch some desperado humiliate themselves on national TV for fifteen seconds of pitiful fame. I love not having to deal with this garbage and my brain, my soul, feels cleaner for not having exposed myself to this fucking bilge.

Now I think everybody else should get some of this cleansing action.

When you feel the need to watch Big Brother - don't! Read a book. When you feel the need to watch a celebrity take cooking lessons - don't! Pick up a recipe book and make your own meal. When you feel the need to listen to a celebrity piss and moan about something - don't! Talk to your family or friends instead. When you feel the need to read a celebrity wank mag - don't! Find something you've always wanted to do and do that instead: learn a language; pursue a hobby; do anything other than waste more of your time and money on these fucking cocksmokers.

Christ, I can feel the fucking rage building within me. Must Stop! Over and Out!

Humbuggery

2007-12-27T19:14:00.000Z

I'm putting my year in review, in the spirit of Xmas and in the dying embers of 2007. Some of it is good, some is bad and most of it is a source of indifference to anybody but me.

I've written 70,000+ words of a novel. It's still another 50,000 words from completion but it's getting there. It's a violent crime novel (more Jim Thompson than Raymond Chandler) and it has some autobiographical character elements but it is 100% fiction. I don't know how good it is (or how bad) but having re-read some early sections it appears to read quite well. After a life of unfinished projects I will fucking finish this one. I'm sick of leaving things incomplete. It's time I finished something. Even if this one fails, I know the next one will be better!

I've split up with my girlfriend of nearly four years. Sometimes I have regrets about it all, and I definitely regret the way I handled some of it and some of the things I did, but I think we did the right thing. She seems to have moved on well, we're still good friends, and I wish her all the best for the future. I, on the other hand, have moved sideways - partly because of the novel - and partly because I don't know what I want yet despite the fact that I'm hurtling headfirst towards my 36th birthday.

I immediately followed that up with a relationship with a 24-year old co-worker. When it started we were good friends. I made the mistake of compartmentalising it into a fuckbuddy thing. It ended. Now we don't fuck and we aren't really buddies either; we drink in the same group but we don't talk like we used to and I doubt she considers me a proper friend any more. I wish I'd handled it differently but c'est la fucking vie!

I've had a couple of one-night stands, including one that involved an unpleasant case of drink-related 'Mr Floppy'. It had nothing to do with the lady concerned. I've realised that once you hit a certain age you can't really knock back the booze, do several late nights running and still expect to perform at tip-top level. C'est la fucking vie.

I then progressed on to another co-worker relationship. This one was a total bumping uglies clusterfucker of the highest order. She has a boyfriend and I should never have started anything with her. But I did. We had sex twice. But she was prepared to leave her boyfriend for me. I didn't want that. I wasn't ready for it. I maybe should have made that clear. However I didn't tell her till the work's Xmas party. The next thing I know she was crying on everybody's shoulder telling them I lead her down the garden path. Suddenly, people were on my back having a go at me. She said I still have feelings for my now ex co-worker. Of course, I denied this as it was untrue. However, I did say I wished we were still friends. Other things happened during the evening. Eventually I ended up leaving the party in a foul mood. We haven't spoken since and better yet we are going to be working right next to each other in January and February. Also, a couple of friends aren't talking to me either and I'm not talking to them. Maybe I should - particularly as we were all such good friends - but I'm a stubborn cunt and I've dug my heels in. I'll think about thawing the frost in the New Year but I doubt we'll be such good friends in 2008. Oh well, c'est la fucking vie!!

I'm still happy in my job. I work with a good team and hopefully, despite having to work next to the above co-worker in the first couple of months of the new year, this will continue during 2008.

These aren't resolutions but they are what I will do in 2008:

Keep off the weight I lost in 2006. I'll tone up a bit as well. I want to see my abs!

Finish the first draft of my novel and finish the first draft of an earlier project (which is about 12,000 words in and is ostensibly a sort of sequel to the first project). I'll see if I can get a second draft done too!

Do a bit of dating and see what happens. Hopefully someone right will come along. They won't be perfect but, then again, neither am I, but - knowing what I know now about relationships - I'll try to do my best and accept them for who they are. We'll see!!

Chip away at my debts. Get a second weekend job and use that money to pay off my debts. And also use some of the money for a bit of travelling.

Travel to two new places this year. St Petersburg and somewhere in central or South America. I'm sick of hearing about other people's travel stories. I want some of my own.

Maybe blog a bit more too!

See you in 2008

Returning - sort of

2007-11-30T13:24:00.000Z

Hello,

You might remember me from such angry postings as... Misanthropy and Rage, blah etc, blah etc. cunt!

What has changed in my life since I last posted?

Well, much has changed. Firstly, I'm writing properly. I'm roughly 70,000 words into the first part of a crime novel trilogy and I'm enjoying it. I still need at least another 40,000 words to finish it but if I pick up the pace a bit I could probably finish the first draft before the date of my next birthday (in January). I would recommend the process to everybody, you learn a lot about yourself when you're writing, and you learn to utilise your time better.

I live in north London now, which I love, despite the fact that it often seems as though it is solely populated by comedy hat wearing wankers in drainpipe trousers with haircuts that look as if they've been styled by Stevie Wonder and Ray Charles with the aid of a rusty chainsaw. The place I live in is okay, but the lack of social space is getting to me. There's no living room and the kitchen is too small for anything other than quick cooking, so I spend most of my time in my bedroom, like some lonely psycho! I don't have a TV, so I do a lot of reading and writing, but even that can get wearing after a while. So, I'm going to compromise and buy myself either a TV or a radio in the January sales, I think I need a bit of background noise!

I'm considering getting a second job next year to fund travel plans to South America and to pay for an unbelievable number of stag weekends (at least four of them) at hideous expense, I met my girlfriend at about the same time as they met their future wives. My mates get married so I, just to be different, split up! I always manage that. I never quite plough the beaten path, and always chose to to do things the hard way. Maybe it's because I'm unique...

Unique being a synonym for Cunt!

But plenty still makes me angry. One of them being the fuckshuffling, Romero-zombie commuters who use various stations in the capital of Cunt London. You know the ones! Dawdling along in slow-motion, bumbling and weaving like drunken fucktards, or taking up the left hand of the escalator whilst talking to their equally spastastic friends. Fucking cock-knockers! The thing that really gets me is that those fucking morons get to the top of the escalator and then just dawdle and mill like lobotomised cattle, seemingly unable to decide which way they need to go next. As for me, I move fast fast fast, and woe betide the motherfucker who gets in the way of my path!

Celebrity culture still gets on my tits, as does reality TV. But I've devised a great new show: Celebrity Death Island. You take six of the most malevolent cervix-crunchers around. Put the morons on Anthrax Island and each week a lucky member of the public gets to drop a fuel-air bomb on them. Each week, six new contestants. Eventually, we would run out of fuckwits for Grazia to put inside their brain-numbing pages. Or maybe it's just me! Who knows?

I think that's it for now.

More catharsis for me, and boredom for you, to come shortly!

España

2007-07-09T16:13:00.000+01:00

Hola!

Here I am, sweating into my seat, in an internet cafe sans air-conditioning, realising that - as fucked as my existence is - things could be a whole lot worse.

Being here in spain has made me realise something. As a general species - and a particularly sub-human species at that - young Brits holidaying in Spain are a large coven of cunts! We drink far too much, we make little effort to mix with the locals, we know the price of everything but appreciate the value of nothing - especially when those values involve the unceasing race to get pissed as quickly as possible.

When I go abroad I know I drink like a fucking goldfish swimming in a liquid slurry of pure alcohol but... I like to try and mix with the locals. I eat in the local restaurants, drink in the local bars (and pay less than the stupid shrieking motherfuckers on the sea-front) and attempt to converse (pitifully, I might add) in the local tongue. But at least I make the effort!

The other evening, Fweng Ebola and I went for a stroll along the seafront. However, we were not out just for the sea air and the balmy night. No: we were looking to pull. The reek of desperation was emanating from our pores like a particularly powerful pheromone. In fact, if John Merrick (aka The Elephant Man) had been in possession of breasts and a vagina I think I think I´d have been tempted to say, "Grab yer coat, EM, ya´ve pulled!". But as we walked soberly along the seafront we were presented with a vision of hell almost Dante-esque in its increasing levels of horror. Each bar we passed looked ever more hideous: drug-dealers offering a lung-busting concoction of crushed glass and polo mint masquerading as cocaine; shrieking, staggering Brits fuck-shuffling their way to the nearest discoteca; bar after overpriced bar of places offering ten-year-old chart hits for a six pound (nine euro) glass of gin and tonic. And then came London Underground, Tramps and Heaven´s Gate. The lowest levels of Dante´s Hell can´t even compare with these places when they are spilling their lobster coloured customers out onto the street. Swarms of cackling, bellowing, swaggering, staggering, fucktarded guirris fuck-shuffle around the streets in an aimless search for fried flesh and carbs... or a fight - as Fweng Ebola very nearly found to his cost!

I looked around at FE, whose face was a mask of grim determination mixed with horror, and said, "Fuck this place. It´s shite. Let´s go!". For a second I could see him hesitate, possibly wondering if this place was really that bad. Then he saw something that made him change his thinking: before us was a fat British girl on her knees, fat arse in the air - showing her whale-tail off to the world - as she dry-heaved onto the vomit spattered floor in front of her friends.

Fweng looked at the scene in front of us and then at me and said, "Yeah. Fuck it, let´s go!"

Which is why we´re going back tonight. Viagra-ed, pissed and insensible.

We should fit in perfectly!

All change!

2007-06-27T17:34:00.000+01:00

Much has changed in my life since I last made an entry in here.

Firstly, I split up with my girlfriend. It was on the cards for a while and - much as I fought against it - it was fairly inevitable but at least we're still friends and the thing was amicable.

Secondly, I'm living upon various sofas and in various spare rooms until I can find a place that I can afford in an area that won't involve me dodging the bullets and knives of disenfranchised youths (which in gorgeously sunny Cunt London is easier said than done).

Thirdly, I'm feeling oddly less angry than usual (maybe some of the piss and vinegar has been taken out of me by the break-up).

Fourthly, I've taken to liking records by Mika, The Scissor Sisters, Take That and Akon... ha ha, fuck that, they're still all ass clown cunts in need of serious schooling in the musical arts.

Fifthly, I'm feeling that change number one is my opportunity to alter things in my life that need changing. I need to finish some actual writing (non-blog) and I need to dig myself out of my debts and have some real fun before I end up (more) bitter and twisted and unable to comprehend the world in which I live...

but still vent my spleen once in a while - just for the sheer fuckery of it.

The Return

2007-03-27T13:40:00.000+01:00

Oh what fun! Has my life changed since my last entry?

In a word - no.

Actually that's a lie.

Things have changed. But I've written fuck all of my novel. Again a lie of sorts but, aside from about 2,500 words I've managed the sum total of fuck all. In fact, I may as well not even bothered trying.

I've done a lot of drinking, watched my relationship with my girlfriend slowly deteriorate - to the point where I'm not sure what the future holds - and I've played a shitload of Football Manager 2007 (the crack of strategy video games). There are other things too, but I'm not sure whether I'm ready to discuss them yet.

Grace Kelly

2007-02-08T12:48:00.000Z

Today I can't stop. Every fucking thing is throwing me into an apopletic rage.

Including this fucking song. I fucking hate it.

Somebody just started talking about how catchy and clever it is.

What?

Catchy? Yes, I'll admit that. But fucking Influenza is catchy and we don't all rush out to buy into that, do we?

But clever? All this song consists of is one long pissy whine about the fact that record companies don't like poor, overlooked, song-writing genius Mika and his puppy dog eagerness to please them!

Why don't you like me? Aaahhhh, why don't you like me? Aaaaaaaahhhh, we don't you like me? Please like me. Aaaaaaah-aaaah-ahhhhh why don't you like me?

Maybe it's because you're a whiny, castrato, Leo Sayer haired, lanky streak of piss steam with an axe to grind.

Well, that's why I don't like you anyway.

Also, this song reminds me of the Scissor Sisters too. And I hate them also. They're like the Village People but with a straight woman in the band.

Right. Rant Over.

Goodbye!

And not in the Frank Sinatra way.

Novel

2007-02-08T10:47:00.000Z

The reason I'm taking time out (except today where I just had to vent spleen) is because I am trying to write a novel.

It won't change the world. It won't change the face of literature. And it won't change the face of the bestseller lists even if a publisher is kind enough to publish the thing.

However, it has changed the course of my life.

My life has been an unending sequence of commas, en dashes, semi-colons and colons. But no full stops.

I've never finished a single major project I've started. All have remained in stasis or fallen into disrepair through a combination of apathy and doubt.

But this project is different. It has been written quickly and the story has twisted and turned in ways I never even imagined. And I'm gripped. I want to know what happens to the characters. Hell, part of me does know, but it is only when the words flesh out the bones of the story that the tale comes alive.

And this tale is coming alive.

And blogging is getting in the way of the story. So, for now, the blog has to be put on hold (with the odd monthly update or extreme anger overload).

If I continue writing at 1000+ words a day, which is what's happening since I've stopped blogging over the last two or three days, then I reckon the first draft of the novel will be done in two and a half to three months.

I can't wait.

So, for now, this is a real goodbye!

Back. But only temporarily

2007-02-08T10:05:00.000Z

My day's been too bad, too repugnant and plain old fucking shite for me to leave it unposted!

I've just discovered how the 'terrorists' will beat Britain.

It won't be with a nuke, a chemical weapon, a dirty bomb or a plain old fashioned suicide bomber.

No. They will beat us with the British snowflake.

You see, our snowflakes are different. They are strange and dangerous. They have powers!

Don't believe me? Well, in Moscow, Prague, Budapest, Warsaw, New York, etc. etc. they have snowfall pretty much every winter, and in abundance I might add, and yet their cities continue to function. They might not get to work as quickly, but the delay - if any - is minimal.

But not here. No, here in London our snowflakes are able to stop overland trains dead in their tracks. Buses are slowed and cowed by their awesome power. Hell, the British snowflake is so powerful it is able to burrow through the concrete, soil and rock in order to stop the tube trains and throw the traffic system into disarray. Our snow can take planes out of the sky and bring cities – oh, there are other cities in Britain beside London, by the way – to a halt.

If you see British snow run from it, hide from it but whatever you do don't try to tackle it. It is seditious, sinister, sly, subversive and strange and, on this alliterative note, it is plain old snow.

And it has ground London to a halt.

God, this city is pathetic!

Taking some time out

2007-02-05T22:03:00.000Z

I'm taking some time out from the blogging.

Well, maybe a big catch-up blog every month or so but otherwise these pages won't change too much for a couple of months.

I need to concentrate on my novel, and I can't blog regularly and write a novel at the same time (well, maybe I could if I was freelance - but I'm not). The novel has priority because it is at an important stage in its development; basically it is at that point where it will either genuinely become a novel or just turn into a load of shit!

I will, of course, be checking up on other people's blogs and dropping my random comments on them from time-to-time.

So I won't be disappearing completely.

Just for a while...

So to my three regular readers (and other random lurkers) I bid you a temporary adieu!

New Blogger - fucking shit - an open letter to some world dominating cunts

2007-02-04T22:54:00.000Z

Fucking Google, you world dominating, spoil something that didn't need changing, useless fucktroids.

I can no longer see who has been commenting on my site since changing over to the "new and improved Blogger". Fucking pile of faeces Blogger, more like!

Now, yes, generally I know who is commenting. However if there is somebody new and I can't link to them, because they're anonymous, then it makes it difficult for me to check out their blog.

Anybody know how to solve this problem?

Or am I, as I always suspected I was, a complete and utter luddite twat!

A fool

2007-01-31T22:40:00.000Z

"'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

2007-01-31T18:30:00.000Z

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

2007-01-31T18:20:00.000Z

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

2007-01-31T18:01:00.000Z

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

2007-01-25T22:20:00.000Z

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...

2007-01-25T22:08:00.000Z

...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

2007-01-24T22:41:00.000Z

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

2007-01-24T12:57:00.000Z

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

2007-01-23T22:24:00.000Z

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

2007-01-23T21:51:00.000Z

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

2007-01-13T21:25:00.000Z

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

2007-01-10T22:12:00.000Z

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

2007-01-10T22:03:00.000Z

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

2007-01-06T22:03:00.000Z

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

2007-01-03T21:24:00.000Z

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

2007-01-03T20:00:00.000Z

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.

Resolutions

2006-12-31T01:19:00.000Z

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

2006-12-30T01:59:00.000Z

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

2006-12-30T01:11:00.000Z

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

2006-12-29T21:37:00.000Z

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...

2006-12-27T21:43:00.000Z

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

2006-12-25T12:16:00.000Z

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

2006-12-21T20:37:00.000Z

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

2006-12-21T11:59:00.000Z

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

2006-12-20T20:55:00.000Z

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

2006-12-20T13:10:00.000Z

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)

2006-12-18T18:47:00.000Z

"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

2006-12-18T14:21:00.000Z

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?

2006-12-18T10:09:00.000Z

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

2006-12-17T13:49:00.000Z

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

2006-12-14T21:36:00.000Z

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

2006-12-14T19:53:00.000Z

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

2006-12-13T13:28:00.000Z

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

2006-12-13T13:24:00.000Z

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

2006-12-12T22:10:00.000Z

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

2006-12-12T13:45:00.000Z

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

2006-12-12T13:31:00.000Z

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

2006-12-10T00:20:00.000Z

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

2006-12-09T23:24:00.000Z

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

2006-12-06T21:05:00.000Z

'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

2006-12-06T20:53:00.000Z

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...

2006-12-04T22:45:00.000Z

...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

2006-12-04T22:20:00.000Z

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

2006-12-02T18:07:00.000Z

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!

Oh no, a chavalanche!

2006-11-30T21:48:00.000Z

Or as I like to call it, a nice day out at the Peckham multiplex. Without a doubt one of the worst cinematic experiences in London. When I'm absolutely down to my last brass farthing and the only thing in my pockets is lint then I will go there to watch a film.

Every fucker piles into whatever seat they can find in sub-zero air-conditioned temperatures to watch the latest blockbuster. But you can only watch them because you sure as fuck can't hear them. This is partly because the sound is turned way down low and the audience volume is as high as you get. Yes, why not pay four quid (at least it isn't too expensive) and listen to pissketeers chat away on their mobile phones, black girls have a full volume conversation with their equally chavvy and idiotic friends about what they are going to do during the week and see small children run unattended up and down the aisles whilst their fuckheaded parents sit and watch the film without the slightest sense of embarrassment.

Why, oh why, do people go to the cinema if they aren't interested in watching films? If you have four quid in your arse pocket and you want a chat then go to a Costa or Caffe Nero but don't ruin everybody else's enjoyment you inconsiderate cunt bubbles.

I've got so many problems

2006-11-30T10:40:00.000Z

Apparently I’ve got a really small penis, one that’s far too inadequate to sexually satisfy my woman, which is exacerbated by the fact that it is constantly impotent. And when I do get it hard – presumably aided with half chopstick splints – it is pointless because I proceed to shoot my load over the belly of the woman. And if that isn’t bad enough I am also morbidly obese too. Thank God that my good friends Brian Wang, Alfonso Q Confucious, Stella M’Bella and Hawk T Slayer were on hand to email about these horrific problems. Without them I would have wandered through life blissfully ignorant of my deficiencies!

Of course, how these people know this is beyond me as I have never actually met them, but who am I to deny their kind words. They have to be my friends because they are offering me solutions to these problems and they know my email address. Brian was kind enough to offer me a course of tablets which will increase my length and girth beyond the 'limits of my imagination' which is pretty big, particularly as the limit of my imagination comes from my 'Big Jonny Holmes' videos from the '70s and '80s. Alfonso offered me C!alis and V1agra which he informed me would cure my impotence problems immediately and give me the staying power to go all night. Hawk felt that my tendency to shoot first would be best dealt with by rubbing mandrake powder over my bell-end, at least that is what I think he was trying to say - Hawk's english isn't very good. Stella was cruel in her assertion, 'Face it, you're too fat,' but she did offer several very good solutions for dealing with my mounds of blubber.

The only problem with these solution is that it requires me sending them money - via Western Union money transfer, which will of course fully protect me if the funds should disappear in Britain's notoriously unreliable postal system. I think! But - wait a second - I thought friends offered you solutions without demanding money for them.

I wonder if they really are my friends after all?

Which is why I declined their kind offers. I'll still with what I've got thank you... and that includes the pittance I've got in my bank account!

And maybe I'll learn to start deleting spam too. Damn my curious mind!

Back Seat DJs

2006-11-29T17:05:00.000Z

Yes, you may have heard these silly motherfuckers in the back seat of a bus recently. The wannabe Carl Cox's pumping out 2 watts of tinny shit from the single speaker of their megakicking mobile phones. Cunts!

There are several things these mongoloids fail to realise in their eagerness to share their music collection with us all, and these are:

1) Nobody gives a fuck about their music collection.
2) Nobody wants to hear their music collection (even if it was the best MP3 library in the world ever - which it never ever is).
3) Personal MP3 players have been invented. They involve the use of headphones - which are placed into each ear. It saves everybody from having to listen to their music.
4) Respect for others. These fucking idiots moan about being 'dissed' by others and yet they are first morons to whip out their mobile for a jammin' session.
5) The sound of R n' B ranks alongside hearing the sound of your parents fucking on the aural pleasure scale.

I'm truly starting to believe that eugenics may be the only solution to our problems. Surely science can isolate the chav gene and eradicate it.

Jesus, I'm boiling over with rage just thinking about these bastards!

A Cadre of Cunts

2006-11-29T16:44:00.000Z

My term for the fucksicles who roam the shit-strewn streets of Cunt London thrusting free newspaper after newspaper into our sweaty paws as we attempt to get home after a hard day's skiving.

I wouldn't mind so much but these fuckabillies seem to position themselves right in the middle of the fucking pavement, so that people have jump off the pavement and into the oncoming traffic to avoid them.

And then you get the ones that I like to call 'Newsprint rapists' - the ones who don't seem to understand that occasionally no really does mean no. These fuckers chase you down the street trying to thrust as many papers as they can into your hands. Despite the fact that your arms are folded... behind your back.

Oh for a quiet walk along Cunt London's boulevards without being accosted. One can but dream!

Nameless Nobody's Guide to Cinema Etiquette

2006-11-29T16:40:00.000Z

Home Cinema may be the next big thing, in fact it may be the current big thing, but until it addresses one serious flaw it will never truly recreate the cinema-going experience. To that effect I have created the next big advance in DVD technology: RAS, or “RetardAroundSound” to give it its full moniker. Utilising the full power of your Dolby Digital, or DTS, system the cinema-going experience will come alive in the confines of your own home. Gasp, as some fuckleberry opens the world’s crunchiest bag of Kettle Chips and rustles it right beside your fucking ear; Sigh, as a gang of teenage unemployment statistics strike up a full volume conversation during the film’s most pensive moment; Weep, as the simpletons behind you explain to each what’s going on, plotwise, at any particular moment and; Shit, as mobile phone after mobile phone resounds around the auditorium. I have submitted my plans to all the major companies and expect a positive response, particularly as it gives them the opportunity to resell their entire back catalogue to unwary customers. Consider me a pioneer…and don’t say you haven’t been warned!

Actually, consider me pissed off! What has happened to cinema audiences? There was a time when audiences went to the cinema to watch a film in relative silence, and the only time they stirred was to make the appropriate sound at the appropriate moment: cue gasping, laughing, crying, shrieking etc. They were generally a conscientious bunch who were well behaved and genuinely sorry if they disturbed the experience of those around them. They are sorely missed. But, then again, I do drink a lot, so maybe they are a figment of my imagination, or I’m looking into the past through rose-tinted specs! But, things feel different today.
Nowadays, audiences chat, shout, shuffle, slurp and belch their way through the entirety of the film. In fact, in today’s climate, I don’t consider my cinematic experience truly complete until some intellectually deficient chav sears away my retinas as he types a text message into a mobile phone with a display light bright enough to power a solar panel. And woe betide those who even dare to question these people about their behaviour. A recent episode involved a teenager who, upon my polite request for silence, offered me a look of disgust akin to me offering him a freshly laid turd in a box. To say he wasn’t pleased would be an understatement. Cunt!

So, who is to blame for this? God knows. And, frankly, I don’t care. I’m a critic not a social scientist, but I do know this: basic courtesy costs nothing, and usually leaves the recipient feeling better about both themselves and humanity in general! But, for those who don’t understand basic courtesy, here are a few rules that will enhance everybody’s day at “the pictures”:

1) Leave your conversation outside the auditorium. Your friend isn’t going anywhere, so whatever you need to tell them can wait a couple of hours. And if it can’t wait then whisper it. And to those fucktards who feel the need to explain every plot-point to their dimwitted chum/girlfriend/family member: Don’t! If they can’t follow a basic plot, and most Hollywood stuff is pretty basic, then they have no place in the cinema. Frankly, they might be better served by being placed in a small room, sat on a chair, and given a cup with a ball on a string to play with. So, please, just shut up!

2) Turn off your mobile phone. They are no longer status-symbols. They are just plain annoying. So are you for texting your friend in the middle of a darkened auditorium. You are a twat. Get out! Ditto cubed for those engaged in mobile phone conversation.

3) Eat with your mouth closed and stop rustling your snack bag. Major advances in table etiquette mean it is now possible to eat with your mouth closed, amazing but true. Eating with your mouth closed has two benefits: one, the sound of nachos being crushed between your molars is deadened, therefore reducing their ability to distract your fellow cinema-goers; two, eating with your mouth closed prevents your gnarly, nacho cheese ridden breath from stinking up the airspace of those around you.

By following these simple rules everybody can have a good time. And if you don’t shut up, don’t be surprised a nameless nobody ramming his fist down your throat. You have been warned!