Cats on the internet. This one has been done to death and i'm not having a gripe. I am however rather stoned right now so humour me.
As technology advances, so we advance alongside it. Every little breakthrough is broadcast to us all in the form of quicker computers, smaller televisions, larger televisions, quicker cars etc. All this is taken in stride of course as we have enough time to become totally used to the new advance as the next one arrives. If I were to see what I see now when I was 7 years old, I am sure I would be astounded. I had not made the journey and could therefore not become accustomed to the details along the way.
With that in mind; how will the internet manifest itself in 40 or 50 years? Will it be more like what virtual reality was supposed to be a few years ago? This speculation is borne more of a stoned countenance than a scientific mind of course but I don't think that would be too impossible. Imagine the whole world online in a completely virtual world. 100% interactable.
Ok, now I have painted the picture. Imagine getting a message from one of those annoying people that forward shitty emails. Would the internet have evolved enough to have you just going about your own business and then being utterly swarmed by lolcats? All talking in nonsense. All daft faces and "HALP!" and "OH HAI!". Fucking smothering you in that annoying way cats have. 300 retarded and spasticated cats weaving between your legs as you are crossing the street. Appearing out of nowhere to reduce your life to useless fragments.
Wouldn't that be the most horrific experience.
Sunday 2 November 2008
Sorry State Of Affairs
14 year old Olympians, 12 year old pop stars, 9 year old graduates from Oxford University, 8 year old preachers. What the fuck is up with the youth of today? When I was a lad any self respecting child would be lighting fires, smashing windows, raping old ladies and breaking into pharmacies.
I Nosh Camels
I don't think I have ever brushed my teeth and not ended up looking like I have just sucked off a camel. I get that fucking shit everywhere. It really is something I should have mastered by now but alas, my keeping-all-the-fucking-toothpaste-in-my-mouth skills are sorely lacking.
Monkey-Spider. Spider-Monkey
The importance of putting words in the right order.
Spider Monkey - Awww. Cute.
Monkey Spider - Holy shit. Scariest thing on eight legs. Run for the fucking hills
Spider Monkey - Awww. Cute.
Monkey Spider - Holy shit. Scariest thing on eight legs. Run for the fucking hills
Monotheism Is Fucking Useless When The One And Only God Is A Cunt
Proof that God is a cunt. Me treading on an upturned plug three times in two days. I know that we are supposed to have free choice and that is why God doesn't interfere but I would gladly be a God driven robot of the apocalypse if it meant no more fucking plugs.
A plug is a handy thing until it lies on its back. Then it becomes a cunt.
I prefer the religious system of the old pagans. The religions where they have Gods for every little thing. Makes far more sense than the single omnipotent God. The God Of Making A Cup Of Tea has been a close personal friend of mine for years. We chat, laugh, joke. He giveth up his juice and I sup heartily at his teat. That kind of thing. Then you get the more scurrilous Gods. The God Of Painting for instance. He is a huge cunt. I rarely see him but whenever I do he makes my life miserable. The God of Drama is another one. She comes and goes in waves. She is pretty busy right now. As long as she isn't looking at me, I enjoy her frilly and turbulent ministrations.
Life is way easier thinking like this. You fuck badly with someone and mess them up a little too much, well, you've only pissed off the God Of Harassment. As long as you help old ladies across the road and gain the good favour of the God of Cardigans And Biscuits And Slippers, you are even. No single entity to keep score on your life as a total and you can mix it up a bit.
Plus, praying can be more fun and far more relevant.
"Please God of Train Timetables, hold that train for 2 more minutes. I'm nearly at the station"
"Please God of My Annoying Colleagues, make a meteor fall on my office while i'm outside for a cigarette"
"Please God of Social Interaction, don't let me make a tit of myself while drunk. Actually, pass this one on to the God of Beer while you're at it. I think he hates me even though I love him"
That sort of thing.
A plug is a handy thing until it lies on its back. Then it becomes a cunt.
I prefer the religious system of the old pagans. The religions where they have Gods for every little thing. Makes far more sense than the single omnipotent God. The God Of Making A Cup Of Tea has been a close personal friend of mine for years. We chat, laugh, joke. He giveth up his juice and I sup heartily at his teat. That kind of thing. Then you get the more scurrilous Gods. The God Of Painting for instance. He is a huge cunt. I rarely see him but whenever I do he makes my life miserable. The God of Drama is another one. She comes and goes in waves. She is pretty busy right now. As long as she isn't looking at me, I enjoy her frilly and turbulent ministrations.
Life is way easier thinking like this. You fuck badly with someone and mess them up a little too much, well, you've only pissed off the God Of Harassment. As long as you help old ladies across the road and gain the good favour of the God of Cardigans And Biscuits And Slippers, you are even. No single entity to keep score on your life as a total and you can mix it up a bit.
Plus, praying can be more fun and far more relevant.
"Please God of Train Timetables, hold that train for 2 more minutes. I'm nearly at the station"
"Please God of My Annoying Colleagues, make a meteor fall on my office while i'm outside for a cigarette"
"Please God of Social Interaction, don't let me make a tit of myself while drunk. Actually, pass this one on to the God of Beer while you're at it. I think he hates me even though I love him"
That sort of thing.
I Bet You Didn't Know I Was A Rapist...
I've been having quite a lot of underwear related mishaps recently. I have only made that connection by realising that I have told you lot about them all already. Not sure what I shall take from that little snippet but all knowledge has power so maybe it shall become apparent later.
Back to the pants. As ridiculously inane as it seems at this moment, I have mentioned the fact that I bought a load of new underpants recently. I like them. Having nice pants is one of the little seemingly insignificant check points you encounter in everyday life that can make or break your day. I'm not going to go into the other points because I have been dithering for long enough telling you this much, and so to the point.
My pants. I like them, but am still not completely at home in their enveloping confines. We're still working things out you know? I like them, they like me. We're at that "Should I ask her to move in? She spends most nights here anyway?" stage. Not quite 100% sure yet. So, there is me walking down the street today. On my way to some particularly unimpressive event or other when I encounter an uncomfortable feeling. The inside left leg of the trunks has ridden up until it is all wedged right at the top of my gusset (what a fucking word gusset is, marvellously disgusting). After maybe ten or so steps I have come to the conclusion that this is a situation that requires immediate attention. No, I can't wait until I get to wherever I am going. Action is necessary. I look left, then right and realise the only person near me is a woman about 15 feet in front walking in the same direction. Action was necessary and so I unzipped my fly (all on the hoof), reached right inside and grabbed the offensive gathering taking place in my trousers. Then she glanced behind her. Why? I wasn't making any noise. You hadn't looked around in the few minutes I was walking a distance behind you. Why now?
What she saw: A large man walking determinedly behind her with half his arm in his fly as he followed on.
What I realised I looked like: A large man walking determinedly behind a poor woman with half my arm in my fly as I followed her.
What I did: Sprinted toward her before she could make a noise, grabbed her around the mouth and dragged her into an alleyway and raped her. For at least 4 hours.*
*that last bit isn't true
Back to the pants. As ridiculously inane as it seems at this moment, I have mentioned the fact that I bought a load of new underpants recently. I like them. Having nice pants is one of the little seemingly insignificant check points you encounter in everyday life that can make or break your day. I'm not going to go into the other points because I have been dithering for long enough telling you this much, and so to the point.
My pants. I like them, but am still not completely at home in their enveloping confines. We're still working things out you know? I like them, they like me. We're at that "Should I ask her to move in? She spends most nights here anyway?" stage. Not quite 100% sure yet. So, there is me walking down the street today. On my way to some particularly unimpressive event or other when I encounter an uncomfortable feeling. The inside left leg of the trunks has ridden up until it is all wedged right at the top of my gusset (what a fucking word gusset is, marvellously disgusting). After maybe ten or so steps I have come to the conclusion that this is a situation that requires immediate attention. No, I can't wait until I get to wherever I am going. Action is necessary. I look left, then right and realise the only person near me is a woman about 15 feet in front walking in the same direction. Action was necessary and so I unzipped my fly (all on the hoof), reached right inside and grabbed the offensive gathering taking place in my trousers. Then she glanced behind her. Why? I wasn't making any noise. You hadn't looked around in the few minutes I was walking a distance behind you. Why now?
What she saw: A large man walking determinedly behind her with half his arm in his fly as he followed on.
What I realised I looked like: A large man walking determinedly behind a poor woman with half my arm in my fly as I followed her.
What I did: Sprinted toward her before she could make a noise, grabbed her around the mouth and dragged her into an alleyway and raped her. For at least 4 hours.*
*that last bit isn't true
...Click...
Got up a little late yesterday morning and had a speedy shave that left my face feeling despoiled. Something every man has experienced at some point or another. As luck would have it, one of my colleagues had been having close discussions with Nivea and as a result was sent 4 boxes of Nivea products. I promptly grabbed some post shave balm and was surprised at how it helped as I had never used any product like this before.
I got talking with my boss about this and a nonsensical discussion ensued concerning how much of a pain in the arse it was to have to shave every day. As is the way with discussions of this type a quandary was pronounced and all considered it.
If you could pay a large sum of money, say £10,000, to undergo a procedure that meant you would never have to shave again, would you entertain the idea? Surprisingly, quite a few guys said they would. I don't enjoy scraping my face daily with a blade but £10,000 is a lot of cash. There is also the masochistic joy of waking up the morning after the night before and feeling like shit. Having to put on yesterdays crumpled clothes in a strange house, lighting a cigarette despite your throat screaming at you to do anything other than that, and rubbing your hand across your face and feeling a scratchy covering of whiskers. You only look and feel like shit because you threw caution to the wind the night before. The wages of hedonism are hangovers. That was my contribution to the discussion anyway but it did get me thinking along the same lines.
Stupid propositions I would consider:
1. Paying a large sum of money to have the ability to click your fingers and instantly appear at a single pre arranged place.
I like this one. It may not seem so attractive a proposal now while you read this at your computer but being somewhere you don't want to be and being able to navigate the problem by simply clicking your fingers sounds great to me. Needing a cab at 4am and can't find one? Click. Being at a friends house that is at least 2 hours away and needing to go through the fucking hassle of up, out, train, bus, home? Click. Being arrested and placed in jail? Click.
Her: "I've been thinking, we've been friends for a while and I want to take this relationship to the next level. What do you think?"
Me: Click.
Sounds like a fucking winner to me
2. Paying a large sum of money to have the ability to make others internal thoughts audible to all regardless of their wishes. All at the click of your fingers.
Again this one needs a little imagination. Having a chat with the boss about the wage increase you've been wanting for ages:
Boss: "Well, we think that if you can just try that bit harder in the next 6 months you will definitely be in line for a pay increase
Me: Click
Boss: *Give me yet more of your precious life, I shall wring more blood from your weary corpse for the pleasure of another £50 a month.*
I would also take great joy in sitting in on any discussion between two or more ultra PC people and clicking my fingers like I was part of a travelling flamenco troupe.
Person 1: "I honestly believe that implementing these rulings will have a positive impact on how we treat fellow human beings"
Me: Click
Person 1 again: *I hate all niggers, jews, pakis and gyppos but think I can climb the ladder faster this way*
Marvellous
I have others and will add them when my hangover recedes a little.
If you want to play along, all propositions MUST INVOLVE THE CLICKING OF FINGERS. Any propositions without this will be instantly discounted.
I got talking with my boss about this and a nonsensical discussion ensued concerning how much of a pain in the arse it was to have to shave every day. As is the way with discussions of this type a quandary was pronounced and all considered it.
If you could pay a large sum of money, say £10,000, to undergo a procedure that meant you would never have to shave again, would you entertain the idea? Surprisingly, quite a few guys said they would. I don't enjoy scraping my face daily with a blade but £10,000 is a lot of cash. There is also the masochistic joy of waking up the morning after the night before and feeling like shit. Having to put on yesterdays crumpled clothes in a strange house, lighting a cigarette despite your throat screaming at you to do anything other than that, and rubbing your hand across your face and feeling a scratchy covering of whiskers. You only look and feel like shit because you threw caution to the wind the night before. The wages of hedonism are hangovers. That was my contribution to the discussion anyway but it did get me thinking along the same lines.
Stupid propositions I would consider:
1. Paying a large sum of money to have the ability to click your fingers and instantly appear at a single pre arranged place.
I like this one. It may not seem so attractive a proposal now while you read this at your computer but being somewhere you don't want to be and being able to navigate the problem by simply clicking your fingers sounds great to me. Needing a cab at 4am and can't find one? Click. Being at a friends house that is at least 2 hours away and needing to go through the fucking hassle of up, out, train, bus, home? Click. Being arrested and placed in jail? Click.
Her: "I've been thinking, we've been friends for a while and I want to take this relationship to the next level. What do you think?"
Me: Click.
Sounds like a fucking winner to me
2. Paying a large sum of money to have the ability to make others internal thoughts audible to all regardless of their wishes. All at the click of your fingers.
Again this one needs a little imagination. Having a chat with the boss about the wage increase you've been wanting for ages:
Boss: "Well, we think that if you can just try that bit harder in the next 6 months you will definitely be in line for a pay increase
Me: Click
Boss: *Give me yet more of your precious life, I shall wring more blood from your weary corpse for the pleasure of another £50 a month.*
I would also take great joy in sitting in on any discussion between two or more ultra PC people and clicking my fingers like I was part of a travelling flamenco troupe.
Person 1: "I honestly believe that implementing these rulings will have a positive impact on how we treat fellow human beings"
Me: Click
Person 1 again: *I hate all niggers, jews, pakis and gyppos but think I can climb the ladder faster this way*
Marvellous
I have others and will add them when my hangover recedes a little.
If you want to play along, all propositions MUST INVOLVE THE CLICKING OF FINGERS. Any propositions without this will be instantly discounted.
Please Look The Other Way, I'm About To Kill Someone
Have you ever hated someone so completely despite the fact that you have never had any interaction with them whatsoever? I have. Frequently. I must also state at this point that whenever I have then come to know these people I find that my instant snap judgements are usually erroneous and they are in fact ok. Doesn't stop me doing this though and it certainly doesn't stop the level of derision within me for them.
There is this one guy I see every day on my way to work. I get the mainline train into one of the main commuter hubs into London and then descend into the underground system to grab a tube into work. Considering that the mainline trains arrive into the station every couple of minutes, and the underground distributes them to all corners of London at least every minute, the chances of seeing the same faces every day are not exactly slim but they're not nailed on either.
When I get down into the underground there is always the same fucking guy standing there. Always. It irks me that I have to look at his fat slab of a face every day. Every fucking day.
This is why I hate him:
1. He wears a brown suit. Never trust a man in a brown suit
2. He reads the same shitty sensationalist newspaper that disguises itself as a more respectable publication every day.
3. He is always 2 bites into the same fucking cereal bar when I arrive. Always.
4. He chews so fucking slowly that I swear he is part cow.
5. He breathes through his nose so loudly that it can be heard in the next carriage.
6. He wears a different shirt every day of the week. Not so bad in itself of course, commendable in fact but does it have to be the same fucking shirt for the same fucking day of the week? Every week?
7. He is bald.
8. He has a fat neck which spills out of the back of his collar forming a little roll of fat that stares at me balefully. Urging me to stab him.
9. He always has this serene look on his face and there is me silently fuming and planning and planning his death in a million different ways.
I could list the things that annoy me about him all day but I must stop or I think I shall go permanently hurt my elderly neighbours, and that wouldn't stand up in court as a defence.
I fucking hate him.
There is this one guy I see every day on my way to work. I get the mainline train into one of the main commuter hubs into London and then descend into the underground system to grab a tube into work. Considering that the mainline trains arrive into the station every couple of minutes, and the underground distributes them to all corners of London at least every minute, the chances of seeing the same faces every day are not exactly slim but they're not nailed on either.
When I get down into the underground there is always the same fucking guy standing there. Always. It irks me that I have to look at his fat slab of a face every day. Every fucking day.
This is why I hate him:
1. He wears a brown suit. Never trust a man in a brown suit
2. He reads the same shitty sensationalist newspaper that disguises itself as a more respectable publication every day.
3. He is always 2 bites into the same fucking cereal bar when I arrive. Always.
4. He chews so fucking slowly that I swear he is part cow.
5. He breathes through his nose so loudly that it can be heard in the next carriage.
6. He wears a different shirt every day of the week. Not so bad in itself of course, commendable in fact but does it have to be the same fucking shirt for the same fucking day of the week? Every week?
7. He is bald.
8. He has a fat neck which spills out of the back of his collar forming a little roll of fat that stares at me balefully. Urging me to stab him.
9. He always has this serene look on his face and there is me silently fuming and planning and planning his death in a million different ways.
I could list the things that annoy me about him all day but I must stop or I think I shall go permanently hurt my elderly neighbours, and that wouldn't stand up in court as a defence.
I fucking hate him.
This Is Why...
One of the premier arguments for men against women in the gender war is that we can piss standing up. Nothing too intellectual but then the gender war has never been particularly highbrow.
You just know that every single woman on the planet has wanted the freedom of just whipping out their cock and taking a waz. I think us guys take it for granted but we shouldn't. We have all seen the pathetic spectacle of a woman urinating somewhere other than a toilet when she has been caught short. All bunched up and defenceless. It has ever reminded me of a dog taking a huge shit. You know, the ones where their back legs bow inwards and their whole fucking body shakes. I always expect to see the dog doing the breathing exercise expectant mothers are taught.
The ability and freedom a penis offers for this is a definite plus point but the ladies have boobs. Never has a nickname for a body part described their secondary nature so perfectly than when they are referred to as funbags. Who am I to argue with histories greatest scholars who have eulogised many times on that exact point. I am nothing if not modest.
All this went through my mind today as I got home and ran into the bathroom and then realised that my new jeans were button fly. I did wonder why I hadn't worn a pair of button fly jeans since my teenage years, and me dancing foot to foot as I struggled with a belt and 6 buttons before I could exhale loudly, place my left hand on my waist and tip my head back as I enjoyed the third greatest feeling the human body can offer, told me why. Cumming and sneezing taking the first two places of course.
I shall be purchasing some zip fly jeans as I am not in the business of denying myself one of the gifts given to me by The God Of Being Able To Piss Easily.
You just know that every single woman on the planet has wanted the freedom of just whipping out their cock and taking a waz. I think us guys take it for granted but we shouldn't. We have all seen the pathetic spectacle of a woman urinating somewhere other than a toilet when she has been caught short. All bunched up and defenceless. It has ever reminded me of a dog taking a huge shit. You know, the ones where their back legs bow inwards and their whole fucking body shakes. I always expect to see the dog doing the breathing exercise expectant mothers are taught.
The ability and freedom a penis offers for this is a definite plus point but the ladies have boobs. Never has a nickname for a body part described their secondary nature so perfectly than when they are referred to as funbags. Who am I to argue with histories greatest scholars who have eulogised many times on that exact point. I am nothing if not modest.
All this went through my mind today as I got home and ran into the bathroom and then realised that my new jeans were button fly. I did wonder why I hadn't worn a pair of button fly jeans since my teenage years, and me dancing foot to foot as I struggled with a belt and 6 buttons before I could exhale loudly, place my left hand on my waist and tip my head back as I enjoyed the third greatest feeling the human body can offer, told me why. Cumming and sneezing taking the first two places of course.
I shall be purchasing some zip fly jeans as I am not in the business of denying myself one of the gifts given to me by The God Of Being Able To Piss Easily.
Oh How I Hate The Deluge Of Fucking Pirates
Holy shit. What a day I am having.
I have been on the phone to China all day so far. There is absolutely no messing with those fuckers. Hard as nails and straighter than Gods plumb line. Fucking exhausting. The problems arise with the time difference and gaining access to people before they get to bed over there. To say I have been feeling frustrated today is a massive understatement. So, when I finally admit some kind of defeat and realise that no fucker is gonna pick the phone up now, I decide to take a walk as I had hardly left the office all day. I walked to the nearest pub, grabbed a pint and sat down outside with my mp3 player blaring and the newspaper in front of me. I want to be spoken to or bothered about as much as I want to be anally raped by the Iranian National Guard. Or any National Guard for that matter. I ain't racist. It is the anal rape thing I have a problem with.
I am a million miles away, reading about the upcoming Ryder Cup and with music blaring in my ears when I see movement out of the corner of my eyes. I look up to see 7 pirates, in full dress (peglegs, eyepatches etc) and one of them is attempting to talk to me. I look up and make no fucking attempt to remove my earphones and I know they can hear residual drums and guitars as it is at full blast. I stare the guy in the eye and see his lips move. He is talking to me but I don't give a fuck so I continue to stare in his face. He motions for me to take the earphones out and I shake my head. He motions again, so I reluctantly remove them and the conversation went something like this (bear in mind I am in the foulest of dark moods and am wearing a permanent scowl):
Him: "Aarrggghh, have ye a soul young man?"
Me: "What the fuck kind of question is that? Fuck off now, I'm not interested". *In go the earphones again*
Him: *motions for me to take the earphones out again*
Me: *earphones out* "What part of fuck off did you not understand? Leave me alone, I'm really not feeling up to anything other than my own company"
Him: "Aarrgghh, we be collectin' for charity...." He carried on talking but the earphones were back in now. Incidentally I had all 7 pirates now focused on me.
Me: "Seriously, get the fuck away from me before I give you a real speech impediment and crutches"
Now I'm not gonna detail the rest of the conversation but I Iost the plot a bit and laid into all of them for dressing up like a bunch of fictional cunts. I focused on the fact that the youngest one looked about 35. They should be fucking ashamed of themselves and I didn't give a fuck about their charity as I regularly donate cash to charities of my own choosing. I then got sarcastic and asked if I could kick the fuck out of all of them for my own charity. I'd be generous, £10 per pirate cunt I knocked out. Would that be acceptable?
All seven got the message and Arrgghhed off to bother other people
I have been on the phone to China all day so far. There is absolutely no messing with those fuckers. Hard as nails and straighter than Gods plumb line. Fucking exhausting. The problems arise with the time difference and gaining access to people before they get to bed over there. To say I have been feeling frustrated today is a massive understatement. So, when I finally admit some kind of defeat and realise that no fucker is gonna pick the phone up now, I decide to take a walk as I had hardly left the office all day. I walked to the nearest pub, grabbed a pint and sat down outside with my mp3 player blaring and the newspaper in front of me. I want to be spoken to or bothered about as much as I want to be anally raped by the Iranian National Guard. Or any National Guard for that matter. I ain't racist. It is the anal rape thing I have a problem with.
I am a million miles away, reading about the upcoming Ryder Cup and with music blaring in my ears when I see movement out of the corner of my eyes. I look up to see 7 pirates, in full dress (peglegs, eyepatches etc) and one of them is attempting to talk to me. I look up and make no fucking attempt to remove my earphones and I know they can hear residual drums and guitars as it is at full blast. I stare the guy in the eye and see his lips move. He is talking to me but I don't give a fuck so I continue to stare in his face. He motions for me to take the earphones out and I shake my head. He motions again, so I reluctantly remove them and the conversation went something like this (bear in mind I am in the foulest of dark moods and am wearing a permanent scowl):
Him: "Aarrggghh, have ye a soul young man?"
Me: "What the fuck kind of question is that? Fuck off now, I'm not interested". *In go the earphones again*
Him: *motions for me to take the earphones out again*
Me: *earphones out* "What part of fuck off did you not understand? Leave me alone, I'm really not feeling up to anything other than my own company"
Him: "Aarrgghh, we be collectin' for charity...." He carried on talking but the earphones were back in now. Incidentally I had all 7 pirates now focused on me.
Me: "Seriously, get the fuck away from me before I give you a real speech impediment and crutches"
Now I'm not gonna detail the rest of the conversation but I Iost the plot a bit and laid into all of them for dressing up like a bunch of fictional cunts. I focused on the fact that the youngest one looked about 35. They should be fucking ashamed of themselves and I didn't give a fuck about their charity as I regularly donate cash to charities of my own choosing. I then got sarcastic and asked if I could kick the fuck out of all of them for my own charity. I'd be generous, £10 per pirate cunt I knocked out. Would that be acceptable?
All seven got the message and Arrgghhed off to bother other people
Amy Fucking Winehouse - The Junkie
What a fucking mess. Can everyone stop feeling sorry for Amy now please. I'm fed up of hearing how she has made the wrong choices and being given so much sympathy. No one says the same about other junkies lying in the street and rightly so. It is no different for her just because she can fucking sing. How the fuck does that change anything?
This is a woman from a privileged background with absolutely no other worries past the same ones we all contend with on a daily basis. She chooses to marry a thuggish man with a double barrelled name who happily goes round menacing anyone and everyone that is stupid enough to appear on his radar. Her addiction isn't anything new either.
There are far more deserving cases of your pity out there and I can almost guarantee that everyone who cries out about how worried they are for her are the same people that gladly walk past countless homeless every single day. The problem here is not her drug addiction, it is the way we now perceive celebrity. If you were happy enough to pass again that man that stands at the station asking for a little change then you are a hypocrite. Of the worst kind. If we were all to take care of those within our direct community then someone somewhere would be stopping and putting an arm around Miss Winehouse because they have known her since she was a child and not because they see her ravaged face every day in the newspaper. That might work but it will never happen. Feeling sorry for Amy is now almost within the protecting confines of political correctness. You HAVE to feel sorry for her, that is a thing you will talk about at your bourgeois dinner parties. Along with global warming and treatment of the disabled. All conversation to be accompanied while quaffing the finest of red wines ("Honestly Cressida, I have no idea how they make it so cheap as well. There really isn't too much shame in buying this in Tescos for under a fiver these days you know") and a few lines of the choicest Colombian cocaine ("Tarquin, isn't it funny how the price of cocaine hasn't gone up in over twenty years? I wonder why that is?"). To those who would gladly invite a crackhead into their house purely out of concern for them, I apologise. Everyone else should look and think, and then stop talking shit.
Forget how good her voice is and pay more attention to how she chooses to live her life. If anyone needed to take a look at themselves in the mirror it is Winehouse and all she would need to do is pick up any newspaper to see how far her standards have dropped.
I have never felt anything other than extreme distaste where I have encountered such cases myself and Winehouse is no different. She has been in this situation herself now for long enough to have had any personal epiphanies and wake the fuck up from her drug induced stupour. To give her any more pity than any other drugged up fuck face is blatant double standards. Treat her as you would any other user. They are to be stepped over in the gutter and that is it. It isn't that hard to change your life, don't believe the media commentators when they tell you how hard it is to kick these habits cos it fucking isn't. I know it isn't that hard as I have encountered similar problems myself in my youth. I wasn't a millionaire either.
She is now reaping the fruits of her labour and we should all stand back and let her enjoy them. Yum yum, eat up Amy
This is a woman from a privileged background with absolutely no other worries past the same ones we all contend with on a daily basis. She chooses to marry a thuggish man with a double barrelled name who happily goes round menacing anyone and everyone that is stupid enough to appear on his radar. Her addiction isn't anything new either.
There are far more deserving cases of your pity out there and I can almost guarantee that everyone who cries out about how worried they are for her are the same people that gladly walk past countless homeless every single day. The problem here is not her drug addiction, it is the way we now perceive celebrity. If you were happy enough to pass again that man that stands at the station asking for a little change then you are a hypocrite. Of the worst kind. If we were all to take care of those within our direct community then someone somewhere would be stopping and putting an arm around Miss Winehouse because they have known her since she was a child and not because they see her ravaged face every day in the newspaper. That might work but it will never happen. Feeling sorry for Amy is now almost within the protecting confines of political correctness. You HAVE to feel sorry for her, that is a thing you will talk about at your bourgeois dinner parties. Along with global warming and treatment of the disabled. All conversation to be accompanied while quaffing the finest of red wines ("Honestly Cressida, I have no idea how they make it so cheap as well. There really isn't too much shame in buying this in Tescos for under a fiver these days you know") and a few lines of the choicest Colombian cocaine ("Tarquin, isn't it funny how the price of cocaine hasn't gone up in over twenty years? I wonder why that is?"). To those who would gladly invite a crackhead into their house purely out of concern for them, I apologise. Everyone else should look and think, and then stop talking shit.
Forget how good her voice is and pay more attention to how she chooses to live her life. If anyone needed to take a look at themselves in the mirror it is Winehouse and all she would need to do is pick up any newspaper to see how far her standards have dropped.
I have never felt anything other than extreme distaste where I have encountered such cases myself and Winehouse is no different. She has been in this situation herself now for long enough to have had any personal epiphanies and wake the fuck up from her drug induced stupour. To give her any more pity than any other drugged up fuck face is blatant double standards. Treat her as you would any other user. They are to be stepped over in the gutter and that is it. It isn't that hard to change your life, don't believe the media commentators when they tell you how hard it is to kick these habits cos it fucking isn't. I know it isn't that hard as I have encountered similar problems myself in my youth. I wasn't a millionaire either.
She is now reaping the fruits of her labour and we should all stand back and let her enjoy them. Yum yum, eat up Amy
I Think I was On My Period
Top tip:
Shouting at your director in front of the whole office while you are shaking with rage may make you feel better in the short term but the long term effects should be considered first.
Also, "CUNT" is probably one of the best words to shout out loud. Talk about cathartic
EDIT: The journey home threw up more entertainment. I managed to hold it together on the tube but it all kicked off as soon as I got on the train. Within 20 seconds of being on the train I had asked one guy, who was staring at me, what the fuck he was looking at, he didn't answer. Directly after that an ageing lady asked me to turn my mp3 player down and being the insufferable cunt that I am I turned it up. Then I fell asleep for the 30 minute journey home. Thinking that was the end of my moody shenanigans I surprised even myself by being overly sarcastic with a young Polish couple who were standing in front of the exit doors when I wanted to get off the bus. I felt bad for both of them as I stepped off, she in particular looked rather distressed. Meh, shit happens. As I walked to my place, I was ruminating on the slender grip I have on my temper and talking myself out of an explosion. I opened my door to find a little slip from the fucking useless package delivery company who I am convinced have been set up with the sole purpose of fucking my life up. I'm not going into it but we have exchanged heated words recently so when I saw another slip saying "we called and you were out!" I fucking screamed with frustration although that swiftly changed to elation as I read it and noticed it said they had left it with my neighbour. I went to grab the package and was very happy to see that someone had sent me some "Mega Sour Acid Drops" for my birthday. My mouth is is a sorry state of puckeredness and it feels great.
Man, I'm shit scared to pick the phone up if it rings in case I call all out jihad on whoever it is...
Shouting at your director in front of the whole office while you are shaking with rage may make you feel better in the short term but the long term effects should be considered first.
Also, "CUNT" is probably one of the best words to shout out loud. Talk about cathartic
EDIT: The journey home threw up more entertainment. I managed to hold it together on the tube but it all kicked off as soon as I got on the train. Within 20 seconds of being on the train I had asked one guy, who was staring at me, what the fuck he was looking at, he didn't answer. Directly after that an ageing lady asked me to turn my mp3 player down and being the insufferable cunt that I am I turned it up. Then I fell asleep for the 30 minute journey home. Thinking that was the end of my moody shenanigans I surprised even myself by being overly sarcastic with a young Polish couple who were standing in front of the exit doors when I wanted to get off the bus. I felt bad for both of them as I stepped off, she in particular looked rather distressed. Meh, shit happens. As I walked to my place, I was ruminating on the slender grip I have on my temper and talking myself out of an explosion. I opened my door to find a little slip from the fucking useless package delivery company who I am convinced have been set up with the sole purpose of fucking my life up. I'm not going into it but we have exchanged heated words recently so when I saw another slip saying "we called and you were out!" I fucking screamed with frustration although that swiftly changed to elation as I read it and noticed it said they had left it with my neighbour. I went to grab the package and was very happy to see that someone had sent me some "Mega Sour Acid Drops" for my birthday. My mouth is is a sorry state of puckeredness and it feels great.
Man, I'm shit scared to pick the phone up if it rings in case I call all out jihad on whoever it is...
Do You Hate Your Colleagues Too?
Women always go on about guys needing to be honest and that honesty is imperative to a healthy relationship.
I just got into work after having had the last two days off. I was the first in as usual and was trying to get a little head start on the piles of paperwork that I knew would have accumulated on my desk. 20 minutes or so after I got in my colleagues started to trickle in and one girl who is always fucking happy said:
Her (high pitched squeaky annoying voice): "Hi! How were your days off? We all missed you you know."
Me: "I didn't miss you" *chuckling with my head still buried in the things that need my attention*
This was a joke. It was punctuated with a sly wink and a little laugh. She didn't find it funny. I have made her cry unintentionally in the recent past and now she thinks I'm some sort of ogre. *sniff* "Why can't you just be nice Sam?" *sniff*. I've always said that because I am frugal with my compliments you can be fucking sure I mean them when they do come out.
From this I can safely say that the truth is a double edged sword and she doesn't really want my honesty. Just like I don't want her emails entitled "Fwd:Fwd:Fwd:Fwd:Fwd This is hilarious!!!!!!!!!!!!"
It is a fair fucking swap I think
I just got into work after having had the last two days off. I was the first in as usual and was trying to get a little head start on the piles of paperwork that I knew would have accumulated on my desk. 20 minutes or so after I got in my colleagues started to trickle in and one girl who is always fucking happy said:
Her (high pitched squeaky annoying voice): "Hi! How were your days off? We all missed you you know."
Me: "I didn't miss you" *chuckling with my head still buried in the things that need my attention*
This was a joke. It was punctuated with a sly wink and a little laugh. She didn't find it funny. I have made her cry unintentionally in the recent past and now she thinks I'm some sort of ogre. *sniff* "Why can't you just be nice Sam?" *sniff*. I've always said that because I am frugal with my compliments you can be fucking sure I mean them when they do come out.
From this I can safely say that the truth is a double edged sword and she doesn't really want my honesty. Just like I don't want her emails entitled "Fwd:Fwd:Fwd:Fwd:Fwd This is hilarious!!!!!!!!!!!!"
It is a fair fucking swap I think
Fighting The Good Fight. For Queen And Country...
I was chatting to a friend the other day and she asked me what was the scariest position I had ever found myself in. I thought I had written about it somewhere on this account and went hunting for it. Couldn't find it anywhere. So here it is...
I was with 4 friends and we were island hopping in Indonesia. Now, as sets of islands go, the Indonesian Archipelago is fucking awesome. Thousands of islands grouped together. Some tiny, some immense. All offering something different yet on recollection they all blend into one in a sunny haze. That's probably the drugs that has done that.
We had maybe 6 weeks or so to explore so half the fun was planning it beforehand. Obviously you wouldn't stick to the plan as after a couple of days you would get sidetracked and find yourself investigating some ruin or beach or bar or whatever. One of these times we decided to deviate from the plan found us at the port of one island looking to jump on a boat somewhere to the next island. Always over the horizon but that is brilliant. I remember we got to the port as the sun was coming down and found ourselves waiting lazily for the next boat to leave, not doing too much and being surrounded by inquisitive children. Kids over there are born knowing how to play the guitar. I am fucking convinced. None of them own one but they can all play them brilliantly. A strange phenomenon indeed but carrying musical instruments in that part of the world always draws attention. Wherever we went we were begged by street kids to let them play with the guitars for a few minutes, and we used to let them sometimes. So this group of maybe 30 or so street urchins approaches us and while laughing and joking around, they ask if they can play with one of the guitars. Their ages ranged from 5 to 8 maybe? I wasn't in the business of cutting them down the middle and counting the rings so that is an approximation. Anyway, as I went to hand my guitar over I see this one kid dip his hands into my friends pocket and shouted out a warning to him. He heard me, looked down, cuffed the kid round the head, and then laughed. This was when it got weird. As if they were fucking insects and had given off an immediate attack pheromone they switched en masse from laughing kids to angry little cunts. The mood completely shifted and we were suddenly being attacked from all sides. I was kind of shocked but was fending them off and laughing nervously. They looked angry and I heard a friend shout "He's got a knife!" and then they all had knives or some form of either sharp or pointy thing. This was a constant attack, from all angles. Within 5 seconds of this beginning I have now decided to use my guitar to fend them off and then swiftly into a swinging battle axe. It was pretty furious by this point and I finally snapped and went mental. I roared as I swung the guitar from behind my head with all my might towards this little cunt who was trying to stab me with all of his being. We locked eyes and the battle was now in our minds as well. He snarled and stabbed. My guitar connected with his head. I heard a sharp crack and am ashamed to say that I was more concerned for the guitar than his head. He went down in a heap and I saw a lull in the fighting and we all made a run for it. All this happened in maybe 10 seconds and all I can remember from there is running until my lungs were burning. Arms pumping hard as I ran first through streets, then alleys, and finally trees. I know it was only a small skirmish but that is the closest I have ever got to a war. With 5 year olds.
That is the most scared I have ever been in my life
I was with 4 friends and we were island hopping in Indonesia. Now, as sets of islands go, the Indonesian Archipelago is fucking awesome. Thousands of islands grouped together. Some tiny, some immense. All offering something different yet on recollection they all blend into one in a sunny haze. That's probably the drugs that has done that.
We had maybe 6 weeks or so to explore so half the fun was planning it beforehand. Obviously you wouldn't stick to the plan as after a couple of days you would get sidetracked and find yourself investigating some ruin or beach or bar or whatever. One of these times we decided to deviate from the plan found us at the port of one island looking to jump on a boat somewhere to the next island. Always over the horizon but that is brilliant. I remember we got to the port as the sun was coming down and found ourselves waiting lazily for the next boat to leave, not doing too much and being surrounded by inquisitive children. Kids over there are born knowing how to play the guitar. I am fucking convinced. None of them own one but they can all play them brilliantly. A strange phenomenon indeed but carrying musical instruments in that part of the world always draws attention. Wherever we went we were begged by street kids to let them play with the guitars for a few minutes, and we used to let them sometimes. So this group of maybe 30 or so street urchins approaches us and while laughing and joking around, they ask if they can play with one of the guitars. Their ages ranged from 5 to 8 maybe? I wasn't in the business of cutting them down the middle and counting the rings so that is an approximation. Anyway, as I went to hand my guitar over I see this one kid dip his hands into my friends pocket and shouted out a warning to him. He heard me, looked down, cuffed the kid round the head, and then laughed. This was when it got weird. As if they were fucking insects and had given off an immediate attack pheromone they switched en masse from laughing kids to angry little cunts. The mood completely shifted and we were suddenly being attacked from all sides. I was kind of shocked but was fending them off and laughing nervously. They looked angry and I heard a friend shout "He's got a knife!" and then they all had knives or some form of either sharp or pointy thing. This was a constant attack, from all angles. Within 5 seconds of this beginning I have now decided to use my guitar to fend them off and then swiftly into a swinging battle axe. It was pretty furious by this point and I finally snapped and went mental. I roared as I swung the guitar from behind my head with all my might towards this little cunt who was trying to stab me with all of his being. We locked eyes and the battle was now in our minds as well. He snarled and stabbed. My guitar connected with his head. I heard a sharp crack and am ashamed to say that I was more concerned for the guitar than his head. He went down in a heap and I saw a lull in the fighting and we all made a run for it. All this happened in maybe 10 seconds and all I can remember from there is running until my lungs were burning. Arms pumping hard as I ran first through streets, then alleys, and finally trees. I know it was only a small skirmish but that is the closest I have ever got to a war. With 5 year olds.
That is the most scared I have ever been in my life
Not my problem
I had a very interesting discussion at work yesterday. It was one of those discussions that eventually enveloped the entire office. A colleague asked me if I genuinely hated anything. I had to really think about it as I wasn't in a comical mood and my usual answer of "pigeons and junkies" didn't seem appropriate. So I told her that the only thing I hated were thick people. She knows I have a very low regard for her as she once read an email I had written where I had mentioned that she was so boring that I would like to stab her in the eye with a pencil. I didn't apologise to her because she had walked over to my desk and seen the email while fucking around on my computer. Her choice and I thought it only prudent to let her suffer the impact of my brutal truth. She offers absolutely nothing to me.
Anyway, she knew I was referring to her with the thick people comment and so attempted to gain support from our co-workers with a look of indignation on her face. Not one other person had the balls to admit I was right. We're not a lolcats office. We used to be but that soon stopped after one colleague of mine found out that I have a great arm over thirty feet with a stapler.
I was completely unrepentant during the discussion and was chuffed to see that the only person who wasn't getting animated was me. I was simply explaining that I found it ridiculously rude of someone to expect me to share my precious time with them if they offer me nothing in the way of entertainment. Why the fuck should I gift you with my presence and gain nothing in return? I'm not asking for cash of course but is it too much to ask for an original thought every now and then? I closed the discussion by stating that if she were on fire, not only would I not piss on her, I wouldn't even give her the steam from my piss. It's mine, fuck off.
Anyway, she knew I was referring to her with the thick people comment and so attempted to gain support from our co-workers with a look of indignation on her face. Not one other person had the balls to admit I was right. We're not a lolcats office. We used to be but that soon stopped after one colleague of mine found out that I have a great arm over thirty feet with a stapler.
I was completely unrepentant during the discussion and was chuffed to see that the only person who wasn't getting animated was me. I was simply explaining that I found it ridiculously rude of someone to expect me to share my precious time with them if they offer me nothing in the way of entertainment. Why the fuck should I gift you with my presence and gain nothing in return? I'm not asking for cash of course but is it too much to ask for an original thought every now and then? I closed the discussion by stating that if she were on fire, not only would I not piss on her, I wouldn't even give her the steam from my piss. It's mine, fuck off.
A bath, a bath, my kingdom for a bath. With lots of fucking bubbles
Baths. I fucking love them. With fucking plenty of bubbles too.
Pouring a bath in my flat is a long and protracted procedure. A bath has to be hot enough to peel the fucking skin from your body. Anything less makes you gay. The only way I get scalding hot water is by running the hot tap at barely a trickle. I need that bath hot (I'm not gay) so it is gonna take a good 40 minutes to pour a decent bath. Sometimes I forget it is running and come in to find the bath full to the brim of steaming water. I need to let some out obviously and since the chain on the plug has broken, and I am way too lazy to fix it, I have to open the cold tap until it is cool enough to reach in and grab the plug. I wasn't joking about the heat of this water. I mean technically it isn't a bath i'm having. It is more like a fucking lightly simmering Jewish broth once i'm in. Letting the water out after making it colder then making sure there are enough bubbles. This is some serious business we're talking here.
I defend my right to have a bath that is hotter than the sun, screaming, and listening to ABBA CD's while totally immersed in bubbles. So what if afterwards I pull my cock between my legs and pose into the mirror.
This is something I seriously believe in and if you don't like it you can chew on my cock. Just the end, don't want you to choke.
Pouring a bath in my flat is a long and protracted procedure. A bath has to be hot enough to peel the fucking skin from your body. Anything less makes you gay. The only way I get scalding hot water is by running the hot tap at barely a trickle. I need that bath hot (I'm not gay) so it is gonna take a good 40 minutes to pour a decent bath. Sometimes I forget it is running and come in to find the bath full to the brim of steaming water. I need to let some out obviously and since the chain on the plug has broken, and I am way too lazy to fix it, I have to open the cold tap until it is cool enough to reach in and grab the plug. I wasn't joking about the heat of this water. I mean technically it isn't a bath i'm having. It is more like a fucking lightly simmering Jewish broth once i'm in. Letting the water out after making it colder then making sure there are enough bubbles. This is some serious business we're talking here.
I defend my right to have a bath that is hotter than the sun, screaming, and listening to ABBA CD's while totally immersed in bubbles. So what if afterwards I pull my cock between my legs and pose into the mirror.
This is something I seriously believe in and if you don't like it you can chew on my cock. Just the end, don't want you to choke.
With Muzz Comes Mayhem
Not too long ago I had fuck all. No job, I was unemployable. If your job involves spinning roulette wheels and telling cheating cunts that if they do that again they will get bounced down the stairs, sir, then being banned from working in a casino pretty much fucks you. No job obviously means no cash. Can't pay the bills, can't fucking eat properly....
We've all been there, I know.
It wasn't just me in this situation. muzzoid.stumbleupon.com [stumbleupon.com] was in the same boat as me. We were a pair of fucked motherfuckers with thirty years of useless experience between us. A marvellous situation to find yourself in. Days dragged as the distinct lack of possibilities crawled oh so slowly through my mind. They may as well have been doing a fucking cabaret for all the good it did me. I'm sure you can empathise that it was a reasonably unhappy time for me.
One day Muzzoid discovers that he has two pills going spare and has a ten pound note burning a hole in his pocket. Off we trot to a rather trendy part of South London, wondering how fucking messy we can get on a tenner. First up a trip to the off licence for a hip flask bottle of scotch that was promptly trousered. We then necked the pills and purposefully marched into a popular looking pub overlooking the central grassy common surrounded by ridiculously expensive real estate.
"Two cokes please barman".
Back to the table, surreptitious addition of scotch.
Bang.
Down the hatch.
Repeat.
By the third time, I was at the bar asking for the obligatory two cokes and wondering if I could be as nonchalant as possible despite the fact that I was in love with every single person in that room. I was worried that I would draw suspicious glances and was immensely proud that I was seeming to hold it together. I needn't have worried though as I turned back to the table with the drinks in my hand to see Muzzoid raving in his fucking chair. Had he white gloves and a whistle he could have topped it, but only just. Evil grin on his face tipped me over the edge and the rest of the evening was a blur. I can remember both of us making a real nuisance of ourselves. Slapping tables, spilling drinks, shouting profanities and monkey noises, and the zenith was the introduction of the 15 year old smackhead with his glamorous (spotty teenager) assistant. He was fresh into his latest batch and was drooping all over the place as she smoked nervously on the bench opposite us. I can remember both of us laughing at him when he spilt an entire pint of water on his cock. That was funny. I have just been reminded that we also attempted to chat up 3 girls who were peacefully minding their own business in a quiet corner of the bar. A quiet corner of the bar until we breezed into their lives. Muzzoid smashed a drink the very second he sat down. What an entrance. More James Monged than James Bond. As smooth as a bag of frogs. The ladies love that one. Pour a drink over her as a first impression and she will be noshing you off within half an hour. Or not.
I think the final straw was Muzzoid ordering the two cokes at the bar and then not being coherent enough to realise that pouring the secret scotch in at the bar was a bad idea.
I have no idea how we got home without being gang raped by the local basketball team. Or maybe I just blanked it out.
We've all been there, I know.
It wasn't just me in this situation. muzzoid.stumbleupon.com [stumbleupon.com] was in the same boat as me. We were a pair of fucked motherfuckers with thirty years of useless experience between us. A marvellous situation to find yourself in. Days dragged as the distinct lack of possibilities crawled oh so slowly through my mind. They may as well have been doing a fucking cabaret for all the good it did me. I'm sure you can empathise that it was a reasonably unhappy time for me.
One day Muzzoid discovers that he has two pills going spare and has a ten pound note burning a hole in his pocket. Off we trot to a rather trendy part of South London, wondering how fucking messy we can get on a tenner. First up a trip to the off licence for a hip flask bottle of scotch that was promptly trousered. We then necked the pills and purposefully marched into a popular looking pub overlooking the central grassy common surrounded by ridiculously expensive real estate.
"Two cokes please barman".
Back to the table, surreptitious addition of scotch.
Bang.
Down the hatch.
Repeat.
By the third time, I was at the bar asking for the obligatory two cokes and wondering if I could be as nonchalant as possible despite the fact that I was in love with every single person in that room. I was worried that I would draw suspicious glances and was immensely proud that I was seeming to hold it together. I needn't have worried though as I turned back to the table with the drinks in my hand to see Muzzoid raving in his fucking chair. Had he white gloves and a whistle he could have topped it, but only just. Evil grin on his face tipped me over the edge and the rest of the evening was a blur. I can remember both of us making a real nuisance of ourselves. Slapping tables, spilling drinks, shouting profanities and monkey noises, and the zenith was the introduction of the 15 year old smackhead with his glamorous (spotty teenager) assistant. He was fresh into his latest batch and was drooping all over the place as she smoked nervously on the bench opposite us. I can remember both of us laughing at him when he spilt an entire pint of water on his cock. That was funny. I have just been reminded that we also attempted to chat up 3 girls who were peacefully minding their own business in a quiet corner of the bar. A quiet corner of the bar until we breezed into their lives. Muzzoid smashed a drink the very second he sat down. What an entrance. More James Monged than James Bond. As smooth as a bag of frogs. The ladies love that one. Pour a drink over her as a first impression and she will be noshing you off within half an hour. Or not.
I think the final straw was Muzzoid ordering the two cokes at the bar and then not being coherent enough to realise that pouring the secret scotch in at the bar was a bad idea.
I have no idea how we got home without being gang raped by the local basketball team. Or maybe I just blanked it out.
Spiders, the eight legged cunts
How does one almost eat a spider big enough and bad enough to trap and eat a fucking bird? (in list form)
In Australia
Was 24
With friend
Out drinking
Lots of drinking
Leave bar, go to club
Getting late, not pulled yet
Both switch to "standards lowered" mode
Bingo
Leave club
Go back to theirs (of course, you can't creep silently out of your own house at 6am)
Stop off at bottle shop for big bottle of whisky as the heroin required to slightly dull the memory of what was about to happen sadly wasn't available
Back to theirs, whisky. Giggling girls disappear into bedroom
More whisky
Girls emerge. One dressed in feather boa (that was it), other dressed as french maid
Friend quickly disappears with feather boa woman leaving me with french maid
Within 2 minutes hear friend going at it
French maid plays a little coy prompting me to come on strong
French maid begins to tell me how she was dumped by long term boyfriend only weeks ago.
Sexual screaming by feather boa woman. Mental note to congratulate friend on serious nature of action
French maid starts crying about her boyfriend
I lose interest. Move away
Whisky and a big fat disinterested blank
More whisky. Muffled sobs from french maid
Both myself and french maid giggle as we hear "SHOVE IT IN MY ARSE!"
Crescendo from friend and feather boa woman
French maid STILL fucking crying
Emergence of grinning friend
Whisky
More whisky
Look at watch, feign yawn. 6am! "Must go"
Leave apartment to look for cab
Walking directly next to fence, turn corner while yawning
Biggest fucking web I have ever seen spun completely across pathway, inches from my face.
Angry looking cunt of a spider. FUCKING MASSIVE and aggressively shaking in the web. All within inches of my yawning mouth
Stop dead, face actually brushes web. Spider looks me in the eye and grins.
I fucking lose my mind a little bit. Drunkenly screaming nonsense about munching a cunt that size
Legs go
On arse
Shake
Repeat for 10 minutes.
That is how I nearly ate a spider that could have easily ripped my fucking face off
In Australia
Was 24
With friend
Out drinking
Lots of drinking
Leave bar, go to club
Getting late, not pulled yet
Both switch to "standards lowered" mode
Bingo
Leave club
Go back to theirs (of course, you can't creep silently out of your own house at 6am)
Stop off at bottle shop for big bottle of whisky as the heroin required to slightly dull the memory of what was about to happen sadly wasn't available
Back to theirs, whisky. Giggling girls disappear into bedroom
More whisky
Girls emerge. One dressed in feather boa (that was it), other dressed as french maid
Friend quickly disappears with feather boa woman leaving me with french maid
Within 2 minutes hear friend going at it
French maid plays a little coy prompting me to come on strong
French maid begins to tell me how she was dumped by long term boyfriend only weeks ago.
Sexual screaming by feather boa woman. Mental note to congratulate friend on serious nature of action
French maid starts crying about her boyfriend
I lose interest. Move away
Whisky and a big fat disinterested blank
More whisky. Muffled sobs from french maid
Both myself and french maid giggle as we hear "SHOVE IT IN MY ARSE!"
Crescendo from friend and feather boa woman
French maid STILL fucking crying
Emergence of grinning friend
Whisky
More whisky
Look at watch, feign yawn. 6am! "Must go"
Leave apartment to look for cab
Walking directly next to fence, turn corner while yawning
Biggest fucking web I have ever seen spun completely across pathway, inches from my face.
Angry looking cunt of a spider. FUCKING MASSIVE and aggressively shaking in the web. All within inches of my yawning mouth
Stop dead, face actually brushes web. Spider looks me in the eye and grins.
I fucking lose my mind a little bit. Drunkenly screaming nonsense about munching a cunt that size
Legs go
On arse
Shake
Repeat for 10 minutes.
That is how I nearly ate a spider that could have easily ripped my fucking face off
Urban Feline Interpretation
I was on my way to work this morning. I leave the house earlier than most of the other commuters so am usually one of the first out on the streets. I live in what you would call a repressed part of London and every now and then it wouldn't be too unusual to find the odd curiosity on my morning walk to the station.
I find the walk to the station in the morning to be a time for curious happenings. I've seen junkies completely whacked out and sleeping while standing up, the remains of a dog fight, foxes fucking, I regularly see sofas and mattresses freshly dumped in the middle of the street, mashed up cars that have been stripped to the bone. You get the picture.
Today however proved different. Today gave me hope. Today proved to me that the diverse urban fauna that I share my little corner of London with have a hidden and coded message to tell to us all. Through the medium of contemporary minimalist art. I learnt today that cats in Catford are either brilliant post modernist modern day commentators, or just plain living up to my lifetime maxim of "Cats and Cunts, you rarely see the two of them together in the same room".
I give you their latest offering...
Cat Shit Slap Bang In The Middle Of A Slice Of Bread On Street
What a fucking shot!
I find the walk to the station in the morning to be a time for curious happenings. I've seen junkies completely whacked out and sleeping while standing up, the remains of a dog fight, foxes fucking, I regularly see sofas and mattresses freshly dumped in the middle of the street, mashed up cars that have been stripped to the bone. You get the picture.
Today however proved different. Today gave me hope. Today proved to me that the diverse urban fauna that I share my little corner of London with have a hidden and coded message to tell to us all. Through the medium of contemporary minimalist art. I learnt today that cats in Catford are either brilliant post modernist modern day commentators, or just plain living up to my lifetime maxim of "Cats and Cunts, you rarely see the two of them together in the same room".
I give you their latest offering...
Cat Shit Slap Bang In The Middle Of A Slice Of Bread On Street
What a fucking shot!
Sunday 7 September 2008
Triplicunt
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I still can't find it
Went out for lunch with a client today and got back to the office reasonably drunk. Nothing extreme, just merry. As soon as I got back to the office I headed for the toilets as I needed to take a leak. I'm at the urinal, undo my fly and reach inside.
I bought a load of new underwear a few weeks back. They are trunks, not too long but quite tight (please try and see past how gay that sounds). Like most trunks they have a flap at the front. Well, i'm still not perfectly used to them and as I got up late today and got dressed in a hurry, I must have put them on backwards and not noticed. Thus, no flap.
Back to me fiddling drunkenly in my fly. I must have been scrabbling about in there for about 10 seconds when I muttered to myself "Where the fuck is my cock?". It was only then that I noticed the new CEO of my company washing his hands at the sink. He was clocking me with a quizzical expression and I don't blame him.
I bought a load of new underwear a few weeks back. They are trunks, not too long but quite tight (please try and see past how gay that sounds). Like most trunks they have a flap at the front. Well, i'm still not perfectly used to them and as I got up late today and got dressed in a hurry, I must have put them on backwards and not noticed. Thus, no flap.
Back to me fiddling drunkenly in my fly. I must have been scrabbling about in there for about 10 seconds when I muttered to myself "Where the fuck is my cock?". It was only then that I noticed the new CEO of my company washing his hands at the sink. He was clocking me with a quizzical expression and I don't blame him.
B.Apples
The scientific world is reeling today as one of its cornerstone beliefs was shattered and scientific boundaries were pushed further into what had been previously the unknown.
Professor B.Apples recent study into "Hot Things and Drunkenness - A Happy Marriage?" was completed at the University Of My Kitchen. It was discovered that melted cheese straight from under the grill is actually 35 times hotter than the surface of the Sun.
Professor Apples was quoted as saying "This study is the culmination of an entire day drinking and then coming home hungry. Everything went to plan perfectly, I arrived at the University Of My Kitchen at about 8pm and found myself yearning for melted cheese on toast. Being the impatient cunt that I am, I decided to attempt eating the cheesy goodness within 10 seconds of it being removed from under the grill. Everything fell into place then and half of the cheese slid off the toast and flapped against my chin. Textbook. As every scientist knows, that shit sticks to you harder than herpes and I soon found myself screaming blue murder at a dairy product which was in the process of melting my lower face. *laughs* I am ashamed to say that a few choice words escaped my mouth at this point but once I had scraped the offending cheese off, and with it some of my face, I sprang into action. Luckily for science, I had the presence of mind to grab the nearest thermometer, you know, one of those you stick up your arse, and recorded a temperature of 525,000,000 Celsius. I had to really crane my neck to see the final temperature as the markers on the thermometer went in fives."
Professor Apples was said to be critical but stable in Great Ormond Street Hospital. When I spoke to the hospital administration earlier I asked them why the professor was admitted to a children's hospital. The orderly replied that since Professor Apples had a mental age of 7, a children's hospital was seen as the perfect place to aid him in his recovery.
Professor B.Apples recent study into "Hot Things and Drunkenness - A Happy Marriage?" was completed at the University Of My Kitchen. It was discovered that melted cheese straight from under the grill is actually 35 times hotter than the surface of the Sun.
Professor Apples was quoted as saying "This study is the culmination of an entire day drinking and then coming home hungry. Everything went to plan perfectly, I arrived at the University Of My Kitchen at about 8pm and found myself yearning for melted cheese on toast. Being the impatient cunt that I am, I decided to attempt eating the cheesy goodness within 10 seconds of it being removed from under the grill. Everything fell into place then and half of the cheese slid off the toast and flapped against my chin. Textbook. As every scientist knows, that shit sticks to you harder than herpes and I soon found myself screaming blue murder at a dairy product which was in the process of melting my lower face. *laughs* I am ashamed to say that a few choice words escaped my mouth at this point but once I had scraped the offending cheese off, and with it some of my face, I sprang into action. Luckily for science, I had the presence of mind to grab the nearest thermometer, you know, one of those you stick up your arse, and recorded a temperature of 525,000,000 Celsius. I had to really crane my neck to see the final temperature as the markers on the thermometer went in fives."
Professor Apples was said to be critical but stable in Great Ormond Street Hospital. When I spoke to the hospital administration earlier I asked them why the professor was admitted to a children's hospital. The orderly replied that since Professor Apples had a mental age of 7, a children's hospital was seen as the perfect place to aid him in his recovery.
Parents. Don't do it
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For the love of God, no
Cats on the internet. This one has been done to death and i'm not having a gripe. I am however rather stoned right now so humour me.
As technology advances, so we advance alongside it. Every little breakthrough is broadcast to us all in the form of quicker computers, smaller televisions, larger televisions, quicker cars etc. All this is taken in stride of course as we have enough time to become totally used to the new advance as the next one arrives. If I were to see what I see now when I was 7 years old, I am sure I would be astounded. I had not made the journey and could therefore not become accustomed to the details along the way.
With that in mind; how will the internet manifest itself in 40 or 50 years? Will it be more like what virtual reality was supposed to be a few years ago? This speculation is borne more of a stoned countenance than a scientific mind of course but I don't think that would be too impossible. Imagine the whole world online in a completely virtual world. 100% interactable.
Ok, now I have painted the picture. Imagine getting a message from one of those annoying people that forward shitty emails. Would the internet have evolved enough to have you just going about your own business and then being utterly swarmed by lolcats? All talking in nonsense. All daft faces and "HALP!" and "OH HAI!". Fucking smothering you in that annoying way cats have. 300 retarded and spasticated cats weaving between your legs as you are crossing the street. Appearing out of nowhere to reduce your life to useless fragments.
Wouldn't that be the most horrific experience.
As technology advances, so we advance alongside it. Every little breakthrough is broadcast to us all in the form of quicker computers, smaller televisions, larger televisions, quicker cars etc. All this is taken in stride of course as we have enough time to become totally used to the new advance as the next one arrives. If I were to see what I see now when I was 7 years old, I am sure I would be astounded. I had not made the journey and could therefore not become accustomed to the details along the way.
With that in mind; how will the internet manifest itself in 40 or 50 years? Will it be more like what virtual reality was supposed to be a few years ago? This speculation is borne more of a stoned countenance than a scientific mind of course but I don't think that would be too impossible. Imagine the whole world online in a completely virtual world. 100% interactable.
Ok, now I have painted the picture. Imagine getting a message from one of those annoying people that forward shitty emails. Would the internet have evolved enough to have you just going about your own business and then being utterly swarmed by lolcats? All talking in nonsense. All daft faces and "HALP!" and "OH HAI!". Fucking smothering you in that annoying way cats have. 300 retarded and spasticated cats weaving between your legs as you are crossing the street. Appearing out of nowhere to reduce your life to useless fragments.
Wouldn't that be the most horrific experience.
Camels
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Important
The importance of putting words in the right order.
Spider Monkey - Awww. Cute.
Monkey Spider - Holy shit. Scariest thing on eight legs. Run for the fucking hills
Spider Monkey - Awww. Cute.
Monkey Spider - Holy shit. Scariest thing on eight legs. Run for the fucking hills
Proof that God is a cunt
Proof that God is a cunt. Me treading on an upturned plug three times in two days. I know that we are supposed to have free choice and that is why God doesn't interfere but I would gladly be a God driven robot of the apocalypse if it meant no more fucking plugs.
A plug is a handy thing until it lies on its back. Then it becomes a cunt.
I prefer the religious system of the old pagans. The religions where they have Gods for every little thing. Makes far more sense than the single omnipotent God. The God Of Making A Cup Of Tea has been a close personal friend of mine for years. We chat, laugh, joke. He giveth up his juice and I sup heartily at his teat. That kind of thing. Then you get the more scurrilous Gods. The God Of Painting for instance. He is a huge cunt. I rarely see him but whenever I do he makes my life miserable. The God of Drama is another one. She comes and goes in waves. She is pretty busy right now. As long as she isn't looking at me, I enjoy her frilly and turbulent ministrations.
Life is way easier thinking like this. You fuck badly with someone and mess them up a little too much, well, you've only pissed off the God Of Harassment. As long as you help old ladies across the road and gain the good favour of the God of Cardigans And Biscuits And Slippers, you are even. No single entity to keep score on your life as a total and you can mix it up a bit.
Plus, praying can be more fun and far more relevant.
"Please God of Train Timetables, hold that train for 2 more minutes. I'm nearly at the station"
"Please God of My Annoying Colleagues, make a meteor fall on my office while i'm outside for a cigarette"
"Please God of Social Interaction, don't let me make a tit of myself while drunk. Actually, pass this one on to the God of Beer while you're at it. I think he hates me even though I love him"
That sort of thing.
A plug is a handy thing until it lies on its back. Then it becomes a cunt.
I prefer the religious system of the old pagans. The religions where they have Gods for every little thing. Makes far more sense than the single omnipotent God. The God Of Making A Cup Of Tea has been a close personal friend of mine for years. We chat, laugh, joke. He giveth up his juice and I sup heartily at his teat. That kind of thing. Then you get the more scurrilous Gods. The God Of Painting for instance. He is a huge cunt. I rarely see him but whenever I do he makes my life miserable. The God of Drama is another one. She comes and goes in waves. She is pretty busy right now. As long as she isn't looking at me, I enjoy her frilly and turbulent ministrations.
Life is way easier thinking like this. You fuck badly with someone and mess them up a little too much, well, you've only pissed off the God Of Harassment. As long as you help old ladies across the road and gain the good favour of the God of Cardigans And Biscuits And Slippers, you are even. No single entity to keep score on your life as a total and you can mix it up a bit.
Plus, praying can be more fun and far more relevant.
"Please God of Train Timetables, hold that train for 2 more minutes. I'm nearly at the station"
"Please God of My Annoying Colleagues, make a meteor fall on my office while i'm outside for a cigarette"
"Please God of Social Interaction, don't let me make a tit of myself while drunk. Actually, pass this one on to the God of Beer while you're at it. I think he hates me even though I love him"
That sort of thing.
Put it on the table
If you put a table in front of me, I will put something on it. What I put on the table is unimportant but fuck me I will put something on it. I have no idea why I do this and most of the time I don't even realise I am doing it until I look at the table full of bits and pieces of crap. Bits and pieces that were probably not even in my possession until a fucking table appears out of nowhere.
Not 20 minutes ago I moved a little table, that normally lives by the window, in front of me to write a birthday card. It had nothing on it 20 minutes ago. Now it has a laptop, 4 lighters, a mug of tea, 2 pens, 1 ashtray, 3 birthday cards, a shopping list, a packet of rolling papers, a mobile phone, and a roll of sellotape.
All that in 20 minutes. All without realising it.
Not 20 minutes ago I moved a little table, that normally lives by the window, in front of me to write a birthday card. It had nothing on it 20 minutes ago. Now it has a laptop, 4 lighters, a mug of tea, 2 pens, 1 ashtray, 3 birthday cards, a shopping list, a packet of rolling papers, a mobile phone, and a roll of sellotape.
All that in 20 minutes. All without realising it.
I'm quick on my feet when necessary
I've been having quite a lot of underwear related mishaps recently. I have only made that connection by realising that I have told you lot about them all already. Not sure what I shall take from that little snippet but all knowledge has power so maybe it shall become apparent later.
Back to the pants. As ridiculously inane as it seems at this moment, I have mentioned the fact that I bought a load of new underpants recently. I like them. Having nice pants is one of the little seemingly insignificant check points you encounter in everyday life that can make or break your day. I'm not going to go into the other points because I have been dithering for long enough telling you this much, and so to the point.
My pants. I like them, but am still not completely at home in their enveloping confines. We're still working things out you know? I like them, they like me. We're at that "Should I ask her to move in? She spends most nights here anyway?" stage. Not quite 100% sure yet. So, there is me walking down the street today. On my way to some particularly unimpressive event or other when I encounter an uncomfortable feeling. The inside left leg of the trunks has ridden up until it is all wedged right at the top of my gusset (what a fucking word gusset is, marvellously disgusting). After maybe ten or so steps I have come to the conclusion that this is a situation that requires immediate attention. No, I can't wait until I get to wherever I am going. Action is necessary. I look left, then right and realise the only person near me is a woman about 15 feet in front walking in the same direction. Action was necessary and so I unzipped my fly (all on the hoof), reached right inside and grabbed the offensive gathering taking place in my trousers. Then she glanced behind her. Why? I wasn't making any noise. You hadn't looked around in the few minutes I was walking a distance behind you. Why now?
What she saw: A large man walking determinedly behind her with half his arm in his fly as he followed on.
What I realised I looked like: A large man walking determinedly behind a poor woman with half my arm in my fly as I followed her.
What I did: Sprinted toward her before she could make a noise, grabbed her around the mouth and dragged her into an alleyway and raped her. For at least 4 hours.*
*that last bit isn't true
Back to the pants. As ridiculously inane as it seems at this moment, I have mentioned the fact that I bought a load of new underpants recently. I like them. Having nice pants is one of the little seemingly insignificant check points you encounter in everyday life that can make or break your day. I'm not going to go into the other points because I have been dithering for long enough telling you this much, and so to the point.
My pants. I like them, but am still not completely at home in their enveloping confines. We're still working things out you know? I like them, they like me. We're at that "Should I ask her to move in? She spends most nights here anyway?" stage. Not quite 100% sure yet. So, there is me walking down the street today. On my way to some particularly unimpressive event or other when I encounter an uncomfortable feeling. The inside left leg of the trunks has ridden up until it is all wedged right at the top of my gusset (what a fucking word gusset is, marvellously disgusting). After maybe ten or so steps I have come to the conclusion that this is a situation that requires immediate attention. No, I can't wait until I get to wherever I am going. Action is necessary. I look left, then right and realise the only person near me is a woman about 15 feet in front walking in the same direction. Action was necessary and so I unzipped my fly (all on the hoof), reached right inside and grabbed the offensive gathering taking place in my trousers. Then she glanced behind her. Why? I wasn't making any noise. You hadn't looked around in the few minutes I was walking a distance behind you. Why now?
What she saw: A large man walking determinedly behind her with half his arm in his fly as he followed on.
What I realised I looked like: A large man walking determinedly behind a poor woman with half my arm in my fly as I followed her.
What I did: Sprinted toward her before she could make a noise, grabbed her around the mouth and dragged her into an alleyway and raped her. For at least 4 hours.*
*that last bit isn't true
Click
Got up a little late yesterday morning and had a speedy shave that left my face feeling despoiled. Something every man has experienced at some point or another. As luck would have it, one of my colleagues had been having close discussions with Nivea and as a result was sent 4 boxes of Nivea products. I promptly grabbed some post shave balm and was surprised at how it helped as I had never used any product like this before.
I got talking with my boss about this and a nonsensical discussion ensued concerning how much of a pain in the arse it was to have to shave every day. As is the way with discussions of this type a quandary was pronounced and all considered it.
If you could pay a large sum of money, say £10,000, to undergo a procedure that meant you would never have to shave again, would you entertain the idea? Surprisingly, quite a few guys said they would. I don't enjoy scraping my face daily with a blade but £10,000 is a lot of cash. There is also the masochistic joy of waking up the morning after the night before and feeling like shit. Having to put on yesterdays crumpled clothes in a strange house, lighting a cigarette despite your throat screaming at you to do anything other than that, and rubbing your hand across your face and feeling a scratchy covering of whiskers. You only look and feel like shit because you threw caution to the wind the night before. The wages of hedonism are hangovers. That was my contribution to the discussion anyway but it did get me thinking along the same lines.
Stupid propositions I would consider:
1. Paying a large sum of money to have the ability to click your fingers and instantly appear at a single pre arranged place.
I like this one. It may not seem so attractive a proposal now while you read this at your computer but being somewhere you don't want to be and being able to navigate the problem by simply clicking your fingers sounds great to me. Needing a cab at 4am and can't find one? Click. Being at a friends house that is at least 2 hours away and needing to go through the fucking hassle of up, out, train, bus, home? Click. Being arrested and placed in jail? Click.
Her: "I've been thinking, we've been friends for a while and I want to take this relationship to the next level. What do you think?"
Me: Click.
Sounds like a fucking winner to me
2. Paying a large sum of money to have the ability to make others internal thoughts audible to all regardless of their wishes. All at the click of your fingers.
Again this one needs a little imagination. Having a chat with the boss about the wage increase you've been wanting for ages:
Boss: "Well, we think that if you can just try that bit harder in the next 6 months you will definitely be in line for a pay increase
Me: Click
Boss: *Give me yet more of your precious life, I shall wring more blood from your weary corpse for the pleasure of another £50 a month.*
I would also take great joy in sitting in on any discussion between two or more ultra PC people and clicking my fingers like I was part of a travelling flamenco troupe.
Person 1: "I honestly believe that implementing these rulings will have a positive impact on how we treat fellow human beings"
Me: Click
Person 1 again: *I hate all niggers, jews, pakis and gyppos but think I can climb the ladder faster this way*
Marvellous
I have others and will add them when my hangover recedes a little.
If you want to play along, all propositions MUST INVOLVE THE CLICKING OF FINGERS. Any propositions without this will be instantly discounted.
I got talking with my boss about this and a nonsensical discussion ensued concerning how much of a pain in the arse it was to have to shave every day. As is the way with discussions of this type a quandary was pronounced and all considered it.
If you could pay a large sum of money, say £10,000, to undergo a procedure that meant you would never have to shave again, would you entertain the idea? Surprisingly, quite a few guys said they would. I don't enjoy scraping my face daily with a blade but £10,000 is a lot of cash. There is also the masochistic joy of waking up the morning after the night before and feeling like shit. Having to put on yesterdays crumpled clothes in a strange house, lighting a cigarette despite your throat screaming at you to do anything other than that, and rubbing your hand across your face and feeling a scratchy covering of whiskers. You only look and feel like shit because you threw caution to the wind the night before. The wages of hedonism are hangovers. That was my contribution to the discussion anyway but it did get me thinking along the same lines.
Stupid propositions I would consider:
1. Paying a large sum of money to have the ability to click your fingers and instantly appear at a single pre arranged place.
I like this one. It may not seem so attractive a proposal now while you read this at your computer but being somewhere you don't want to be and being able to navigate the problem by simply clicking your fingers sounds great to me. Needing a cab at 4am and can't find one? Click. Being at a friends house that is at least 2 hours away and needing to go through the fucking hassle of up, out, train, bus, home? Click. Being arrested and placed in jail? Click.
Her: "I've been thinking, we've been friends for a while and I want to take this relationship to the next level. What do you think?"
Me: Click.
Sounds like a fucking winner to me
2. Paying a large sum of money to have the ability to make others internal thoughts audible to all regardless of their wishes. All at the click of your fingers.
Again this one needs a little imagination. Having a chat with the boss about the wage increase you've been wanting for ages:
Boss: "Well, we think that if you can just try that bit harder in the next 6 months you will definitely be in line for a pay increase
Me: Click
Boss: *Give me yet more of your precious life, I shall wring more blood from your weary corpse for the pleasure of another £50 a month.*
I would also take great joy in sitting in on any discussion between two or more ultra PC people and clicking my fingers like I was part of a travelling flamenco troupe.
Person 1: "I honestly believe that implementing these rulings will have a positive impact on how we treat fellow human beings"
Me: Click
Person 1 again: *I hate all niggers, jews, pakis and gyppos but think I can climb the ladder faster this way*
Marvellous
I have others and will add them when my hangover recedes a little.
If you want to play along, all propositions MUST INVOLVE THE CLICKING OF FINGERS. Any propositions without this will be instantly discounted.
Friday 11 July 2008
The Sockocaust
Socks. Considering their undeniably mundane nature, they have this astonishing ability to fuck everything up. In my life anyway.
In my first job there was a strict stipulation that all socks worn at work must be black. A little extreme you may think but I was wearing a dinner suit as well. Wearing bright red socks with a dinner suit makes you either look slightly eccentric, or a massive cunt. Neither was the required look, so black socks all round.
Buying socks from then on became an automated activity. Black socks, 6 pairs for £5. All day long. Two or three bundles at a time. The only problem arose when I had washed and dried them. I was always left with a bundle of black socks and pairing them up correctly was going to be an effort. I soon lost interest in that and just chucked them all in the sock drawer together. Whenever I needed some socks I would grab the first two socks in the drawer and put them on.
Every now and then a sock would tear, as socks do, and it would get thrown in the bin. Whenever the s(t)ockpile ran low, a trip to the shops and 6 pairs for £5 later the problem was sorted. Thus my socks had an organic growth rate and there was no way of knowing just how old each individual sock was.
I've been doing this for 12 years now (I just laughed at myself as I typed that) and today is a momentous day. I just threw out every single fucking sock I could find. If those socks were Jewish then I was Joseph Mengele. No quarter was given. A cold and detached operation I can assure you all. No sock was harmed anymore than was absolutely necessary. Subsequently I am going to chuck a match onto the small mountain of petrol soaked socks in my garden right now.
I also purchased 14 pairs of brand spanking new black socks. And so it begins again. Next scheduled sock holocaust 30th June 2020.
In my first job there was a strict stipulation that all socks worn at work must be black. A little extreme you may think but I was wearing a dinner suit as well. Wearing bright red socks with a dinner suit makes you either look slightly eccentric, or a massive cunt. Neither was the required look, so black socks all round.
Buying socks from then on became an automated activity. Black socks, 6 pairs for £5. All day long. Two or three bundles at a time. The only problem arose when I had washed and dried them. I was always left with a bundle of black socks and pairing them up correctly was going to be an effort. I soon lost interest in that and just chucked them all in the sock drawer together. Whenever I needed some socks I would grab the first two socks in the drawer and put them on.
Every now and then a sock would tear, as socks do, and it would get thrown in the bin. Whenever the s(t)ockpile ran low, a trip to the shops and 6 pairs for £5 later the problem was sorted. Thus my socks had an organic growth rate and there was no way of knowing just how old each individual sock was.
I've been doing this for 12 years now (I just laughed at myself as I typed that) and today is a momentous day. I just threw out every single fucking sock I could find. If those socks were Jewish then I was Joseph Mengele. No quarter was given. A cold and detached operation I can assure you all. No sock was harmed anymore than was absolutely necessary. Subsequently I am going to chuck a match onto the small mountain of petrol soaked socks in my garden right now.
I also purchased 14 pairs of brand spanking new black socks. And so it begins again. Next scheduled sock holocaust 30th June 2020.
Authentic Cunts
I had a few beers on Friday afternoon with a friend who happened to be going to Peru the next day to see Machu Pichu. Very nice. The pavements outside all the pubs were fucking rammed with people. I guess that they were all in "meetings", just like I was. Anyway, a couple of pretentious tossers standing close by happened to hear us discuss her trip and invited themselves into our Friday afternoon. There was a guy and a girl. He looked as if his name was Quentin and he looked desperate to convey his creative tension within. A cunt basically. All piercings and intricately shaven patterns in his scrawny bumfluff beard. She on the other hand looked as is she was called Cressida and was a little horsey to look at. I only know that cos I offered her a sugar lump and she had my fingers off. Haughty as well. Another cunt.
Quentin inquired as to whether my friend was going on the four day trail or taking the train up instead. She told him that she was using the train. A sensible choice if you ask me. If there is one word I associate with mountain climbing it is "why?". Quentins face lit up at this answer as he then launched into a lecture on how she was missing out on the authentic experience by doing this. He told us in glorious detail about his 4 day trek up the side of a Peruvian mountain. He felt he had connected with the indigenous peoples during this trip. A truly authentic experience. I did ask him whether he now sacrificed small children daily on the upper step of his personal Ziggurat. Drenching both the steps and himself in their lifeblood. Seeing as that was the truly authentic response to the area, I fully expected him to answer yes and tell us how his family line could be traced back to Montezuma himself. Unfortunately he didn't. He got the underlying sentiment of my question though and turned back to Cressida as she snorted and shook her head. I wish I had a curry comb to offer but alas I had left mine at home that morning.
Why do people always seek to experience true authenticity to the point of ridiculousness?
"Oh yeah, seriously, you simply must go to Kallamattarecopapolous. Make sure it is during the summer solstice, yeah. That is their holy time you know. Seriously, I felt truly Greek then."
Or
"Oh you must try this recipe I got back from Sicily. You absolutely have to use Sicilian lemons picked from the tree on the waxing of the moon in the fourth phase, of course. If you can't get those lemons, don't bother, just forget it."
What a heap of shit. Indigenous accents are adopted by some on their return from their holidays. Someone comes back from their 2 weeks in Thailand and suddenly pronounce the place names in what they deem an authentic Thai accent.
"Well, that is how they pronounce it over there you know. No need to call me a cunt for trying to be real."
Yes there is, and there always will be.
Quentin inquired as to whether my friend was going on the four day trail or taking the train up instead. She told him that she was using the train. A sensible choice if you ask me. If there is one word I associate with mountain climbing it is "why?". Quentins face lit up at this answer as he then launched into a lecture on how she was missing out on the authentic experience by doing this. He told us in glorious detail about his 4 day trek up the side of a Peruvian mountain. He felt he had connected with the indigenous peoples during this trip. A truly authentic experience. I did ask him whether he now sacrificed small children daily on the upper step of his personal Ziggurat. Drenching both the steps and himself in their lifeblood. Seeing as that was the truly authentic response to the area, I fully expected him to answer yes and tell us how his family line could be traced back to Montezuma himself. Unfortunately he didn't. He got the underlying sentiment of my question though and turned back to Cressida as she snorted and shook her head. I wish I had a curry comb to offer but alas I had left mine at home that morning.
Why do people always seek to experience true authenticity to the point of ridiculousness?
"Oh yeah, seriously, you simply must go to Kallamattarecopapolous. Make sure it is during the summer solstice, yeah. That is their holy time you know. Seriously, I felt truly Greek then."
Or
"Oh you must try this recipe I got back from Sicily. You absolutely have to use Sicilian lemons picked from the tree on the waxing of the moon in the fourth phase, of course. If you can't get those lemons, don't bother, just forget it."
What a heap of shit. Indigenous accents are adopted by some on their return from their holidays. Someone comes back from their 2 weeks in Thailand and suddenly pronounce the place names in what they deem an authentic Thai accent.
"Well, that is how they pronounce it over there you know. No need to call me a cunt for trying to be real."
Yes there is, and there always will be.
Pigeon Face Flap AIDS Fiasco
Picture the scene: Me, walking to walk along a busy street in the heart of the city at about 8:30am yesterday morning. In my hand I have a steaming hot, freshly purchased cup of coffee. I am surrounded by busy looking people all walking with great determination towards their respective offices. No one is out for a stroll. No one is interested in the richly detailed history under their very feet. Who gives a fuck if the consort of King Henry VIII resided not 20 feet from their present location? Not us, we're on the WAY TO WORK motherfuckers. Out of our fucking way. My whole existence at this point is my next step, and then the one that would follow. Homing in on my office. Nothing else matters.
I am approaching a building on my left that is being refurbished and the building work is spilling, ever so slightly, onto the pavement in front of me. I spy two pigeons there on the pavement. They were also looking quite determined in their endeavours, whatever they may have been. Trotting around looking important to all the other pigeons that may be watching. I didn't notice as I was so ensconced within my own journey. A huge bang erupted from the building site just as I drew level with it. It happened to jolt me a little. It also happened to scare the fucking crap out of the two pigeons who were now directly in front of me, maybe 3 feet away. One pigeon flew directly away from me looking rather urgent. The other pigeon decided to do a 180 and took off, still with his back to me. He (or maybe she) banked hard to the left and headed right towards my face. Then, our world drowned in honey and time seemed to freeze. I say "our" as I know that the pigeon had the exact same feeling as me. We had eye contact. Seriously. I don't know too many people that have looked a pigeon in the eye. And survived. His velocity was terminal and my positioning was flawed, and there was fuck all either of us could do about it. Not a fucking thing.
I knew he was gonna hit me and could also tell he was going to connect with my face. My most prominent thought was for the coffee. Not the coffee itself but its temperature. If I start flapping, there is a good chance that i'll be wearing boiling fluid. Not the best way to start the day, and so I stopped dead. Medusa couldn't have frozen me any harder as Mr. Pigeon crashed into my face. I wasn't flapping, but he was. Fucking hell, had you asked me how many wings a pigeon has at that exact moment, I would have confidently argued for at least 15. 15 fucking SETS of wings. My face was screwed up and out of the very corner of my pursed lips I am cursing at this fucking flying cunt as he flaps, and he flaps, and then he fucking flaps again.
Face - pigeon, pigeon - face.
Then it was over and the suddenness of the incident makes me stop. All I can hear is the wind, and the tale end of a fading "Flapping cunt..." trailing from my lips.
As soon as I came too properly, I turned on my heel and headed for the nearest chemist for heavy duty anti-bacterial wipes to clean the copious Pigeon AIDS that covered my face.
Not nice
I am approaching a building on my left that is being refurbished and the building work is spilling, ever so slightly, onto the pavement in front of me. I spy two pigeons there on the pavement. They were also looking quite determined in their endeavours, whatever they may have been. Trotting around looking important to all the other pigeons that may be watching. I didn't notice as I was so ensconced within my own journey. A huge bang erupted from the building site just as I drew level with it. It happened to jolt me a little. It also happened to scare the fucking crap out of the two pigeons who were now directly in front of me, maybe 3 feet away. One pigeon flew directly away from me looking rather urgent. The other pigeon decided to do a 180 and took off, still with his back to me. He (or maybe she) banked hard to the left and headed right towards my face. Then, our world drowned in honey and time seemed to freeze. I say "our" as I know that the pigeon had the exact same feeling as me. We had eye contact. Seriously. I don't know too many people that have looked a pigeon in the eye. And survived. His velocity was terminal and my positioning was flawed, and there was fuck all either of us could do about it. Not a fucking thing.
I knew he was gonna hit me and could also tell he was going to connect with my face. My most prominent thought was for the coffee. Not the coffee itself but its temperature. If I start flapping, there is a good chance that i'll be wearing boiling fluid. Not the best way to start the day, and so I stopped dead. Medusa couldn't have frozen me any harder as Mr. Pigeon crashed into my face. I wasn't flapping, but he was. Fucking hell, had you asked me how many wings a pigeon has at that exact moment, I would have confidently argued for at least 15. 15 fucking SETS of wings. My face was screwed up and out of the very corner of my pursed lips I am cursing at this fucking flying cunt as he flaps, and he flaps, and then he fucking flaps again.
Face - pigeon, pigeon - face.
Then it was over and the suddenness of the incident makes me stop. All I can hear is the wind, and the tale end of a fading "Flapping cunt..." trailing from my lips.
As soon as I came too properly, I turned on my heel and headed for the nearest chemist for heavy duty anti-bacterial wipes to clean the copious Pigeon AIDS that covered my face.
Not nice
Wednesday 14 May 2008
Fannies taste of...
I got into the habit of listening to the late night radio phone in shows when I was about 13. It is a mini obsession of mine. Some people need to hear the ocean to fall asleep, some need white noise in the background. I have a friend who leaves the extractor turned on in his bathroom all night and the gentle humming rocks him to sleep. I need to listen to stupid cunts discussing all manner of subjects. I rarely enjoy it to be honest but every now and then you hear something that makes it all worthwhile, like just now.
There I am, lying in bed and the subject tonight is "what is the weirdest thing you have ever eaten?". They were getting the usual crap from the spasmo public "Ooooh, I ate a frog once" or "Am I on air? I am? I once tasted Giraffe." All boring. Then this one guy comes on and tells how he was recently in Zambia and at this time of year they are inundated with millions and millions of crane flies. The locals catch them in huge nets, grind them up into a paste, and make burgers out of them.
Caller: "So, there I was in this restaurant and they served me this burger made out of this paste. It was a proper burger, they served it with tomato sauce and everything"
Host: "So you ate this burger made out of flies...A fly burger basically..."
Caller: "Yeah, it wasn't too bad to be honest, I've eaten worse."
Host: "Well, tomato sauce does mask a lot of flavours doesn't it?"
Caller: "Yeah, especially on your birds fanny"
Host: *embarrassed* "I'm really sorry for letting that one get through ladies and gentleman, you all have my apologies."
This made me chuckle at first, then more as I thought about it and in the end I was laughing so hard that I had to get out of bed to have another joint.
Finished my joint now so i'm back to bed.
There I am, lying in bed and the subject tonight is "what is the weirdest thing you have ever eaten?". They were getting the usual crap from the spasmo public "Ooooh, I ate a frog once" or "Am I on air? I am? I once tasted Giraffe." All boring. Then this one guy comes on and tells how he was recently in Zambia and at this time of year they are inundated with millions and millions of crane flies. The locals catch them in huge nets, grind them up into a paste, and make burgers out of them.
Caller: "So, there I was in this restaurant and they served me this burger made out of this paste. It was a proper burger, they served it with tomato sauce and everything"
Host: "So you ate this burger made out of flies...A fly burger basically..."
Caller: "Yeah, it wasn't too bad to be honest, I've eaten worse."
Host: "Well, tomato sauce does mask a lot of flavours doesn't it?"
Caller: "Yeah, especially on your birds fanny"
Host: *embarrassed* "I'm really sorry for letting that one get through ladies and gentleman, you all have my apologies."
This made me chuckle at first, then more as I thought about it and in the end I was laughing so hard that I had to get out of bed to have another joint.
Finished my joint now so i'm back to bed.
Why The Sea is a cunt
I was about 5 years old and visiting the family in Gibraltar. I went there every year for the whole summer. My parents would dump my sister and me on my grandmothers doorstep and fuck off for some peace and quiet of their own. Those trips gave me some great memories. Everything seems warm and hazy in recollection now apart from one incident. As I said, I was about 5 or 6 at the time and every day in Gibraltar was spent at the beach. A place called Catalan Bay. A little cove beach that used to stare across the Mediterranean Sea straight across to Africa. My uncle was teaching me to swim in the shallows. I was swimming face down, with goggles on, while my uncle held me across the stomach. He was my swimming stabilisers. After I got a little confident he let go of me without me knowing and watched me as I swam out to about 4 or 5 foot in depth. Then I realised he had let go and stuck my head out of the water to look back at him with a huge grin on my face. I was swimming! To a five year old, that is just about the biggest thing that has happened to you so far. I saw my uncle wave and smile and I waved back, laughing, and turned back to my greatest achievement to see this massive cunt staring me in the face. We locked eyes and I fucking shit myself . Just the thought of it now, over 25 years later, still makes me shiver. I get that ice ball in my stomach. You can imagine my reaction anyway. I went fucking apoplectic. Screaming and almost drowning.
It was just my luck that the fisherman were bringing their catch in at that time and had to tow that scary bastard back as it was too big to put in their little row boat. You can't imagine the lengths my family went to to try and make me feel better. I remember another uncle making a huge mound of sand and telling me he had buried it, all my family there telling me "Look, Uncle Sidney has killed it, it is safe now". Even then I can remember thinking they were all stupid cunts for expecting me to believe that. Well, I probably didn't think "cunts" as i didn't know that word yet. I guess it would have been the worst word I knew as a five year old, maybe "poo poo head" or something like that.
That is why I hate the sea and can happily say "Fuck the ocean". The ancients said it best when they marked their ancient maps with the words "Here be monsters" over any expanse of water.
Fucking hate it
It was just my luck that the fisherman were bringing their catch in at that time and had to tow that scary bastard back as it was too big to put in their little row boat. You can't imagine the lengths my family went to to try and make me feel better. I remember another uncle making a huge mound of sand and telling me he had buried it, all my family there telling me "Look, Uncle Sidney has killed it, it is safe now". Even then I can remember thinking they were all stupid cunts for expecting me to believe that. Well, I probably didn't think "cunts" as i didn't know that word yet. I guess it would have been the worst word I knew as a five year old, maybe "poo poo head" or something like that.
That is why I hate the sea and can happily say "Fuck the ocean". The ancients said it best when they marked their ancient maps with the words "Here be monsters" over any expanse of water.
Fucking hate it
Tea, my ambrosia.
I've just had satellite TV installed in my flat after a four year absence. The engineer called round and set to work with the minimum of fuss. While he was busying himself with wires and the like I offered him a cup of tea.
If you're not native to these parts, you may need to know about the ancient British tradition of "Tea". Everyone has heard of the Japanese Tea Ceremony, I feel it is only fair I should share this knowledge with you. For your own sake.
When someone offers you a cup of tea over here, there are very few answers that are acceptable to that specific question. Obviously, Yes or No are your first choices. All other answers will be met with incredulous stares. "Do you have coffee?" is a common mistake made at this point. Were you offered coffee? No. Don't ask for it then. That would be like walking into Burger King and asking to see their selection of antique Edwardian furniture. You wouldn't do that there, likewise, don't do that here. If your answer is Yes, then you open up another set of very limited answers to the question of "How do you like it?". You may now inform your host of your preference for the milk/sugar combination or lack thereof. It is absolutely crucial that at this point that none of the following words are mentioned: Rose hip, Apple & Mango, Apple & Blackberry, Lemon, Ginger & Echinacea, Raspberry & Peach, Strawberry & Kiwi, Camomile, Lime Blossom, Nettle, Peppermint etc. Down that path leads to both madness and black eyes. These words are abominations to all true Native Brits. It would be tantamount to calling them paedophiles. In their own house. No one wants a repeat of the unfortunate incident back in 1973 where 14 Californian tourists were needlessly and callously stripped, tarred and feathered, made to gorge on crumpets and walk down Oxford Street with placards stating that they were indeed "IRA", all for the crime of requesting "Green Tea". Ugly scenes.
If your host is particularly hospitable they may offer you biscuits and on rarer occasions, cake. It is perfectly acceptable to "dunk" your biscuits in your tea. For the love of God don't dunk cake. That would make you look a right cunt. You may see your host mixing tar in the kitchen and heating some crumpets at this point. If you do see this, accept your punishment with good grace and try to adapt the "stiff upper lip" the British are so fond of.
If you follow these simple rules, you should be fine.
Back to my original point made way back in the first paragraph. The engineer fixing me up asked for his tea with milk and 7 sugars. Fucking hell, it was like milky syrup by the time I had finished stirring.
If you're not native to these parts, you may need to know about the ancient British tradition of "Tea". Everyone has heard of the Japanese Tea Ceremony, I feel it is only fair I should share this knowledge with you. For your own sake.
When someone offers you a cup of tea over here, there are very few answers that are acceptable to that specific question. Obviously, Yes or No are your first choices. All other answers will be met with incredulous stares. "Do you have coffee?" is a common mistake made at this point. Were you offered coffee? No. Don't ask for it then. That would be like walking into Burger King and asking to see their selection of antique Edwardian furniture. You wouldn't do that there, likewise, don't do that here. If your answer is Yes, then you open up another set of very limited answers to the question of "How do you like it?". You may now inform your host of your preference for the milk/sugar combination or lack thereof. It is absolutely crucial that at this point that none of the following words are mentioned: Rose hip, Apple & Mango, Apple & Blackberry, Lemon, Ginger & Echinacea, Raspberry & Peach, Strawberry & Kiwi, Camomile, Lime Blossom, Nettle, Peppermint etc. Down that path leads to both madness and black eyes. These words are abominations to all true Native Brits. It would be tantamount to calling them paedophiles. In their own house. No one wants a repeat of the unfortunate incident back in 1973 where 14 Californian tourists were needlessly and callously stripped, tarred and feathered, made to gorge on crumpets and walk down Oxford Street with placards stating that they were indeed "IRA", all for the crime of requesting "Green Tea". Ugly scenes.
If your host is particularly hospitable they may offer you biscuits and on rarer occasions, cake. It is perfectly acceptable to "dunk" your biscuits in your tea. For the love of God don't dunk cake. That would make you look a right cunt. You may see your host mixing tar in the kitchen and heating some crumpets at this point. If you do see this, accept your punishment with good grace and try to adapt the "stiff upper lip" the British are so fond of.
If you follow these simple rules, you should be fine.
Back to my original point made way back in the first paragraph. The engineer fixing me up asked for his tea with milk and 7 sugars. Fucking hell, it was like milky syrup by the time I had finished stirring.
Stolen = Tasty
I was really good today. No booze. I had no client lunches, bought a sandwich and sat in front of my laptop, doing some work shit. I was actually quite proud of myself. I had had a horrific morning. I got soaked to my underpants on my way to work because there were seriously heavy storms in SE of England this morning.
All I wanted was normality, even though my underpants were soaking. Fucking nasty. I lasted until about 4pm when I had a meeting to go see a new potential client for the first time. We had a business chat for about 15 minutes and then we hit the whisky. 8pm and I am fucking hammered and decide it is time to go home. One eye closed as I went down the stairs to the tube, that was how twatted I was. When I finally got to my home station I went to my local store to grab something to eat as I was starving. I thought it was a good idea to lean on their promotional stand of chocolate easter bunnies. The stand was taller than me. It fell over. Everyone looked at me. i turned around and walked out, still holding the sandwich which was now a stolen sandwich.
Man that sandwich tasted good. Now I can't go to that shop for a while.
All I wanted was normality, even though my underpants were soaking. Fucking nasty. I lasted until about 4pm when I had a meeting to go see a new potential client for the first time. We had a business chat for about 15 minutes and then we hit the whisky. 8pm and I am fucking hammered and decide it is time to go home. One eye closed as I went down the stairs to the tube, that was how twatted I was. When I finally got to my home station I went to my local store to grab something to eat as I was starving. I thought it was a good idea to lean on their promotional stand of chocolate easter bunnies. The stand was taller than me. It fell over. Everyone looked at me. i turned around and walked out, still holding the sandwich which was now a stolen sandwich.
Man that sandwich tasted good. Now I can't go to that shop for a while.
Must. Stop. Smoking.
Fuck, I must stop smoking weed. Seriously, it is giving me wicked mood swings.
I've put myself about a bit in my time where drugs are concerned. I don't pretend to be an expert but I do know what I am talking about. I have experienced all kinds of fucked up, most good but some bad. There are many kinds that will kick you in the face within minutes of ingestion. There are many that take half an hour plus to kick in. Then there is weed or hash. No matter how much you smoke or eat, the very worse that will happen to you is that you will eat bullshit and instant food and then pass out. I remember reading somewhere that you would need to eat a lump the size of a large loaf of bread before you put yourself in serious danger.
Having said all that, there have been several times I have been at my wits end with drugs and all but one have been with hash. This stuff creeps up on you before you know what is happening and then twats you round the head so hard your teeth rattle.
An example. I am sitting on the train on the way home this evening. I have done fuck all real work today and have spent the last two hours drinking and laughing and I haven't put my hand in my pocket once. All very jolly. I am reading my book and minding my own business, thinking about what I am going to do on my four days off I have on front of me when a guy and his two friends walk past and sit in the seats around me. This guy seems happy and so do his friends. I can't hear what they are talking about as I have my earphones in. This guy gently brushes past me and ever so slightly bumps the book that is in my hand. In a fucking instant I am transformed into a fucking inhabitant from the seventh level of hell. My relaxed and wistful state of mind is now seriously considering ripping out this guys eyes and swallowing them whole. All for the crime of walking past me. This happened maybe 50 minutes ago and I am still a little grumpy. Not half as bad as I was 45 minutes ago but still.
I really have to stop smoking.
I've put myself about a bit in my time where drugs are concerned. I don't pretend to be an expert but I do know what I am talking about. I have experienced all kinds of fucked up, most good but some bad. There are many kinds that will kick you in the face within minutes of ingestion. There are many that take half an hour plus to kick in. Then there is weed or hash. No matter how much you smoke or eat, the very worse that will happen to you is that you will eat bullshit and instant food and then pass out. I remember reading somewhere that you would need to eat a lump the size of a large loaf of bread before you put yourself in serious danger.
Having said all that, there have been several times I have been at my wits end with drugs and all but one have been with hash. This stuff creeps up on you before you know what is happening and then twats you round the head so hard your teeth rattle.
An example. I am sitting on the train on the way home this evening. I have done fuck all real work today and have spent the last two hours drinking and laughing and I haven't put my hand in my pocket once. All very jolly. I am reading my book and minding my own business, thinking about what I am going to do on my four days off I have on front of me when a guy and his two friends walk past and sit in the seats around me. This guy seems happy and so do his friends. I can't hear what they are talking about as I have my earphones in. This guy gently brushes past me and ever so slightly bumps the book that is in my hand. In a fucking instant I am transformed into a fucking inhabitant from the seventh level of hell. My relaxed and wistful state of mind is now seriously considering ripping out this guys eyes and swallowing them whole. All for the crime of walking past me. This happened maybe 50 minutes ago and I am still a little grumpy. Not half as bad as I was 45 minutes ago but still.
I really have to stop smoking.
Captain Scott - The Lying Cunt
Lawrence Oates, part of the unsuccessful five man team led by Captain Robert.F.Scott to be the first humans to reach the South Pole.
For those not in the know, the expedition hit upon some remarkably tough times. Some unbelievably stupid decisions were made by Scott himself and on the return journey, after finding that they were beaten by Amundsen by a mere 35 days, the party found themselves in grave difficulties. Food shortages were of course paramount among these. On 5th March 1912, it is recorded in the journals of Captain Scott that Lawrence Oates made this now famous statement "I am just going outside and may be some time". With that he left the tent, emerging into the -40c blizzard in naught but his socks and underpants. The ultimate sacrifice and very British in its understatement.
I was always fascinated with that little story as a child, but was also puzzled as well. While it is (as i said before) a rather British sounding statement, it should also be remembered that at that time Britain was in the full throes of Empire and had a remarkable predilection for undeniable cold hearted cruelty. The fact that it became universally accepted that Oates had indeed "taken a hit for the team" speaks volumes for the accepted word of a true gentleman in those times. Oates himself commented in his own journal "Myself, I dislike Scott intensely and would chuck the whole thing if it were not that we are a British expedition. Scott is not straight, it is himself first, the rest nowhere...". Given that Scott was stupid enough to choose ponies as pack animals in sub zero temperatures in uncharted territory, and that Oates states quite clearly that Scott was in fact a cold hearted cunt, why is it that no one questions the official line taken here?
Scott was running out of food so tossed Oates out into the snow and left him to die, all the time making sure that the poor mans eulogy would be one of the more fantastic examples of comradeship still to this day.
For those not in the know, the expedition hit upon some remarkably tough times. Some unbelievably stupid decisions were made by Scott himself and on the return journey, after finding that they were beaten by Amundsen by a mere 35 days, the party found themselves in grave difficulties. Food shortages were of course paramount among these. On 5th March 1912, it is recorded in the journals of Captain Scott that Lawrence Oates made this now famous statement "I am just going outside and may be some time". With that he left the tent, emerging into the -40c blizzard in naught but his socks and underpants. The ultimate sacrifice and very British in its understatement.
I was always fascinated with that little story as a child, but was also puzzled as well. While it is (as i said before) a rather British sounding statement, it should also be remembered that at that time Britain was in the full throes of Empire and had a remarkable predilection for undeniable cold hearted cruelty. The fact that it became universally accepted that Oates had indeed "taken a hit for the team" speaks volumes for the accepted word of a true gentleman in those times. Oates himself commented in his own journal "Myself, I dislike Scott intensely and would chuck the whole thing if it were not that we are a British expedition. Scott is not straight, it is himself first, the rest nowhere...". Given that Scott was stupid enough to choose ponies as pack animals in sub zero temperatures in uncharted territory, and that Oates states quite clearly that Scott was in fact a cold hearted cunt, why is it that no one questions the official line taken here?
Scott was running out of food so tossed Oates out into the snow and left him to die, all the time making sure that the poor mans eulogy would be one of the more fantastic examples of comradeship still to this day.
Saturday 22 March 2008
Trust me, Tarquin is a little cunt
I was on my walk to the station this morning. Sub zero temperatures, ice on the pavement, no one had thought to grit the streets. I was skidding everywhere. Not pleasant. As I was walking I saw a young mother with one of those 3 wheeled "extreme pushchairs". You know what I mean, designed by McLaren, could be pushed up a mountain. The thing has tyres, not wheels. With inner tubes. More a fashion statement than a necessity in a major city. Anyway, as I got closer to her I noticed her grab her toddlers bottle and unscrew the cap. She then proceeded to empty half a bottle of breast milk onto the pavement beside her. Sorry, did I say pavement? I meant to say my fucking leg. I stopped moving as if frozen in Carbonite the very second the milky mess hit my leg and looked down in disbelief.
A couple of things to keep in mind here:
- It was 7:15am, Monday morning.
- I was wearing a freshly dry cleaned suit
- She had "new age" written all over her. She had faux dreads (she was white), an African headdress (she was white) and numerous dreamcatchers and fairy stones hanging round her neck (she was white).
I shook my head a couple of times, really wanting to be back in bed. That was the emotion on display. Inwardly I wanted to calmly put my hand into my inside coat pocket, pull out a pencil and snap it in half. Then I wanted to jab the snapped off end and slam it repeatedly into her left eye until it popped and ran down her face in a runny mess. Vitreous humour? I would have laughed. Then I wanted to grab her toddler and drop kick it across the incredibly busy road. Then and only then would I get the other half of the pencil and make a fucking mess of her other eye.
Enough macho e-posturing and back to reality. I stood there still not moving and staring at my milky mess of a leg and watched as she rummaged through her bag. I was of the mistaken belief that she was going to get a tissue and hand it to me. I would have demanded that handing a tissue to me was insufficient and that she should start scrubbing. No. She got a fucking lollypop out for the mewling child and carried on walking. I stood there disbelievingly watching her walk on whilst dreamily fingering a pencil in my hand.
Mothers. What the fuck has happened to you as a group? Why do you expect every single person on the planet to be as in love with your baby as much as you are? The only reason you love that kid is hormones. In actuality that child is ugly and annoying to EVERY SINGLE OTHER PERSON IN YOUR VICINITY.
We've all seen them, the mother who is so in love with being a mother she almost convinces herself that she shares something with The Virgin Mary. They are about as important to me as a fictional character who evidently put it about a bit and when she tried to explain how she was pregnant came up with the ridiculous excuse of "God put it in me". Why do mothers like this now take their children to pubs on a Sunday? A child does not belong in a pub. I swear, some fucking boozers round my way seem like playgrounds that serve beer. Fuck off. If that is what I am after I'll hop on a boat to France where it is acceptable to take kids in to bars. I got reprimanded in a pub once for calling my friend a cunt by a young mother and her equally insipid and pathetically bearded husband. She was afraid her little Tarquin would hear naughty words. My simple response of "shut up you cunt, this is a pub" shocked her immensely. What the fuck did she expect?
A couple of things to keep in mind here:
- It was 7:15am, Monday morning.
- I was wearing a freshly dry cleaned suit
- She had "new age" written all over her. She had faux dreads (she was white), an African headdress (she was white) and numerous dreamcatchers and fairy stones hanging round her neck (she was white).
I shook my head a couple of times, really wanting to be back in bed. That was the emotion on display. Inwardly I wanted to calmly put my hand into my inside coat pocket, pull out a pencil and snap it in half. Then I wanted to jab the snapped off end and slam it repeatedly into her left eye until it popped and ran down her face in a runny mess. Vitreous humour? I would have laughed. Then I wanted to grab her toddler and drop kick it across the incredibly busy road. Then and only then would I get the other half of the pencil and make a fucking mess of her other eye.
Enough macho e-posturing and back to reality. I stood there still not moving and staring at my milky mess of a leg and watched as she rummaged through her bag. I was of the mistaken belief that she was going to get a tissue and hand it to me. I would have demanded that handing a tissue to me was insufficient and that she should start scrubbing. No. She got a fucking lollypop out for the mewling child and carried on walking. I stood there disbelievingly watching her walk on whilst dreamily fingering a pencil in my hand.
Mothers. What the fuck has happened to you as a group? Why do you expect every single person on the planet to be as in love with your baby as much as you are? The only reason you love that kid is hormones. In actuality that child is ugly and annoying to EVERY SINGLE OTHER PERSON IN YOUR VICINITY.
We've all seen them, the mother who is so in love with being a mother she almost convinces herself that she shares something with The Virgin Mary. They are about as important to me as a fictional character who evidently put it about a bit and when she tried to explain how she was pregnant came up with the ridiculous excuse of "God put it in me". Why do mothers like this now take their children to pubs on a Sunday? A child does not belong in a pub. I swear, some fucking boozers round my way seem like playgrounds that serve beer. Fuck off. If that is what I am after I'll hop on a boat to France where it is acceptable to take kids in to bars. I got reprimanded in a pub once for calling my friend a cunt by a young mother and her equally insipid and pathetically bearded husband. She was afraid her little Tarquin would hear naughty words. My simple response of "shut up you cunt, this is a pub" shocked her immensely. What the fuck did she expect?
Dogs make the best friends
A dog is truly a mans best friend.
If you don't believe me, just try this experiment. Put your dog and your girlfriend in the boot of your car for an hour. When you open the boot, check out who is really happy to see you
If you don't believe me, just try this experiment. Put your dog and your girlfriend in the boot of your car for an hour. When you open the boot, check out who is really happy to see you
Tea - There are some things you may need to know
I've just had satellite TV installed in my flat after a four year absence. The engineer called round and set to work with the minimum of fuss. While he was busying himself with wires and the like I offered him a cup of tea.
If you're not native to these parts, you may need to know about the ancient British tradition of "Tea". Everyone has heard of the Japanese Tea Ceremony, I feel it is only fair I should share this knowledge with you. For your own sake.
When someone offers you a cup of tea over here, there are very few answers that are acceptable to that specific question. Obviously, Yes or No are your first choices. All other answers will be met with incredulous stares. "Do you have coffee?" is a common mistake made at this point. Were you offered coffee? No. Don't ask for it then. That would be like walking into Burger King and asking to see their selection of antique Edwardian furniture. You wouldn't do that there, likewise, don't do that here. If your answer is Yes, then you open up another set of very limited answers to the question of "How do you like it?". You may now inform your host of your preference for the milk/sugar combination or lack thereof. It is absolutely crucial that at this point that none of the following words are mentioned: Rose hip, Apple & Mango, Apple & Blackberry, Lemon, Ginger & Echinacea, Raspberry & Peach, Strawberry & Kiwi, Camomile, Lime Blossom, Nettle, Peppermint etc. Down that path leads to both madness and black eyes. These words are abominations to all true Native Brits. It would be tantamount to calling them paedophiles. In their own house. No one wants a repeat of the unfortunate incident back in 1973 where 14 Californian tourists were needlessly and callously stripped, tarred and feathered, made to gorge on crumpets and walk down Oxford Street with placards stating that they were indeed "IRA", all for the crime of requesting "Green Tea". Ugly scenes.
If your host is particularly hospitable they may offer you biscuits and on rarer occasions, cake. It is perfectly acceptable to "dunk" your biscuits in your tea. For the love of God don't dunk cake. That would make you look a right cunt. You may see your host mixing tar in the kitchen and heating some crumpets at this point. If you do see this, accept your punishment with good grace and try to adapt the "stiff upper lip" the British are so fond of.
If you follow these simple rules, you should be fine.
Back to my original point made way back in the first paragraph. The engineer fixing me up asked for his tea with milk and 7 sugars. Fucking hell, it was like milky syrup by the time I had finished stirring.
If you're not native to these parts, you may need to know about the ancient British tradition of "Tea". Everyone has heard of the Japanese Tea Ceremony, I feel it is only fair I should share this knowledge with you. For your own sake.
When someone offers you a cup of tea over here, there are very few answers that are acceptable to that specific question. Obviously, Yes or No are your first choices. All other answers will be met with incredulous stares. "Do you have coffee?" is a common mistake made at this point. Were you offered coffee? No. Don't ask for it then. That would be like walking into Burger King and asking to see their selection of antique Edwardian furniture. You wouldn't do that there, likewise, don't do that here. If your answer is Yes, then you open up another set of very limited answers to the question of "How do you like it?". You may now inform your host of your preference for the milk/sugar combination or lack thereof. It is absolutely crucial that at this point that none of the following words are mentioned: Rose hip, Apple & Mango, Apple & Blackberry, Lemon, Ginger & Echinacea, Raspberry & Peach, Strawberry & Kiwi, Camomile, Lime Blossom, Nettle, Peppermint etc. Down that path leads to both madness and black eyes. These words are abominations to all true Native Brits. It would be tantamount to calling them paedophiles. In their own house. No one wants a repeat of the unfortunate incident back in 1973 where 14 Californian tourists were needlessly and callously stripped, tarred and feathered, made to gorge on crumpets and walk down Oxford Street with placards stating that they were indeed "IRA", all for the crime of requesting "Green Tea". Ugly scenes.
If your host is particularly hospitable they may offer you biscuits and on rarer occasions, cake. It is perfectly acceptable to "dunk" your biscuits in your tea. For the love of God don't dunk cake. That would make you look a right cunt. You may see your host mixing tar in the kitchen and heating some crumpets at this point. If you do see this, accept your punishment with good grace and try to adapt the "stiff upper lip" the British are so fond of.
If you follow these simple rules, you should be fine.
Back to my original point made way back in the first paragraph. The engineer fixing me up asked for his tea with milk and 7 sugars. Fucking hell, it was like milky syrup by the time I had finished stirring.
You know it is time to quit when...
Fuck, I must stop smoking weed. Seriously, it is giving me wicked mood swings.
I've put myself about a bit in my time where drugs are concerned. I don't pretend to be an expert but I do know what I am talking about. I have experienced all kinds of fucked up, most good but some bad. There are many kinds that will kick you in the face within minutes of ingestion. There are many that take half an hour plus to kick in. Then there is weed or hash. No matter how much you smoke or eat, the very worse that will happen to you is that you will eat bullshit and instant food and then pass out. I remember reading somewhere that you would need to eat a lump the size of a large loaf of bread before you put yourself in serious danger.
Having said all that, there have been several times I have been at my wits end with drugs and all but one have been with hash. This stuff creeps up on you before you know what is happening and then twats you round the head so hard your teeth rattle.
An example. I am sitting on the train on the way home this evening. I have done fuck all real work today and have spent the last two hours drinking and laughing and I haven't put my hand in my pocket once. All very jolly. I am reading my book and minding my own business, thinking about what I am going to do on my four days off I have on front of me when a guy and his two friends walk past and sit in the seats around me. This guy seems happy and so do his friends. I can't hear what they are talking about as I have my earphones in. This guy gently brushes past me and ever so slightly bumps the book that is in my hand. In a fucking instant I am transformed into a fucking inhabitant from the seventh level of hell. My relaxed and wistful state of mind is now seriously considering ripping out this guys eyes and swallowing them whole. All for the crime of walking past me. This happened maybe 50 minutes ago and I am still a little grumpy. Not half as bad as I was 45 minutes ago but still.
I really have to stop smoking.
I've put myself about a bit in my time where drugs are concerned. I don't pretend to be an expert but I do know what I am talking about. I have experienced all kinds of fucked up, most good but some bad. There are many kinds that will kick you in the face within minutes of ingestion. There are many that take half an hour plus to kick in. Then there is weed or hash. No matter how much you smoke or eat, the very worse that will happen to you is that you will eat bullshit and instant food and then pass out. I remember reading somewhere that you would need to eat a lump the size of a large loaf of bread before you put yourself in serious danger.
Having said all that, there have been several times I have been at my wits end with drugs and all but one have been with hash. This stuff creeps up on you before you know what is happening and then twats you round the head so hard your teeth rattle.
An example. I am sitting on the train on the way home this evening. I have done fuck all real work today and have spent the last two hours drinking and laughing and I haven't put my hand in my pocket once. All very jolly. I am reading my book and minding my own business, thinking about what I am going to do on my four days off I have on front of me when a guy and his two friends walk past and sit in the seats around me. This guy seems happy and so do his friends. I can't hear what they are talking about as I have my earphones in. This guy gently brushes past me and ever so slightly bumps the book that is in my hand. In a fucking instant I am transformed into a fucking inhabitant from the seventh level of hell. My relaxed and wistful state of mind is now seriously considering ripping out this guys eyes and swallowing them whole. All for the crime of walking past me. This happened maybe 50 minutes ago and I am still a little grumpy. Not half as bad as I was 45 minutes ago but still.
I really have to stop smoking.
Monday 21 January 2008
Same Old Shit
Two of the constants of life working in the advertising business.
1. When asking someone what their favourite book is, 9 times out of 10 you will receive an answer along the lines of "À la recherche du temps perdu by Marcel Proust". Fucking lies. Just admit you were queued behind the thousands of other morons to buy the latest Harry Potter. Morons who were old enough to know better.
2. Ask any gay man whether he is a giver or a taker and he will ALWAYS reply that he is a giver. There are quite a few gay guys in my work circle. All of them are givers apparently. Something don't look quite right here and it ain't the trident pointy beard, or the thick rimmed black glasses, and it ain't the piercing in your eyebrow at the age of 42. Nope, it is a simple matter of maths. Unless there is only 1 single gay taker in the entire city, a guy that all the other gay guys end up fucking exclusively, some of you are lying. Come on gay guys, admit being the bitch sometimes. No shame in it. If you're the one that the other guy holds down and dumps his mess into, be proud of that.
1. When asking someone what their favourite book is, 9 times out of 10 you will receive an answer along the lines of "À la recherche du temps perdu by Marcel Proust". Fucking lies. Just admit you were queued behind the thousands of other morons to buy the latest Harry Potter. Morons who were old enough to know better.
2. Ask any gay man whether he is a giver or a taker and he will ALWAYS reply that he is a giver. There are quite a few gay guys in my work circle. All of them are givers apparently. Something don't look quite right here and it ain't the trident pointy beard, or the thick rimmed black glasses, and it ain't the piercing in your eyebrow at the age of 42. Nope, it is a simple matter of maths. Unless there is only 1 single gay taker in the entire city, a guy that all the other gay guys end up fucking exclusively, some of you are lying. Come on gay guys, admit being the bitch sometimes. No shame in it. If you're the one that the other guy holds down and dumps his mess into, be proud of that.
Monday = Cuntday
Sundays are a fucking enigma to me. I am constantly at war with Sunday, have been since I can remember. When I was a kid, Sunday was the perfect time to go play in the park or the forest. If the weather was bad and I couldn't go out I would experience the beginning of the fear. The fear of unwarranted reprehension, for the smallest thing.
My mum turned into a monster every Sunday.
My dad worked nights and didn't get out of bed until say 3pm. Sunday was the day my mum did the boring household shit that comes with having 2 young children. All that washing, cooking, cleaning and breaking up fights put my mother in a beautiful mood. You stepped lightly on Sundays in my house.
That was me up until I left home and took my first job in a casino. Shift work. I had Wednesday and Thursday off, worked nights the rest of the week. Sunday was just another work day to me then and I slept through most of the day anyway. That pattern continued pretty much for the next 10 years. I have to say that by the time I left the casinos, Sunday had taken on an almost mystical quality. I wanted that generic lazy day that everyone else had. I was fed up with my job and wanted out. I rationalised my occupational apathy by telling myself that if I was a normal person who didn't sleep all day long and work at night, didn't spend their version of a weekend forever going out on Tuesday and Wednesday nights, worked a 9-5 job, everything would be OK.
Imagine my surprise that 4 years into leading a "normal" life, I find that the bullshit is exactly the same on this side of the fence. I waste 50% of my weekend with the nagging, almost debilitating ice ball in my stomach that is "Fear of Monday".
Fuck Mondays for spoiling my Sundays. I hereby declare Monday to be a big bullying cunt of a day. All other days shall now refer to their colleague Monday as "Cuntday". As should all humans. Next week when you leave work on a Friday evening, turn to your colleagues and tell them that you shall "See them on Cuntday". A blatant reminder to us all that because it is Cuntday, it is OK to be a grumpy bastard, or cunt if you will. I will.
Driving to work in the morning and some fucker cuts you up? Ram them off the road. Using "The Cuntday Defence", you shall be acquitted immediately from any court in the land for any crime. "It was Cuntday your honour and he looked at me all funny...let's face it, he deserved the machete treatment."
Someone barges past you to get on the escalator before you do during the pleasures of rush hour on public transport? Simply cover them in petrol and set fire to them. They certainly won't be doing that again in a hurry. Education is a good thing. I caramelise you for your own good.
You too can join in the pleasures of Cuntday even if you live in rural areas. Driving to work and that same fucking sheep gives you a funny look again? Kick the fucking crap out of that sheep. Boot it down the largest hill in your village, making sure all other villagers hear you telling that woolly cunt who is boss.
I have Thursday and Friday off this week. The fear is minimal today. I can just about handle it.
My mum turned into a monster every Sunday.
My dad worked nights and didn't get out of bed until say 3pm. Sunday was the day my mum did the boring household shit that comes with having 2 young children. All that washing, cooking, cleaning and breaking up fights put my mother in a beautiful mood. You stepped lightly on Sundays in my house.
That was me up until I left home and took my first job in a casino. Shift work. I had Wednesday and Thursday off, worked nights the rest of the week. Sunday was just another work day to me then and I slept through most of the day anyway. That pattern continued pretty much for the next 10 years. I have to say that by the time I left the casinos, Sunday had taken on an almost mystical quality. I wanted that generic lazy day that everyone else had. I was fed up with my job and wanted out. I rationalised my occupational apathy by telling myself that if I was a normal person who didn't sleep all day long and work at night, didn't spend their version of a weekend forever going out on Tuesday and Wednesday nights, worked a 9-5 job, everything would be OK.
Imagine my surprise that 4 years into leading a "normal" life, I find that the bullshit is exactly the same on this side of the fence. I waste 50% of my weekend with the nagging, almost debilitating ice ball in my stomach that is "Fear of Monday".
Fuck Mondays for spoiling my Sundays. I hereby declare Monday to be a big bullying cunt of a day. All other days shall now refer to their colleague Monday as "Cuntday". As should all humans. Next week when you leave work on a Friday evening, turn to your colleagues and tell them that you shall "See them on Cuntday". A blatant reminder to us all that because it is Cuntday, it is OK to be a grumpy bastard, or cunt if you will. I will.
Driving to work in the morning and some fucker cuts you up? Ram them off the road. Using "The Cuntday Defence", you shall be acquitted immediately from any court in the land for any crime. "It was Cuntday your honour and he looked at me all funny...let's face it, he deserved the machete treatment."
Someone barges past you to get on the escalator before you do during the pleasures of rush hour on public transport? Simply cover them in petrol and set fire to them. They certainly won't be doing that again in a hurry. Education is a good thing. I caramelise you for your own good.
You too can join in the pleasures of Cuntday even if you live in rural areas. Driving to work and that same fucking sheep gives you a funny look again? Kick the fucking crap out of that sheep. Boot it down the largest hill in your village, making sure all other villagers hear you telling that woolly cunt who is boss.
I have Thursday and Friday off this week. The fear is minimal today. I can just about handle it.
Wednesday 2 January 2008
The First Steps To Becoming A Serial Killer
If I was feeling like writing something particularly eloquent about the way I feel right now, I would probably begin with an insight into the situation that caused this urge. I am not feeling it right now so I shall have to make do with a question.
If you knew for a fact that you could get away with it, would you go on an indiscriminate killing spree?
I'm talking all out war. You against the world. No guns allowed. An indiscriminate killing spree executed with stunning bravado and otherworldly elegance. Your weapons? Blades of all sizes and descriptions. Unleashing the Rapture on your neighbourhood with style and artistry of the highest level. The entire populace unlawfully separated from their appendages against their will, obviously. As you complete your god given mission, you view your desolate creation with the light of religious fervour shining brightly in your eyes as your chest heaves to suck in air, arms hanging tired at your side. Then, and only then, can you drop the machetes beside you, walk slowly to the local McDonald's, cook yourself a Filet O' Fish which you eat slowly, savouring every bite as you ponder The Book of Revelations, and more specifically your place in it.
I wouldn't think twice.
If you knew for a fact that you could get away with it, would you go on an indiscriminate killing spree?
I'm talking all out war. You against the world. No guns allowed. An indiscriminate killing spree executed with stunning bravado and otherworldly elegance. Your weapons? Blades of all sizes and descriptions. Unleashing the Rapture on your neighbourhood with style and artistry of the highest level. The entire populace unlawfully separated from their appendages against their will, obviously. As you complete your god given mission, you view your desolate creation with the light of religious fervour shining brightly in your eyes as your chest heaves to suck in air, arms hanging tired at your side. Then, and only then, can you drop the machetes beside you, walk slowly to the local McDonald's, cook yourself a Filet O' Fish which you eat slowly, savouring every bite as you ponder The Book of Revelations, and more specifically your place in it.
I wouldn't think twice.
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