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.
Sunday, 7 September 2008
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.
Saturday, 6 October 2007
To Clunt Or Not To Clunt
Cunt and Clunt.
I was telling my mother the other week about the difference between the word Cunt and the word Clunt. She doesn't like to swear, or hear me swear so I was telling her that if you are so inclined, you can call someone a Clunt and not feel bad. You're not actually calling them a cunt, but you are really. A guilt free swearing theory.
I met up with her yesterday and was thrilled to hear her comment to me about some inconsequential person. She called him a Clock. Haha.
I had to explain to her that while i enjoyed her innovation, it didn't quite fit into the guilt free swearing theory.
Ah, bless her, she is 63.
I was telling my mother the other week about the difference between the word Cunt and the word Clunt. She doesn't like to swear, or hear me swear so I was telling her that if you are so inclined, you can call someone a Clunt and not feel bad. You're not actually calling them a cunt, but you are really. A guilt free swearing theory.
I met up with her yesterday and was thrilled to hear her comment to me about some inconsequential person. She called him a Clock. Haha.
I had to explain to her that while i enjoyed her innovation, it didn't quite fit into the guilt free swearing theory.
Ah, bless her, she is 63.
Thursday, 4 October 2007
Never Tell The Truth
I was talking to my best friend in Australia today and he was telling me another humorous story about his love life. I really can't be bothered to go into details. The bit that made me laugh out loud until tears were flowing freely, was when he told me how he stopped himself from cumming too quickly whilst shagging some new bird he had pulled.
He basically made a pizza in his head from scratch. Made the dough, rolled it out, added the sauce, cheese and other toppings. Put it in the oven at 225 for 20 minutes (he actually envisaged waiting the 20 minutes) and viola, he came like a charging elephant. Very funny stuff. The thing is I got carried away when I told him my version. This only happened once by the way.
Don't judge me.
When I was in school, there was a heavily autistic kid in my class. His name was next to mine on the register so my form tutor made me look after him for the first year of school. It was a very big school, about 2000 pupils. Subsequently it was pretty easy to get lost. Brilliant way to have to start your school year.
Anyway, this kid had a kind of Tourettes thing going on too. He was a big lad and would stop walking for no reason and shout swear words at the top of his voice. All of this was done whilst dribbling. It is pretty hard to attract female attention when you have a hulking swear machine dribbling onto you. I didn't like this kid very much. Not his fault I know, but I was 12 years old, what do you expect?
Back to what I was saying originally. I was swapping stories with my drunk friend in Australia. I told him that one time I pulled this absolutely gorgeous girl. I was punching well above my weight here and I knew it. We went out one night and after many drinks, me and this amazing girl go back to mine. She had made it abundantly clear that my luck was in that night and so the pressure was on so to speak. One thing leads to another and we start having sex. I knew I wasn't going to last long at all and needed to stop myself from cumming too quickly. I racked my brain for the most disgusting image it held and the thing that popped up was this autistic kid from school. I hadn't thought of this guy for maybe 6 or 7 years and he chooses now to pop into my head.
To clarify, I was shagging the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. For the first time. And here I was thinking about a 12 year old spastic shouting the word "CUNT" at the top of his voice whilst dribbling. Well, it certainly had the desired effect. Only thing was it happened too well and my erection rapidly lost all interest in this Amazon beneath me. I swear I tried so hard to not think of this kid. You try it now. It is impossible. Once that image is there, it is GOING NOWHERE.
Needless to say she wasn't too impressed with me. I did try to explain to her what had happened in the hope that she would think it was sweet that I needed to stop myself. Thinking of her. She asked me what I had thought of and like a fucking idiot I told her, hoping she would find it funny. She didn't, and neither did I as I watched her get dressed and get the fuck out of my house.
My brilliant life.
He basically made a pizza in his head from scratch. Made the dough, rolled it out, added the sauce, cheese and other toppings. Put it in the oven at 225 for 20 minutes (he actually envisaged waiting the 20 minutes) and viola, he came like a charging elephant. Very funny stuff. The thing is I got carried away when I told him my version. This only happened once by the way.
Don't judge me.
When I was in school, there was a heavily autistic kid in my class. His name was next to mine on the register so my form tutor made me look after him for the first year of school. It was a very big school, about 2000 pupils. Subsequently it was pretty easy to get lost. Brilliant way to have to start your school year.
Anyway, this kid had a kind of Tourettes thing going on too. He was a big lad and would stop walking for no reason and shout swear words at the top of his voice. All of this was done whilst dribbling. It is pretty hard to attract female attention when you have a hulking swear machine dribbling onto you. I didn't like this kid very much. Not his fault I know, but I was 12 years old, what do you expect?
Back to what I was saying originally. I was swapping stories with my drunk friend in Australia. I told him that one time I pulled this absolutely gorgeous girl. I was punching well above my weight here and I knew it. We went out one night and after many drinks, me and this amazing girl go back to mine. She had made it abundantly clear that my luck was in that night and so the pressure was on so to speak. One thing leads to another and we start having sex. I knew I wasn't going to last long at all and needed to stop myself from cumming too quickly. I racked my brain for the most disgusting image it held and the thing that popped up was this autistic kid from school. I hadn't thought of this guy for maybe 6 or 7 years and he chooses now to pop into my head.
To clarify, I was shagging the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. For the first time. And here I was thinking about a 12 year old spastic shouting the word "CUNT" at the top of his voice whilst dribbling. Well, it certainly had the desired effect. Only thing was it happened too well and my erection rapidly lost all interest in this Amazon beneath me. I swear I tried so hard to not think of this kid. You try it now. It is impossible. Once that image is there, it is GOING NOWHERE.
Needless to say she wasn't too impressed with me. I did try to explain to her what had happened in the hope that she would think it was sweet that I needed to stop myself. Thinking of her. She asked me what I had thought of and like a fucking idiot I told her, hoping she would find it funny. She didn't, and neither did I as I watched her get dressed and get the fuck out of my house.
My brilliant life.
Vindictive Wasps Are Funny
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Tuesday, 21 August 2007
More Nonsense
A friend of mine left work this week. She was off to pastures greener and in recognition of this fact we all went out for a few drinks on Thursday night. After a few drinks, and then a few more drinks, the pub we were in shut and we decided to move onto a club to have even more drinks. Got to the club (an immensely wanky joint infested with media (read cunty) types) and ventured downstairs to the main room where I could hear dirty beats emanating from the other side of the door. I opened the door and then it hit me. A wall of body odour assaulted my sinuses with such distinction that I forgot to sneer at the ultra trendily dressed clubbers, who were all too concerned with the way they looked as they danced along with the music.
On July 1st smoking was banned from all public places in England. I am a heavy smoker of many types of dried leaves and have been for many years now. I awaited the total ban on smoking with trepidation. Smoking is quite a central part of my nights entertainment and I knew that this ban would effect the way I liked to do things. Having said that I quite enjoyed the smokeless atmosphere and going outside for a cigarette wasn't so bad, quite an ice breaker in fact. No problem.
Thursday night was the first time I had actually gone to a club since the ban and I honestly could not believe the hideous stench in this place. This was a clean and tidy club as well, not some dirty little heaving sweatbox. It was an immense smell of locker rooms with a gentle hint of vomit. On top of this I was expected to buy myself a drink that would cost me around £8 a pop. May as well have been a toilet. No thanks.
Oh, it is all rather neat isn't it, no smoking no passive smoking. No passive smoking less cancers. High ranking dignitaries are sitting in padded leather chairs smiling smugly to themselves with the thought that they have indeed struck a hammer blow for the people. Oh how clever they are, wiping another stain from humanities battle scarred body. Guess what, i'd rather have cancer.
Everything in life is becoming sanitised, wiped surgically clean almost. The only problem with this is that it is often the rough edges in life that present the most entertainment. The darker corners of a room you have to explore, the mysterious half smile of a stranger that makes you want more. We are drawn to the unknown. If you throw a huge light over everything you will soon see it for what it really is. Yet another every day experience you have had a million times before.
This is a fucking virus.
Antibacterial soaps weren't around when I was a kid. I was one of the last generations that had the benefit of being able to culture antibodies within myself, and they now wonder why children are so sickly. What fucking chance have they had when their entire existence has been in a completely bacteria free bubble.
I want to make these fucking choices for myself. Fine, if non smokers want a place to hang out, ban smoking in those places. I want the fucking choice to fuck my own body up if I want. If I want to inject heroin directly into my eyeballs, what the fuck does it have to do with you? Telling someone what not to do is just as prohibitive as telling someone what to do.
I reserve the right to do as I please with myself.
If there was a God he would be inflicting particularly aggressive cancers on all those seeking to inhibit our movements and choices right now.
Fuck you. My choice.
On July 1st smoking was banned from all public places in England. I am a heavy smoker of many types of dried leaves and have been for many years now. I awaited the total ban on smoking with trepidation. Smoking is quite a central part of my nights entertainment and I knew that this ban would effect the way I liked to do things. Having said that I quite enjoyed the smokeless atmosphere and going outside for a cigarette wasn't so bad, quite an ice breaker in fact. No problem.
Thursday night was the first time I had actually gone to a club since the ban and I honestly could not believe the hideous stench in this place. This was a clean and tidy club as well, not some dirty little heaving sweatbox. It was an immense smell of locker rooms with a gentle hint of vomit. On top of this I was expected to buy myself a drink that would cost me around £8 a pop. May as well have been a toilet. No thanks.
Oh, it is all rather neat isn't it, no smoking no passive smoking. No passive smoking less cancers. High ranking dignitaries are sitting in padded leather chairs smiling smugly to themselves with the thought that they have indeed struck a hammer blow for the people. Oh how clever they are, wiping another stain from humanities battle scarred body. Guess what, i'd rather have cancer.
Everything in life is becoming sanitised, wiped surgically clean almost. The only problem with this is that it is often the rough edges in life that present the most entertainment. The darker corners of a room you have to explore, the mysterious half smile of a stranger that makes you want more. We are drawn to the unknown. If you throw a huge light over everything you will soon see it for what it really is. Yet another every day experience you have had a million times before.
This is a fucking virus.
Antibacterial soaps weren't around when I was a kid. I was one of the last generations that had the benefit of being able to culture antibodies within myself, and they now wonder why children are so sickly. What fucking chance have they had when their entire existence has been in a completely bacteria free bubble.
I want to make these fucking choices for myself. Fine, if non smokers want a place to hang out, ban smoking in those places. I want the fucking choice to fuck my own body up if I want. If I want to inject heroin directly into my eyeballs, what the fuck does it have to do with you? Telling someone what not to do is just as prohibitive as telling someone what to do.
I reserve the right to do as I please with myself.
If there was a God he would be inflicting particularly aggressive cancers on all those seeking to inhibit our movements and choices right now.
Fuck you. My choice.
Sunday, 15 July 2007
Attacked by a Buzzy Thing
I was out and about today meeting with some friends, having a few beers and enjoying myself. It was a beautiful early evening and I was heading home, walking lazily in the sun, listening to my MP3 player.
Then it all went a bit Matrix.
First thing I remember was seeing a buzzing something approaching my mouth which happened to be open at the time. Next thing I know the buzzing something had scored a direct hit and had traversed the pitfalls of my teeth and tongue to smash, exocet like, into the back of my throat. Well, in kicked the gag reflex and I bent over whilst spluttering explosively and realising for the first time that this was a big buzzing something and not just a mosquito. I could feel it scrabbling back there which in turn made me cough harder and harder until two things happened simultaneously. I had coughed so hard that my perineum ached, like I had just been kicked in the nuts and twisted at the last minute. My hands cupped my nuts with an automatic precision that my subconscious calmly complimented me on. Secondly I ran out of breath and it made me drop onto my knees, coughing like a plague sufferer.
Then, as quickly as it had started, the titanic struggle between throat and big buzzing thing was won as one of these chunky fuckers...
...spat out onto the floor, dead, as I slowly regained my breath. It was then I realised that an old lady was standing next to me looking concerned.
We have a fucking plague of these flying ants here right now. I know it won't last long, maybe a couple of days, but they are such indiscriminate little wankers and they aren't expert aviators. A pesky combination.
Then it all went a bit Matrix.
First thing I remember was seeing a buzzing something approaching my mouth which happened to be open at the time. Next thing I know the buzzing something had scored a direct hit and had traversed the pitfalls of my teeth and tongue to smash, exocet like, into the back of my throat. Well, in kicked the gag reflex and I bent over whilst spluttering explosively and realising for the first time that this was a big buzzing something and not just a mosquito. I could feel it scrabbling back there which in turn made me cough harder and harder until two things happened simultaneously. I had coughed so hard that my perineum ached, like I had just been kicked in the nuts and twisted at the last minute. My hands cupped my nuts with an automatic precision that my subconscious calmly complimented me on. Secondly I ran out of breath and it made me drop onto my knees, coughing like a plague sufferer.
Then, as quickly as it had started, the titanic struggle between throat and big buzzing thing was won as one of these chunky fuckers...
...spat out onto the floor, dead, as I slowly regained my breath. It was then I realised that an old lady was standing next to me looking concerned.
We have a fucking plague of these flying ants here right now. I know it won't last long, maybe a couple of days, but they are such indiscriminate little wankers and they aren't expert aviators. A pesky combination.
Saturday, 14 July 2007
This week.
I'm in serious mental debate mode right now. It has been building all week and it seems to have come to a head today.
If I had to sum up this week in a word it would be: Shit. Nothing too heavy, no particular event has brought me here but...Ah well. I'm sure you know what I mean.
Sometimes I go on about it a bit too much but I hate my job. I hate the industry, I hate my colleagues. Even the ones I do get on with don't really mean too much to me. If I got a half decent and interesting offer from somewhere or something else I would grab it with both hands and wouldn't give a backwards glance as I walked away.
So when I get a phonecall from my best friend over in Australia telling me how much fun he is having and telling me I should get myself over there, well, it's gonna make you think more than twice about it.
I honestly don't know why I am just thinking about it and not actually packing up my shit, ignoring my loose ends and hitting Oz hard.
If I had to sum up this week in a word it would be: Shit. Nothing too heavy, no particular event has brought me here but...Ah well. I'm sure you know what I mean.
Sometimes I go on about it a bit too much but I hate my job. I hate the industry, I hate my colleagues. Even the ones I do get on with don't really mean too much to me. If I got a half decent and interesting offer from somewhere or something else I would grab it with both hands and wouldn't give a backwards glance as I walked away.
So when I get a phonecall from my best friend over in Australia telling me how much fun he is having and telling me I should get myself over there, well, it's gonna make you think more than twice about it.
I honestly don't know why I am just thinking about it and not actually packing up my shit, ignoring my loose ends and hitting Oz hard.
Proper jobs
I had the day off work today, I had a big night out last night and thought it prudent to book the next day off. You know how it is, one beer leads to two, leads to 6, leads to a club, leads to swimming in the Thames fully clothed trying to club seals with my shoes whilst attempting a rather inelegant backstroke. Anyway, I digress.
Midday found me pottering in my local high street doing necessary and boring things. I went to the cobbler because I needed to re sole my shoes. I dropped them off and then hit the supermarket for a few essentials. As much as I do not enjoy these tasks, it is far more pleasant to do these kind of things during the week, not too many people about and I can almost bear the normality of it all. I went home after that and did pretty much fuck all and enjoyed it. At about 5pm I made my way back to the cobblers to pick up my shoes (He did a good job and I didn't need to remortgage to get it done which is becoming common these days in London). After I picked them up I made my way back to my flat. On my journey home I pass through a little underpass that takes me under the railway line near my house. Now, as I made my way to the underpass the local station burped out around 30 people who were also making their way home after a hard day at the office. We all made our way down the stairs and into the underpass and were greeted by the sight of a young woman, maybe about 18 who had set up a camera with a tripod slap bang in the middle of the tunnel with her camera pointing at us. This tunnel is about 7 feet wide and her cumbersome tripod and herself (not standing behind but next to it) were taking up maybe 4 foot of space. I was wondering to myself if she was going to move her set up when I noticed she was looking into a view finder and wasn't concerned at all that she was blocking our path . This was rush hour traffic, we wanted home NOW and were pissed off she was in our way all so she could take our shot. She had crusty looking dreads and she was white, so it made it look contrived and pathetic. The fact her clothes looked a little too expensive for her attempt at the new age traveller look, betrayed the fact that she probably took a big fat cheque from daddy every month and gave us bucket loads of sympathy (and irony) for her "perfect angle and lighting". I muttered darkly to myself as I checked my step and got in fucking line to make it through the small gaps either side of her. I was hearing the same from my fellow annoyed cunts. I squeezed past and a couple of steps after I heard an almighty crash. I turned around to see her camera tripod mid flight and the sight of an enraged looking young man of about 25 with an extended leg and a violent look on his face. Obviously the camera hit the wall and made a satisfying crump where it separated into many pieces. The young guy dropped the look of hate and carried on walking as the young photographer burst into tears. None of us annoyed cunts really said too much and carried on down the tunnel.
Now, I feel a little sorry for the young girl but I am of the firm belief that lessons learnt youngest are learnt longest and she won't be doing that again in a hurry so you can all smile now. Everyday is a schoolday when you learn something they say, and never wasted. I have to admit that I did smile.
I read the other day that there are 3 times the number of students studying photography in the UK right now than are needed in the whole of Western Europe. These people will not be able to pay the bills when they grow up and being broke and not being able to feed yourself is no joke. I am a little worried for these guys in later life. Kicked cameras generate no income, and due to the fact that they are unlikely to be able to find the work to pay to fix their kicked cameras they will be forced to ditch the whole idea and find a PROPER job. In this way we can stop a whole generation from poverty. We are helping them by doing this. It hurts us as much as it hurts them (bruised toes are also no joke) but this is tough love and I am Cupid.
Save the UK from becoming a real life Flikr. Save us from being swamped by pictures of droplets hanging off a leaf reflecting a frogs cock at sunrise absofuckinglutely everywhere we look.
Do it because you love them. oh, and you don't need to be in the UK to do this either.
Kick a camera, save a life
Midday found me pottering in my local high street doing necessary and boring things. I went to the cobbler because I needed to re sole my shoes. I dropped them off and then hit the supermarket for a few essentials. As much as I do not enjoy these tasks, it is far more pleasant to do these kind of things during the week, not too many people about and I can almost bear the normality of it all. I went home after that and did pretty much fuck all and enjoyed it. At about 5pm I made my way back to the cobblers to pick up my shoes (He did a good job and I didn't need to remortgage to get it done which is becoming common these days in London). After I picked them up I made my way back to my flat. On my journey home I pass through a little underpass that takes me under the railway line near my house. Now, as I made my way to the underpass the local station burped out around 30 people who were also making their way home after a hard day at the office. We all made our way down the stairs and into the underpass and were greeted by the sight of a young woman, maybe about 18 who had set up a camera with a tripod slap bang in the middle of the tunnel with her camera pointing at us. This tunnel is about 7 feet wide and her cumbersome tripod and herself (not standing behind but next to it) were taking up maybe 4 foot of space. I was wondering to myself if she was going to move her set up when I noticed she was looking into a view finder and wasn't concerned at all that she was blocking our path . This was rush hour traffic, we wanted home NOW and were pissed off she was in our way all so she could take our shot. She had crusty looking dreads and she was white, so it made it look contrived and pathetic. The fact her clothes looked a little too expensive for her attempt at the new age traveller look, betrayed the fact that she probably took a big fat cheque from daddy every month and gave us bucket loads of sympathy (and irony) for her "perfect angle and lighting". I muttered darkly to myself as I checked my step and got in fucking line to make it through the small gaps either side of her. I was hearing the same from my fellow annoyed cunts. I squeezed past and a couple of steps after I heard an almighty crash. I turned around to see her camera tripod mid flight and the sight of an enraged looking young man of about 25 with an extended leg and a violent look on his face. Obviously the camera hit the wall and made a satisfying crump where it separated into many pieces. The young guy dropped the look of hate and carried on walking as the young photographer burst into tears. None of us annoyed cunts really said too much and carried on down the tunnel.
Now, I feel a little sorry for the young girl but I am of the firm belief that lessons learnt youngest are learnt longest and she won't be doing that again in a hurry so you can all smile now. Everyday is a schoolday when you learn something they say, and never wasted. I have to admit that I did smile.
I read the other day that there are 3 times the number of students studying photography in the UK right now than are needed in the whole of Western Europe. These people will not be able to pay the bills when they grow up and being broke and not being able to feed yourself is no joke. I am a little worried for these guys in later life. Kicked cameras generate no income, and due to the fact that they are unlikely to be able to find the work to pay to fix their kicked cameras they will be forced to ditch the whole idea and find a PROPER job. In this way we can stop a whole generation from poverty. We are helping them by doing this. It hurts us as much as it hurts them (bruised toes are also no joke) but this is tough love and I am Cupid.
Save the UK from becoming a real life Flikr. Save us from being swamped by pictures of droplets hanging off a leaf reflecting a frogs cock at sunrise absofuckinglutely everywhere we look.
Do it because you love them. oh, and you don't need to be in the UK to do this either.
Kick a camera, save a life
Hayfever or Cancer?
Another story about me being a dick.
I have a very short fuse with the general public on the whole. I can be a grumpy bastard sometimes. Only last night on the tube home an old and posh (bad bad mix) lady started muttering to herself because I was sniffing. I have nasty hayfever right now and I had no tissues. I didn't particularly enjoy sniffing but she seemed to think I was doing it to piss her off. Her muttering got louder and louder until I turned to her and asked her if she had a problem (I was very polite). She looked straight down the end of her nose at me through her half moon glasses and told me that it was incredibly bad manners to sniff. She said all this in a voice loud enough for the whole carriage to hear. I calmly and politely told her that I was very sorry (again in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear) that I didn't have a handkerchief. She angrily told me that I should make sure I had a handkerchief with me at all times if I suffered from hayfever. I told her ( and the whole carriage ) that I had never suffered from hayfever and the sniffing was in fact a side effect from the chemotherapy I had been receiving. You should have seen her face, unbelievable, her jaw dropped and her mouth was trying to speak but no noise was coming out. If I could turn on tears at a whim I would have cried to make her shame all the greater. As it was she looked horrified at her rash outburst and to tell the truth I felt a little bad but the whole carriage went deathly silent. She apologised in a very quiet voice, I replied (In a loud voice) that I hadn't heard what she said and made her apologise in a voice loud enough for the now horrified carriage to hear as well.
I am such a cunt sometimes and I can honestly say that I feel ashamed for saying that. Fucking awesome at the time though, I am just glad there wasn't a doctor in the carriage who would say "Actually, a runny nose has nothing to do with chemotherapy"
Fuck that though, I went out today and bought a new MP3 player so the guilt didn't last too long.
I have a very short fuse with the general public on the whole. I can be a grumpy bastard sometimes. Only last night on the tube home an old and posh (bad bad mix) lady started muttering to herself because I was sniffing. I have nasty hayfever right now and I had no tissues. I didn't particularly enjoy sniffing but she seemed to think I was doing it to piss her off. Her muttering got louder and louder until I turned to her and asked her if she had a problem (I was very polite). She looked straight down the end of her nose at me through her half moon glasses and told me that it was incredibly bad manners to sniff. She said all this in a voice loud enough for the whole carriage to hear. I calmly and politely told her that I was very sorry (again in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear) that I didn't have a handkerchief. She angrily told me that I should make sure I had a handkerchief with me at all times if I suffered from hayfever. I told her ( and the whole carriage ) that I had never suffered from hayfever and the sniffing was in fact a side effect from the chemotherapy I had been receiving. You should have seen her face, unbelievable, her jaw dropped and her mouth was trying to speak but no noise was coming out. If I could turn on tears at a whim I would have cried to make her shame all the greater. As it was she looked horrified at her rash outburst and to tell the truth I felt a little bad but the whole carriage went deathly silent. She apologised in a very quiet voice, I replied (In a loud voice) that I hadn't heard what she said and made her apologise in a voice loud enough for the now horrified carriage to hear as well.
I am such a cunt sometimes and I can honestly say that I feel ashamed for saying that. Fucking awesome at the time though, I am just glad there wasn't a doctor in the carriage who would say "Actually, a runny nose has nothing to do with chemotherapy"
Fuck that though, I went out today and bought a new MP3 player so the guilt didn't last too long.
How old are you really?
On this day I am 32 years and 264 days old. Remember that number.
Last Wednesday found me having lunch with my cousin. He works 5 minutes away from me and sometimes we meet up to grab a sandwich and take the piss out of each other. My cousin tells me that he is flying to Spain that night to spend a week with his family. I asked him if he was leaving work early and he said no. This surprised me as I knew he lived an hour from work and it takes 2 hours from his to the airport door to door. If he finishes work at 6:30 it's gonna be tight. I asked him what time he was leaving and he told me 5:30 am the next day. I chuckled patronisingly and told him that technically that was tomorrow. I then spent five extensively elaborate minutes explaining to him that he was in fact a cunt. It was fun.
Now, I'm not here to debate this point with you all, I see the logic in his opinion, but we were now in mode and everyone knows that the winner of any argument is the one who makes the funniest comments, not the one who is in fact right.
I won.
I think most of us mark the beginning of the day when we wake and the end when we go to bed. So, what happens if we don't sleep for two days? I know we'd say that we hadn't slept for two days, but it is never tomorrow, so how can it have been two days? Subconsciously, we had only been awake for a day.
Back to that number. 32 years and 264 days old. What about all the times I've not slept for two days, or even three, or even on rare occasions 4. Without drugs I think staying up more than 2 days is an achievement. With them it's a piece of piss.
In those 32 years I reckon I didn't do a "double shift" until maybe the age of 15, lets say 3 in that year. Thats 362 days I experienced that year (I can't be arsed to work out leap years in this post). At 16 it became much more frequent, maybe 15 weekends had only one day in them. 15 that year. 17 -21 were stepped up even more and introduced the 3 dayer to me. Maybe three 3 dayers and 25 or so doubles. 31 a year for five years, I make that 155 days. 21-25 found me straight back to maybe 3 doubles a year. 3 a year, five years. 15 days. 25 got mental for the first 6 months. Every weekend for six months was a double. Four a month, six months. 24 days. From the second half of that year and the first half of next I was Travelling. The odd mad weekend but maybe 10 in the whole year. 10 more days to the tally then. When I got back from travelling at 25 1/2, I hit it hard. For about 5 years. I reckon on that five years I did 2 four dayers, maybe fifty 3 dayers and a ridiculous number of doubles, *plucking a number from thin air* maybe 200 doubles. Quick calculation, 306 days. From my 30th until now there have maybe been 10 doubles, thats it. 10 more days.
Grand total, 528 days.
If a year is 365 days. 32 years + 264 = 11944.
Thats the number of days I have spent on this planet.
11944 - 528 = 11416.
11416 divided by 365 = 31.276....
There you have it. I am actually 31.276 years old (give or take a few days here or there for leap years and shitty maths. That would make a great name for a band, Leap Years and Shitty Maths.)
Having said that, it has just occured to me that I have spent the last 20 minutes of my life conveying this point to total strangers.
Woo
Last Wednesday found me having lunch with my cousin. He works 5 minutes away from me and sometimes we meet up to grab a sandwich and take the piss out of each other. My cousin tells me that he is flying to Spain that night to spend a week with his family. I asked him if he was leaving work early and he said no. This surprised me as I knew he lived an hour from work and it takes 2 hours from his to the airport door to door. If he finishes work at 6:30 it's gonna be tight. I asked him what time he was leaving and he told me 5:30 am the next day. I chuckled patronisingly and told him that technically that was tomorrow. I then spent five extensively elaborate minutes explaining to him that he was in fact a cunt. It was fun.
Now, I'm not here to debate this point with you all, I see the logic in his opinion, but we were now in mode and everyone knows that the winner of any argument is the one who makes the funniest comments, not the one who is in fact right.
I won.
I think most of us mark the beginning of the day when we wake and the end when we go to bed. So, what happens if we don't sleep for two days? I know we'd say that we hadn't slept for two days, but it is never tomorrow, so how can it have been two days? Subconsciously, we had only been awake for a day.
Back to that number. 32 years and 264 days old. What about all the times I've not slept for two days, or even three, or even on rare occasions 4. Without drugs I think staying up more than 2 days is an achievement. With them it's a piece of piss.
In those 32 years I reckon I didn't do a "double shift" until maybe the age of 15, lets say 3 in that year. Thats 362 days I experienced that year (I can't be arsed to work out leap years in this post). At 16 it became much more frequent, maybe 15 weekends had only one day in them. 15 that year. 17 -21 were stepped up even more and introduced the 3 dayer to me. Maybe three 3 dayers and 25 or so doubles. 31 a year for five years, I make that 155 days. 21-25 found me straight back to maybe 3 doubles a year. 3 a year, five years. 15 days. 25 got mental for the first 6 months. Every weekend for six months was a double. Four a month, six months. 24 days. From the second half of that year and the first half of next I was Travelling. The odd mad weekend but maybe 10 in the whole year. 10 more days to the tally then. When I got back from travelling at 25 1/2, I hit it hard. For about 5 years. I reckon on that five years I did 2 four dayers, maybe fifty 3 dayers and a ridiculous number of doubles, *plucking a number from thin air* maybe 200 doubles. Quick calculation, 306 days. From my 30th until now there have maybe been 10 doubles, thats it. 10 more days.
Grand total, 528 days.
If a year is 365 days. 32 years + 264 = 11944.
Thats the number of days I have spent on this planet.
11944 - 528 = 11416.
11416 divided by 365 = 31.276....
There you have it. I am actually 31.276 years old (give or take a few days here or there for leap years and shitty maths. That would make a great name for a band, Leap Years and Shitty Maths.)
Having said that, it has just occured to me that I have spent the last 20 minutes of my life conveying this point to total strangers.
Woo
A slow week
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Lorne Spicer - Dirty words
Lorne spicer. Lorne, from the Ancient Greek - To hate. And Spicer, from the Ancient Sumerian - To stab repeatedly in the eye with the snapped off end of a pencil.
She is the one person on this planet I hate with distinction. With distinction. One of the very few areas within which I excel. Hating Lorne Spicer. I am the PREMIER agent within the academic circle founded to express utter derision and abhorrance towards Lorne Spicer. In the world I might add.
*Buffs fingernails on lapel*
Seriously Lorne, do the fucking world a favour and become the very first recipient of the evil new disease Cancer 2.0. It is exactly the same as normal Cancer but the 2.0 bit relates to the fact that the skin on your forehead pigments to read "CUNT" in big red letters so that deaf people who have never heard your whiny voice can hate you on sight too...at a distance.
Oh, and your knees would take on grasshopper-like qualities so that they emit a chirping sound as you walk. So that blind people can hear you coming at a distance too and get the fuck out of your way, or grab the nearest machete and make for you. Like a blind machete wielding moth, but drawn to sound instead of light.
Seriously Lorne. Die
She is the one person on this planet I hate with distinction. With distinction. One of the very few areas within which I excel. Hating Lorne Spicer. I am the PREMIER agent within the academic circle founded to express utter derision and abhorrance towards Lorne Spicer. In the world I might add.
*Buffs fingernails on lapel*
Seriously Lorne, do the fucking world a favour and become the very first recipient of the evil new disease Cancer 2.0. It is exactly the same as normal Cancer but the 2.0 bit relates to the fact that the skin on your forehead pigments to read "CUNT" in big red letters so that deaf people who have never heard your whiny voice can hate you on sight too...at a distance.
Oh, and your knees would take on grasshopper-like qualities so that they emit a chirping sound as you walk. So that blind people can hear you coming at a distance too and get the fuck out of your way, or grab the nearest machete and make for you. Like a blind machete wielding moth, but drawn to sound instead of light.
Seriously Lorne. Die
Chicken Genocide
Can you think of a country where chicken isn't one of the staple foods? Obviously Eskimos don't partake, too fucking cold for chickens to live there. Every other country does. The chicken has to be the most maligned creature on the planet. Just because they are easy to breed we forget the sheer number of them killed and eaten each year. Would we give a fuck about Pandas if they could breed like rabbits and tasted awesome in a southern fried crispy coating? Maybe Noodles could answer that one for me.
Even more disrespectful to the chicken is the fact that we crack open their babies and make cakes with them.
Having said all that, I love a bit of chicken.
So planet Earth, continue in this Perpetual Chicken Holocaust ( To be referred to as PCH from now on. I'm not finished with this one ). When chickens have nightmares they aren't dreaming of rogue foxes but fat cunts in take aways.
KFC has a lot to answer for.
Even more disrespectful to the chicken is the fact that we crack open their babies and make cakes with them.
Having said all that, I love a bit of chicken.
So planet Earth, continue in this Perpetual Chicken Holocaust ( To be referred to as PCH from now on. I'm not finished with this one ). When chickens have nightmares they aren't dreaming of rogue foxes but fat cunts in take aways.
KFC has a lot to answer for.
Anyone want to hear a story about me being a dick?
My whole office went out for a drink on Thursday night. We have 6 new starters joining us on Monday. New starters are always invited out with us the Thursday before they join to get wrecked and break the proverbial ice.
I've mentioned on here beofre that I work in the Media industry. 98% of the industry in populated with offensively narcissistic drones who are more concerned with their blue tooth headsets and Blackberry Pearls. I wish them Cancer on a daily basis.
Two things are immediately apparent here.
1. I do not care for 98% of my co-workers
2. 6 new starters in an office is an opportunity, however slight, for the odd OK person to slip through the media industry keep net. Maybe, just maybe 1 of these people would brighten my working day by being a non wanker.
We reserved 3 tables at the swankiest bar in Soho for the evening. Drop the "S" and that perfectly describes the clientelle and bar staff that were present. New starters arrived and the CEO put his card behind the bar (idiot) and invited us to help ourselves. We subsequently hit the bar with force and the beers and cocktails were flowing as if provided from above by a caring God feeding his starving Israelites in the desert.
After circulating with the new guys I have this to report:
4 were typical media employees and ergo of zero interest to me
1 was dressed like a clown, gayer than John Inman and used the word Cunt half a dozen times within the first half hour. He may be some use to the team
1 was a young lady who had joined to be the PA to the CEO. She seemed nice, Quite pleasant actually.
An hour or four into proceedings we were all on our way to being predictably leathered. I had raced ahead of the crowd a little and was being generally raucous. One of my new co-workers commented in a jovial fashion that I was hammering it somewhat and behaving like a bit of an animal. He cannot have been referring to me. Absolutely everything I was saying was witty, intelligent and of interest to EVERYONE at the bar. That was the reason I was saying it in such a loud voice and sloshing my drink around to exacerbate my extremely pertinent observations.
I decided that enough was enough for the evening and stumbled out to get a cab home. I stopped off to buy a sandwich and found myself an illegal cab driven by a big African man. We agreed a price of £25. In I jumped and tore into the sandwich like a caveman hollowing out a Brontosaurus, spilling a few pieces of lettuce onto the leather seats of his precious Mercedes. He shouted at me, I shouted back (with food in my mouth, classy). The shouting festival got more and more heated until the only word audible from him was "LETTUCE" and the only word audible from myself was "CUNT". We had built up quite a rapport on the journey and things were going swimmingly as we turned into my road. Unfortunatelty I chose that exact moment, mid shout, to vomit on his precious leather seats. I am very proud of that. Like, really really proud.
Soon, parked up outside my place, he had added a new word to his screaming vocabulary. Unfortunately he was adding my word to his plainly stuck record. I threw £50 in his general direction and got out and stumbled up my path half listening to the words cunt and lettuce being screamed at me. I was also immensely glad that all my neighbours were hearing all of this.
The hangover on Friday was due payment for my behaviour.
Probably the worst I have ever experienced, and I knew I deserved it.
I've mentioned on here beofre that I work in the Media industry. 98% of the industry in populated with offensively narcissistic drones who are more concerned with their blue tooth headsets and Blackberry Pearls. I wish them Cancer on a daily basis.
Two things are immediately apparent here.
1. I do not care for 98% of my co-workers
2. 6 new starters in an office is an opportunity, however slight, for the odd OK person to slip through the media industry keep net. Maybe, just maybe 1 of these people would brighten my working day by being a non wanker.
We reserved 3 tables at the swankiest bar in Soho for the evening. Drop the "S" and that perfectly describes the clientelle and bar staff that were present. New starters arrived and the CEO put his card behind the bar (idiot) and invited us to help ourselves. We subsequently hit the bar with force and the beers and cocktails were flowing as if provided from above by a caring God feeding his starving Israelites in the desert.
After circulating with the new guys I have this to report:
4 were typical media employees and ergo of zero interest to me
1 was dressed like a clown, gayer than John Inman and used the word Cunt half a dozen times within the first half hour. He may be some use to the team
1 was a young lady who had joined to be the PA to the CEO. She seemed nice, Quite pleasant actually.
An hour or four into proceedings we were all on our way to being predictably leathered. I had raced ahead of the crowd a little and was being generally raucous. One of my new co-workers commented in a jovial fashion that I was hammering it somewhat and behaving like a bit of an animal. He cannot have been referring to me. Absolutely everything I was saying was witty, intelligent and of interest to EVERYONE at the bar. That was the reason I was saying it in such a loud voice and sloshing my drink around to exacerbate my extremely pertinent observations.
I decided that enough was enough for the evening and stumbled out to get a cab home. I stopped off to buy a sandwich and found myself an illegal cab driven by a big African man. We agreed a price of £25. In I jumped and tore into the sandwich like a caveman hollowing out a Brontosaurus, spilling a few pieces of lettuce onto the leather seats of his precious Mercedes. He shouted at me, I shouted back (with food in my mouth, classy). The shouting festival got more and more heated until the only word audible from him was "LETTUCE" and the only word audible from myself was "CUNT". We had built up quite a rapport on the journey and things were going swimmingly as we turned into my road. Unfortunatelty I chose that exact moment, mid shout, to vomit on his precious leather seats. I am very proud of that. Like, really really proud.
Soon, parked up outside my place, he had added a new word to his screaming vocabulary. Unfortunately he was adding my word to his plainly stuck record. I threw £50 in his general direction and got out and stumbled up my path half listening to the words cunt and lettuce being screamed at me. I was also immensely glad that all my neighbours were hearing all of this.
The hangover on Friday was due payment for my behaviour.
Probably the worst I have ever experienced, and I knew I deserved it.
Are you still afraid of the dark?
I just finished reading this book. There was a conversation in it towards the end where one said to the other " Shut up or i'll cut your throat wide open and put spiders in it. " Freaked the crap out of me. Funny thing is I had read this book before quite a few times (Only Forward - Michael Marshall Smith) and never noticed that before.
In the same book there is a quick reference to "evil babies". Not a baby with an attitude problem, but genuinely evil babies. Like the pic above.
Clowns, babies, dolls. Why are these things so fucking scary when viewed in a slightly different light? My guess is that these are things that are usually associated with childhood and innocence, but this analogy doesn't necessarily carry with all objects associated with childhood and all the innocence that is supposed to come with it.
Lego for instance. Never gonna be scary. I used to have bucket loads of the stuff as a kid. I only ever used to do two things with it.
1) Make spaceships
2) Throw it out of the window for no good reason (that used to piss my mum off no end)
It was great fun.
Ice pops
How are these scary?
I remember buying these for 4p and playing in the park for hours. That was before paedophiles were invented, a gentler day. I remember playing in the forest in the summer holidays with my friends. We used to get there at about 8am and get home about 10 hours later, covered in mud and stinking of the fires we had started all day but grinning like idiots for the fun we had had. If kids spent 10 hours in the forest alone now they would be abducted and abused at least 3 times and be home in time for dinner.
Angel Delight
Good enough for royalty this stuff. Butterscotch flavour too. If you look up the dictionary definition (thats Oxford Dictionary) of Angel Delight, you shall see this:
Angel Delight
[eyn-juhl di-lahyt]
Tastes fucking rancid. You know how when you are having a bath and topping up with your toe and check to see if the water is hot with your foot and for a split second if feels cold.... And then the skin peels back from your leg as the water burns it off because it actually hotter than the sun. Well, Angel Delight is so fucking nice that it is rancid. The end.
So says The Oxford English Dictionary, not that Websters one that is packed full of spelling mistakes, the Oxford one, you know, the REAL one. Check if you don't believe me.
Jumpers for goal posts
Ah, this one is completely incapable of being anything other than a warm and hazy memory. Never ever scary.
For those who don't have Football as their national sport (can only think of 2 countries) this one may need explaining. I'm not going to though.
Good days
I very much doubt someone could make a horror film with Lego, Angel Delight, Ice pops and jumpers for goal posts that is scary.
So , in summary, kill all Clowns, babies and dolls and the world shall be a happier place.
In the same book there is a quick reference to "evil babies". Not a baby with an attitude problem, but genuinely evil babies. Like the pic above.
Clowns, babies, dolls. Why are these things so fucking scary when viewed in a slightly different light? My guess is that these are things that are usually associated with childhood and innocence, but this analogy doesn't necessarily carry with all objects associated with childhood and all the innocence that is supposed to come with it.
Lego for instance. Never gonna be scary. I used to have bucket loads of the stuff as a kid. I only ever used to do two things with it.
1) Make spaceships
2) Throw it out of the window for no good reason (that used to piss my mum off no end)
It was great fun.
Ice pops
How are these scary?
I remember buying these for 4p and playing in the park for hours. That was before paedophiles were invented, a gentler day. I remember playing in the forest in the summer holidays with my friends. We used to get there at about 8am and get home about 10 hours later, covered in mud and stinking of the fires we had started all day but grinning like idiots for the fun we had had. If kids spent 10 hours in the forest alone now they would be abducted and abused at least 3 times and be home in time for dinner.
Angel Delight
Good enough for royalty this stuff. Butterscotch flavour too. If you look up the dictionary definition (thats Oxford Dictionary) of Angel Delight, you shall see this:
Angel Delight
[eyn-juhl di-lahyt]
Tastes fucking rancid. You know how when you are having a bath and topping up with your toe and check to see if the water is hot with your foot and for a split second if feels cold.... And then the skin peels back from your leg as the water burns it off because it actually hotter than the sun. Well, Angel Delight is so fucking nice that it is rancid. The end.
So says The Oxford English Dictionary, not that Websters one that is packed full of spelling mistakes, the Oxford one, you know, the REAL one. Check if you don't believe me.
Jumpers for goal posts
Ah, this one is completely incapable of being anything other than a warm and hazy memory. Never ever scary.
For those who don't have Football as their national sport (can only think of 2 countries) this one may need explaining. I'm not going to though.
Good days
I very much doubt someone could make a horror film with Lego, Angel Delight, Ice pops and jumpers for goal posts that is scary.
So , in summary, kill all Clowns, babies and dolls and the world shall be a happier place.
The God of Small Things
The God of Small Things is fucking with me right now. He isn't in charge of the things that really matter like whether you're gonna get run over by a truck today, or whether your doctor calls you to tell you that you have cancer. No. He is in charge of things like, where did I just put my lighter, the batteries in my remote control just died and I've just run out of milk.
Someone somewhere made a pact with The God of Small Things to have a totally hassle free life. What a great situation to be in eh? Everything he tries comes off effortlessly, all his plans reach fruition, and his life generally follows the "hollywood happy family" route.
Only one problem here. Where does all his pre appropriated hassle go? You can't just release it into the ether, where would we be if that happened? No, everything has a place and The God of Small Things has to redistribute this hassle. He can be a rather cantankerous deity at times and right now he is hovering inches above my head, milking himself and raining hassle juice liberally onto me. I can see him, he doesn't know that, but I can.
If you push your finger into your closed eyelid gently for about 2/3cms your ability to view the Gods opens and as I type this with my right hand, believe me when I tell you that the index finger of my left hand is firmly pushing my eyeball painfully about 2/3cms into my eye socket.
He's rubbing his hands together now, cackling. HA, he wouldn't be laughing so hard if he could see me poking my eyeball so painfully right now, thus ensuring I could see him would he?
So far today I have:
Got rained on to the extent that I was soaked through to my underwear, lost my keys, lost my glasses (twice), lost at least four lighters, realised I forgot to take my suit to the dry cleaners on Friday, burnt my dinner, smashed a plate, and ran a bath and forgot about it and got a tongue lashing from the old lady who lives downstairs.
Time I went to bed I think.
Someone somewhere made a pact with The God of Small Things to have a totally hassle free life. What a great situation to be in eh? Everything he tries comes off effortlessly, all his plans reach fruition, and his life generally follows the "hollywood happy family" route.
Only one problem here. Where does all his pre appropriated hassle go? You can't just release it into the ether, where would we be if that happened? No, everything has a place and The God of Small Things has to redistribute this hassle. He can be a rather cantankerous deity at times and right now he is hovering inches above my head, milking himself and raining hassle juice liberally onto me. I can see him, he doesn't know that, but I can.
If you push your finger into your closed eyelid gently for about 2/3cms your ability to view the Gods opens and as I type this with my right hand, believe me when I tell you that the index finger of my left hand is firmly pushing my eyeball painfully about 2/3cms into my eye socket.
He's rubbing his hands together now, cackling. HA, he wouldn't be laughing so hard if he could see me poking my eyeball so painfully right now, thus ensuring I could see him would he?
So far today I have:
Got rained on to the extent that I was soaked through to my underwear, lost my keys, lost my glasses (twice), lost at least four lighters, realised I forgot to take my suit to the dry cleaners on Friday, burnt my dinner, smashed a plate, and ran a bath and forgot about it and got a tongue lashing from the old lady who lives downstairs.
Time I went to bed I think.
Harry F*cking Potter
I came across this article a few days ago. http://www.hmnh.org/archives/2006/05/22/dragon-people-dear-readers/
Here is a little sample from the page:
Here is a little sample from the page:
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The dangers of Australian border control
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Fuck off and leave me alone...
I'm one of those people who go everywhere with my MP3 player. The only time I don't have the earphones in my ear is when i'm talking to someone. Music makes my day to day life easier, i'm pretty sure it's the same for a huge proportion of all of us.
Has anyone else noticed how till attendants are briefed by their bosses to ask so many fucking questions nowadays? It never used to be this bad.
"You want cash back?".... No
"Do you have a customer loyalty card?".... If I did you'd know about it
"Would you like fries with that?".... This is a bookshop motherfucker
"Would you like chocolate sprinkles on top?".... I just ordered a cup of tea, why the fuck would I want chocolate sprinkles on top of a cup of tea.
Now, I'm not an anti social person, I love human company, crave it sometimes, and genuinely value my friends, and i'm not averse to chatting to complete strangers, but when I want to. I HAVE EARPHONES IN. For the intentionally stupid that means I am listening to music, that means I DO NOT want to talk to you.
I may be being a little harsh when I am saying this because I understand that companies brief their staff to make more sales, thus the stupid questions, but please, fuck off.
The best way I have found of dealing with this is to stand there at the till, hand out waiting for change, staring the attendant dead in the eye, blatantly making no attempt to understand what they are saying. Standing like a statue, until they realise that they may be seconds away from a violent stabbing and quit with the incessant nonsense and just hand the change back. If they have been extra annoying and keep asking questions that I haven't understood (OBVIOUSLY, seeing as my earphones are in and the volume is turned right up) then I stand there palm still open, with the change freshly deposited in my hand for a couple more seconds, still staring them dead in the eye. You know what I mean, just a second too long. Thats when the nervous smiles come out and they eagerly try to break eye contact with me, but they can't.
It is a little harsh I know. They are just doing their job, but almost every time I have been back to the same shop, same till, same attendant, they stop trying to engage me in conversation, conversation with the sole intention of making me give them more of my cash. Cash that I have earned in my soul destroying job. I have a fucking right to guard against nonsense when spending it.
Cunts
Has anyone else noticed how till attendants are briefed by their bosses to ask so many fucking questions nowadays? It never used to be this bad.
"You want cash back?".... No
"Do you have a customer loyalty card?".... If I did you'd know about it
"Would you like fries with that?".... This is a bookshop motherfucker
"Would you like chocolate sprinkles on top?".... I just ordered a cup of tea, why the fuck would I want chocolate sprinkles on top of a cup of tea.
Now, I'm not an anti social person, I love human company, crave it sometimes, and genuinely value my friends, and i'm not averse to chatting to complete strangers, but when I want to. I HAVE EARPHONES IN. For the intentionally stupid that means I am listening to music, that means I DO NOT want to talk to you.
I may be being a little harsh when I am saying this because I understand that companies brief their staff to make more sales, thus the stupid questions, but please, fuck off.
The best way I have found of dealing with this is to stand there at the till, hand out waiting for change, staring the attendant dead in the eye, blatantly making no attempt to understand what they are saying. Standing like a statue, until they realise that they may be seconds away from a violent stabbing and quit with the incessant nonsense and just hand the change back. If they have been extra annoying and keep asking questions that I haven't understood (OBVIOUSLY, seeing as my earphones are in and the volume is turned right up) then I stand there palm still open, with the change freshly deposited in my hand for a couple more seconds, still staring them dead in the eye. You know what I mean, just a second too long. Thats when the nervous smiles come out and they eagerly try to break eye contact with me, but they can't.
It is a little harsh I know. They are just doing their job, but almost every time I have been back to the same shop, same till, same attendant, they stop trying to engage me in conversation, conversation with the sole intention of making me give them more of my cash. Cash that I have earned in my soul destroying job. I have a fucking right to guard against nonsense when spending it.
Cunts
Psychotherapist Fodder
When I was a kid I used to bring back any sort of bug or creepy crawly to my house, keep them in jars and feed them other bugs.
FYI: Holding beetles makes their mandibles open and close continously. If you are so inclined, you can then hold a fly or other inconsequential bug in your other hand and oh so slowly move it closer to the ever moving jaws of death whilst reciting monologues from any James Bond film.
Example: "...So Mr. Fly, it all comes to this, your temerity up to this point has served you well but alas it all ends here..." etc.
I'm surprised I didn't end up as a serial killer.
Another game I used to play that was more indicative of serial killer intentions was thus. I used to draw circles within circles, like an archery target, and I used to document which bug got the farthest out of the target before the pinpoint beam of light from an angled magnifying glass burnt them, and in some cases, popped them.
Not particularly wholesome I know and I offer no excuses.
FYI: Holding beetles makes their mandibles open and close continously. If you are so inclined, you can then hold a fly or other inconsequential bug in your other hand and oh so slowly move it closer to the ever moving jaws of death whilst reciting monologues from any James Bond film.
Example: "...So Mr. Fly, it all comes to this, your temerity up to this point has served you well but alas it all ends here..." etc.
I'm surprised I didn't end up as a serial killer.
Another game I used to play that was more indicative of serial killer intentions was thus. I used to draw circles within circles, like an archery target, and I used to document which bug got the farthest out of the target before the pinpoint beam of light from an angled magnifying glass burnt them, and in some cases, popped them.
Not particularly wholesome I know and I offer no excuses.
Personal Pain
I work in the advertising industry.
Here are a list of words used in the advertising industry that make me want to inject heroin directly into my eyeballs.
1. Synergy
2. Crystallisation
3. Learnings
More, as and when they appear.
Here are a list of words used in the advertising industry that make me want to inject heroin directly into my eyeballs.
1. Synergy
2. Crystallisation
3. Learnings
More, as and when they appear.
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