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

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

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

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

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

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

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 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!