I do not steal babies. You know that (I hope) and I know that. Unfortunately, there is now a carriage full of people that think that I do in fact steal babies. All because I was being helpful.
I was on the train home today. I've waxed lyrical many times on how I hate the rush hour so I'm not going to go into any detail here about it but imagine this: Every seat taken. Almost all standing space gone. Not too much to hear above the odd mp3 player spitting out tinny baselines, newspapers being rustled and the monotonous clackety-clack of the rolling stock ferrying us all home.
My stop arrives and I stand up from my seat and wait for various sets of legs to make enough space for me to first emerge from the little set of seats I have been sitting in and then for the standing commuters to give me enough space to get to the doors. As I struggle through my supremely uninterested and dour looking peers I get to the doors and see a middle aged lady struggling to get off with her pram. It looked like one of these only bigger. Seriously, a few pieces of drywall and plasterboard and you could plumb the fucking thing into the mains and live quite happily. I noticed the doors were about to close and she was still no nearer to getting off. I was fucked if I was going to miss my stop so I did what any self respecting gentleman would have done. I grabbed her pram which had a multitude of shopping bags dangling from it and lifted the whole thing off the train and onto the platform just as the doors closed. The middle aged mother turned to me with a look of utter horror on her face and I quickly smiled at her to allay any fear she may have had about me and said jokingly "Don't worry, I'm not going to steal your baby". Still looking horrified she said to me "No, but I think you might have just stolen someone else's. That's not my pram, my jacket was just caught on the handle and I was trying to free myself!"
Oh shit. I had just stolen a fucking baby.
I looked into the carriage as it began to slowly pull away and didn't see any commotion at all. I slammed hard on the window and mouthed for someone to pull the emergency cord. I got a few weird glances but no one seemed to understand what I was on about and turned away from the nutty man slamming train windows and turned back to their respective newspapers and mp3 players. Now it was too late and the train had pulled out of the station and I definitely had stolen a fucking baby!
It was only then that I actually looked inside the pram to have a look at my new baby that I realised that there wasn't a baby in there at all. All I had actually stolen was a massive four wheeled and seemingly fuel injected pram dripping with various shopping bags and baby accoutrements.
Middle aged woman was looking at me now with a look of almost cartoon-like relief. Fuck this I thought to myself, your problem. I walked off as quick as I could leaving her asking after me what I expected her to do with a stolen pram. I paid no attention at all and quantified that if she hadn't been flapping about like a drunken mackerel, I wouldn't have stolen the pram in the first place.
Some poor mother is going to get off the train and realise she has been royally fucked over.
Tuesday 8 December 2009
Trains. Again
Fucking trains, they'll be the death of me. When my time eventually comes I know I'll either be on a train or hit by one. They don't like me and I'm not too fond of them. Shit always happens to me on trains.
I must deviate to give you some back story.
Of all the people I have met in the media industry, I have known only a very few that have become friends. One guy I got to know quite well works in the marketing department of an American film distribution firm over here. We used to meet every now and then and I would take him and his team out for drinks on a Friday. At first it was lunchtime drinks and after a while we somehow made our midday meetings stretch a few hours longer. Eventually it became the norm to meet up at about 2pm and drink expensive alcohol until we would both stumble home in the early hours. He and his team are a decent bunch and I have became quite close with them over the last 3 years.
A few weeks back, this guy split up with his girlfriend and as is often the case, it turned rather messy. This guy suddenly needed somewhere to stay and I gladly offered my sofa until he sorted himself out. Two days ago I had come home after work and rolled a joint and made myself a cup of tea. After my refreshment I decided I wanted to go for a run and knowing that he might come back here while I was out I decided to leave him a note on the door. "Gone for a run" was no good as I live in a dodgy part of town and letting everyone know your house is empty isn't the smartest move. "Call me" sounded way too gay so I added a simple "Fuck you" and thought that got my point across nicely. I couldn't find anything else to write on apart from a cigarette paper. Still, write on one side and lick the other to stick to the door and this was turning out to be the perfect solution.
I went for a run and came back to find he hadn't arrived so took the paper from the door and let myself in. Skip forward to this morning when I'm about to leave the house on my way to work and I find I need a page marker for my book. I look around and see this same scribbled on cigarette paper and insert it into my book and head to work. The train was rammed, as usual, and I made my way down the carriage. We were so packed on that I eventually found myself standing almost on top of a lady who had happened to bag herself the last available seat. I open my book, remove my page marker and as I insert it between the first and second pages of the book it slowly flutters from my grasp. Now I would have loved to have caught it but my arms were jammed together due to the close proximity of everyone else so I just watched in vain as it twisted and turned slowly down towards this lady and landed face up in her lap.
"Fuck you, call me" scrawled on a fucking cigarette paper and me smiling at her as she looked up.
I didn't bother to explain myself as the other hundred or so people on the carriage would hear and that was just too much information. I did find it funny though and giggled to myself for the next 25 minutes. Unlike her who markedly stared everywhere else other than at me for the entire journey.
Brilliant.
I must deviate to give you some back story.
Of all the people I have met in the media industry, I have known only a very few that have become friends. One guy I got to know quite well works in the marketing department of an American film distribution firm over here. We used to meet every now and then and I would take him and his team out for drinks on a Friday. At first it was lunchtime drinks and after a while we somehow made our midday meetings stretch a few hours longer. Eventually it became the norm to meet up at about 2pm and drink expensive alcohol until we would both stumble home in the early hours. He and his team are a decent bunch and I have became quite close with them over the last 3 years.
A few weeks back, this guy split up with his girlfriend and as is often the case, it turned rather messy. This guy suddenly needed somewhere to stay and I gladly offered my sofa until he sorted himself out. Two days ago I had come home after work and rolled a joint and made myself a cup of tea. After my refreshment I decided I wanted to go for a run and knowing that he might come back here while I was out I decided to leave him a note on the door. "Gone for a run" was no good as I live in a dodgy part of town and letting everyone know your house is empty isn't the smartest move. "Call me" sounded way too gay so I added a simple "Fuck you" and thought that got my point across nicely. I couldn't find anything else to write on apart from a cigarette paper. Still, write on one side and lick the other to stick to the door and this was turning out to be the perfect solution.
I went for a run and came back to find he hadn't arrived so took the paper from the door and let myself in. Skip forward to this morning when I'm about to leave the house on my way to work and I find I need a page marker for my book. I look around and see this same scribbled on cigarette paper and insert it into my book and head to work. The train was rammed, as usual, and I made my way down the carriage. We were so packed on that I eventually found myself standing almost on top of a lady who had happened to bag herself the last available seat. I open my book, remove my page marker and as I insert it between the first and second pages of the book it slowly flutters from my grasp. Now I would have loved to have caught it but my arms were jammed together due to the close proximity of everyone else so I just watched in vain as it twisted and turned slowly down towards this lady and landed face up in her lap.
"Fuck you, call me" scrawled on a fucking cigarette paper and me smiling at her as she looked up.
I didn't bother to explain myself as the other hundred or so people on the carriage would hear and that was just too much information. I did find it funny though and giggled to myself for the next 25 minutes. Unlike her who markedly stared everywhere else other than at me for the entire journey.
Brilliant.
My Underpants
I haven't spoken about my underpants for some time now and realise that in some circles this amounts to serious neglect. This had been playing on my mind for several weeks and I really didn't know what to do about it. Luckily for all of you, The God Of Underpant Mishaps had evidently been alerted to my plight, looked down on his checklist and noticed that I was more than overdue for some of his undergarment related shenanigans and gave me his personal attention.
Friday night found me falling asleep in front of the tv. I woke up in the early hours with a stiff neck and headed straight for my bed. I threw my clothes in a heap on the floor and got under the covers. My alarm went off at 8:30 Saturday morning as I had to get my suit to the dry cleaners at 9am. I jumped out of bed and put on my jeans from where I had left them on the floor the previous night and grabbed a t shirt. Brushed my teeth and out of the door with one dirty suit.
I'm walking to the dry cleaners and there is some small bustle on the parade of shops I'm walking down. There is a young mother and her two squawking children approaching me. She looks less interested in them than I am and that's saying something. It is at this point that I feel something strange nestled against the back of my knee and I look down just in time to see last nights boxers fall from the right trouser leg. "That's weird" I think to myself, "they look just like mine". I still had sleep in my eyes and the whole thing seemed rather bizarre. It wasn't until after one of the young children asked his mother in a loud and clear voice "Mum, why have that man's pants just fallen out of his trousers" that I realised that they must have been carefully nestled in my jeans when I took them off together last night. I guess they were somewhere in the leg when I pulled my jeans on in such a hurry not 10 minutes before.
I picked them up and stuffed them in my pocket as If I was taking a trophy of a night with myself. To exacerbate the effect, I masturbated with them as soon as I got home.
Friday night found me falling asleep in front of the tv. I woke up in the early hours with a stiff neck and headed straight for my bed. I threw my clothes in a heap on the floor and got under the covers. My alarm went off at 8:30 Saturday morning as I had to get my suit to the dry cleaners at 9am. I jumped out of bed and put on my jeans from where I had left them on the floor the previous night and grabbed a t shirt. Brushed my teeth and out of the door with one dirty suit.
I'm walking to the dry cleaners and there is some small bustle on the parade of shops I'm walking down. There is a young mother and her two squawking children approaching me. She looks less interested in them than I am and that's saying something. It is at this point that I feel something strange nestled against the back of my knee and I look down just in time to see last nights boxers fall from the right trouser leg. "That's weird" I think to myself, "they look just like mine". I still had sleep in my eyes and the whole thing seemed rather bizarre. It wasn't until after one of the young children asked his mother in a loud and clear voice "Mum, why have that man's pants just fallen out of his trousers" that I realised that they must have been carefully nestled in my jeans when I took them off together last night. I guess they were somewhere in the leg when I pulled my jeans on in such a hurry not 10 minutes before.
I picked them up and stuffed them in my pocket as If I was taking a trophy of a night with myself. To exacerbate the effect, I masturbated with them as soon as I got home.
The Moth.
Now first off, let me make a distinction here. When I refer to a moth from here on I don't refer to those beautiful moths you see pictures of that live in the jungle. None of us live there so I'm not talking about those moths (those ones aren't actually moths anyway, they are part bird). I'm referring to the kind of moths that live in our houses. Those singularly useless creatures that are attracted to bright lights, are always a dull brown colour and act like retarded butterflies.
They have no purpose. At all. I am sure there will be several learned stumblers that could point out some interesting fact or other regarding the humble moth yet I would respectfully call them all liars. I appreciate your "knowledge" in this field is greatly advanced when compared to mine but in this instance I shall not pander to "fact". Moths are deserving of fuck all. In fact, less than fuck all. They flap away at a wall for hours on end only after tiring of my head. Previously finding it the most interesting place in the entire world, ever. This will maybe go on for a day or two at most until they eventually die and fall onto my book shelf and get crispy.
When moths go to the cinema and watch a hero movie, the star of the show is always a pigeon. Moths aspire to the heady heights of pigeonhood as they intrinsically recognise the only creature on the planet to hold a higher status in the category of "World's Biggest Cunt".
When moths grow up they want to hang around in parks and cities eating shit from the floor while cooing and having gangrenous legs that spread disease. Instead of flapping around uncontrollably with natures second worst navigation system (after Daddy Long Legs), having no mouth and generally making a fucking nuisance of themselves.
Not much of a jump to be honest.
If I had my way, all future generations of both moths and pigeons would view me as their own Personal Hitler
They have no purpose. At all. I am sure there will be several learned stumblers that could point out some interesting fact or other regarding the humble moth yet I would respectfully call them all liars. I appreciate your "knowledge" in this field is greatly advanced when compared to mine but in this instance I shall not pander to "fact". Moths are deserving of fuck all. In fact, less than fuck all. They flap away at a wall for hours on end only after tiring of my head. Previously finding it the most interesting place in the entire world, ever. This will maybe go on for a day or two at most until they eventually die and fall onto my book shelf and get crispy.
When moths go to the cinema and watch a hero movie, the star of the show is always a pigeon. Moths aspire to the heady heights of pigeonhood as they intrinsically recognise the only creature on the planet to hold a higher status in the category of "World's Biggest Cunt".
When moths grow up they want to hang around in parks and cities eating shit from the floor while cooing and having gangrenous legs that spread disease. Instead of flapping around uncontrollably with natures second worst navigation system (after Daddy Long Legs), having no mouth and generally making a fucking nuisance of themselves.
Not much of a jump to be honest.
If I had my way, all future generations of both moths and pigeons would view me as their own Personal Hitler
Dave
- My cousin Dave is, and always has been, a constant source of amusement to me. He is 5 years younger than me and, unfortunately for him, the perfect age to have been terrorised by myself as we grew up. You all know how this one works right? If you have an older brother or sister you know that they will have at times fucked your life up just cos they are either bored or malicious. That's just the way life works and all kids learn to cope with it. Puts hairs on your chest and all that. Well, my sister is four years older than me and regularly used to fuck me up when I was too young and far too trusting to do anything about it. She used to do bad shit and blame me so my poor stressed mother would walk into the room, see a mess, slap me and then walk out. Poor woman, I was a handful. Anyway, all this caused me to need an outlet for my frustration. This is where Dave steps into the story. He got it from me bad. I terrorised him so badly when we were kids that the pattern of constant ribbing and hardship on his behalf has never really stopped. It's comfortable now for me (and him) to walk into a room, see him, give him a slap either actual or verbal and walk out. That shit is recurring. He has just turned 30 and still to this day nothing gives me greater pleasure than to see him fall over or fuck up somehow. As I said earlier, he is a constant source for me. Always will be. There has been one blot on this copybook for me though. Dave went out one night about 5 or 6 years ago with some pals. A big group of them went out one night and what was seemingly an innocuous evening in a pub swiftly escalated into fucking carnage. One of those nights where people end up dancing on tables and shots are the only thing being drunk and in great abundance. Well, maybe 90 minutes into the evening Dave realises he is in a bit of trouble and reckons he is about to puke and dashes into the toilet. He really wants to stay out and knows if he throws up it is game over and he is gonna need to be in a cab home. While he walks into the toilet of this rather dingy little pub he sees a guy selling drugs by the line. Bingo! Dave isn't really a drug taker but knows well enough that a couple of fat lines of coke and he is gonna be like the Duracell Bunny. He hands over a tenner to the dodgy dealer, sniffs up his charlie and heads back out to the bar. Not 3 steps into the main room and he crashes to the floor like he has been shot. Right into the middle of some random peoples table, knocking their drinks everywhere. He is out cold and for no apparent reason. Turns out mr dodgy dealer has sold him two fat lines of kettamine instead of coke although he only realised this the next morning. Daves mates pick him up and an ambulance is called. He is dragged out with various "fucking lightweight"'s drifting in his wake. Everyone laughing at him. I am still gutted I missed seeing this and it has grown into our folklore. Imagine my utter fucking joy when I found out a few days back that there was actually a sneaky mobile phone picture of him in the ambulance that has only just surfaced after 5 years! Put a massive smile on my face that did. I'm going to get miles and miles out of this one.
Cooking tips for twats
An explosive mixture of boredom and gluttony (bluttony) got me thinking the other day. When you've got a hangover, there really is no substitute, at all, to a Full English. The only problem you have here really is the fact that when waking with a hangover, the last thing you want to do is fuck around with the annoying task of actually cooking it.
Here is where the humble greasy spoon comes into its own. I fucking love those places. As a rule you can multiply the amount of minutes you spend in there by 3 and that is the exact number of days chalked from the end of your life. The food is that bad for you.
So what happens if you wake up with a hangover so bad that you find yourself praying to God, despite the fact that you don't actually believe in him, to take the pain from inside your head. There is no way that in this state that you could traverse the disgusting route of getting clothes on and getting to your necessary Valhalla. Would there be some way to make the Breakfast of Champions the night before?
I think I might have cracked it my friends. I gladly present to you this masterpiece:
The Full English Pie
A layer of fried scalloped potatoes, some fried mushrooms, five well cooked sausages, 8 slices of the crispiest bacon and then finally 4 beaten eggs poured into the cracks and left to settle and then topped up again. 30 minutes at 180 celsius and you shall reach salvation.
Here is where the humble greasy spoon comes into its own. I fucking love those places. As a rule you can multiply the amount of minutes you spend in there by 3 and that is the exact number of days chalked from the end of your life. The food is that bad for you.
So what happens if you wake up with a hangover so bad that you find yourself praying to God, despite the fact that you don't actually believe in him, to take the pain from inside your head. There is no way that in this state that you could traverse the disgusting route of getting clothes on and getting to your necessary Valhalla. Would there be some way to make the Breakfast of Champions the night before?
I think I might have cracked it my friends. I gladly present to you this masterpiece:
The Full English Pie
A layer of fried scalloped potatoes, some fried mushrooms, five well cooked sausages, 8 slices of the crispiest bacon and then finally 4 beaten eggs poured into the cracks and left to settle and then topped up again. 30 minutes at 180 celsius and you shall reach salvation.
Poker: The new cunt magnet
I had the intense displeasure to meet a professional poker player last night. What a massive cunt.
I can't remember meeting anyone so impressed with his own shadow in quite some time. He looked genuinely surprised when I told him what I thought about pro gamblers and I've known a few. His main argument in his defence hinged almost completely on the fact that he could afford the finer things in life and was only 23 years old. I found it rather funny when he asked his girlfriend if he could borrow £20 for a cab home and let him know that in no uncertain terms.
I think I can safely say that he was the first Swedish person that I have ever met who I didn't warm to. Swiftly followed by his girlfriend who told me several times that she was the best poker dealer in London. At the tender age of 22.
This was perhaps the first time in my life that I had a little bit of hindsight as to how I must have seemed to others at her age. I wasn't that much of a cunt was I? Surely not...
I did mention that old croupier joke to this "best poker dealer in London" girl that asks the difference between a card dealer and a gynaecologist? A gynaecologist only has to deal with one cunt at a time. I had to explain it to her three times. They do say that the key to all humour is timing and having to backtrack and explain an off the cuff joke like that killed the momentum somewhat. She mentioned how she found the word cunt distasteful and didn't like how frequently I used it which I found slightly amusing as it was her innate cunty demeanour that demanded I explain a simple joke again and again. How many other four letter and one syllable words could perfectly encapsulate a cunt other than cunt? She then drew out the age old and completely spurious argument that those who swore to excess were just exposing their own lack of vocabulary. To prove her wrong in the fullest sense I spoke in hugely belligerent multi syllabic terms for the next 5 minutes with the odd cunt thrown in for good measure. I always find that to be a most satisfying way to communicate. Juxtaposition being everything.
I can't remember meeting anyone so impressed with his own shadow in quite some time. He looked genuinely surprised when I told him what I thought about pro gamblers and I've known a few. His main argument in his defence hinged almost completely on the fact that he could afford the finer things in life and was only 23 years old. I found it rather funny when he asked his girlfriend if he could borrow £20 for a cab home and let him know that in no uncertain terms.
I think I can safely say that he was the first Swedish person that I have ever met who I didn't warm to. Swiftly followed by his girlfriend who told me several times that she was the best poker dealer in London. At the tender age of 22.
This was perhaps the first time in my life that I had a little bit of hindsight as to how I must have seemed to others at her age. I wasn't that much of a cunt was I? Surely not...
I did mention that old croupier joke to this "best poker dealer in London" girl that asks the difference between a card dealer and a gynaecologist? A gynaecologist only has to deal with one cunt at a time. I had to explain it to her three times. They do say that the key to all humour is timing and having to backtrack and explain an off the cuff joke like that killed the momentum somewhat. She mentioned how she found the word cunt distasteful and didn't like how frequently I used it which I found slightly amusing as it was her innate cunty demeanour that demanded I explain a simple joke again and again. How many other four letter and one syllable words could perfectly encapsulate a cunt other than cunt? She then drew out the age old and completely spurious argument that those who swore to excess were just exposing their own lack of vocabulary. To prove her wrong in the fullest sense I spoke in hugely belligerent multi syllabic terms for the next 5 minutes with the odd cunt thrown in for good measure. I always find that to be a most satisfying way to communicate. Juxtaposition being everything.
Subtitles at Midnight
At what point did television execs sit down and decide that people wanted to hear about pension deficits and government party manifestos on a Sunday morning at 8:30? As a child, Sunday had the capacity to be the very best or the very worst of days for me. There is so much around that could put an instant dampener on a Sunday for a child. The long months of grey skies and cold winter rain meant you were more than likely locked indoors over weekends and then you were faced with political and religious programming liberally scattered across the then 4 television channels. Neither the kind of thing that any normal child would look forward to.
As a choice it was Thatcher or Archbishop of Canterbury who forever seemed to be presiding over some ridiculously boring Harvest Festival which owed less to religious observance and more to do with your mum and dad getting rid of the old unwanted tinned food that had sat in the cupboard since the last time you were told by your primary school teacher to pester them for their handouts. Sunday have always been a shitty day for me.
Next week: Why are signed programmes for deaf people only on at 2am in the morning? Are deaf people really all vampiric in nature? Does that explain why they sound so daft when they try to speak?
As a choice it was Thatcher or Archbishop of Canterbury who forever seemed to be presiding over some ridiculously boring Harvest Festival which owed less to religious observance and more to do with your mum and dad getting rid of the old unwanted tinned food that had sat in the cupboard since the last time you were told by your primary school teacher to pester them for their handouts. Sunday have always been a shitty day for me.
Next week: Why are signed programmes for deaf people only on at 2am in the morning? Are deaf people really all vampiric in nature? Does that explain why they sound so daft when they try to speak?
Pitch me and I'll fuck you back.
Mondays. They really are shit aren't they. I've never been a fan and am usually a grumpy twat until at least 4pm.
A guy just turned up at my office and said he had a meeting with me at 9:30am. First I'd heard of it. Rather than sit there and go through my diary and question him as to when this meeting was pencilled in, I grabbed my tea and we both headed into our meeting room and let him get to it. He sat down, took a presentation from his bag and started pitching me for all manner of stupid ideas that I had absolutely no interest in following up in any way. Fuck it I thought to myself, I'll give him his ten minutes and by the time I finish my cup of tea I shall boot him out and get to the real work of the day.
Pages are being turned in his intensely cheap looking presentation and he is giving me facts and figures I am paying no attention to. Suddenly we get to a page with a picture of a dog in a jumper. He looked slightly confused at this and I smelled the fact that maybe he had been tucked up and jumped on it mercilessly.
Me - "What's this with dogs in jumpers? We're really not the type of company to waste time with this kind of shit, especially not on a Monday morning"
Him - "Er, I really apologise for that, that shot must have got mixed up in the presentation somehow..."
Me - "Hmmm"
So, slightly flustered he turns the page while I fix him with the steeliest of glares and then it happened. The funniest and best thing ever to occur on a Monday morning. The next page was a semi naked picture of him lying on a bed holding a bottle of beer in one hand and giving the thumbs up with the other hand. That was my composure gone and I just started laughing as loudly as I could. In between laughing so hard that I couldn't breathe properly I shouted for all of my colleagues to come in here right away and take a look at this. The poor fucker looked unbelievably horrified and he got up and left in such a hurry that he forgot the copy of the presentation (big mistake) and left me laughing so hard that I was now crying.
Oh the joy. I'm guessing right now that someone is about to get sacked in a big fat hurry.
Oh well, back to work
A guy just turned up at my office and said he had a meeting with me at 9:30am. First I'd heard of it. Rather than sit there and go through my diary and question him as to when this meeting was pencilled in, I grabbed my tea and we both headed into our meeting room and let him get to it. He sat down, took a presentation from his bag and started pitching me for all manner of stupid ideas that I had absolutely no interest in following up in any way. Fuck it I thought to myself, I'll give him his ten minutes and by the time I finish my cup of tea I shall boot him out and get to the real work of the day.
Pages are being turned in his intensely cheap looking presentation and he is giving me facts and figures I am paying no attention to. Suddenly we get to a page with a picture of a dog in a jumper. He looked slightly confused at this and I smelled the fact that maybe he had been tucked up and jumped on it mercilessly.
Me - "What's this with dogs in jumpers? We're really not the type of company to waste time with this kind of shit, especially not on a Monday morning"
Him - "Er, I really apologise for that, that shot must have got mixed up in the presentation somehow..."
Me - "Hmmm"
So, slightly flustered he turns the page while I fix him with the steeliest of glares and then it happened. The funniest and best thing ever to occur on a Monday morning. The next page was a semi naked picture of him lying on a bed holding a bottle of beer in one hand and giving the thumbs up with the other hand. That was my composure gone and I just started laughing as loudly as I could. In between laughing so hard that I couldn't breathe properly I shouted for all of my colleagues to come in here right away and take a look at this. The poor fucker looked unbelievably horrified and he got up and left in such a hurry that he forgot the copy of the presentation (big mistake) and left me laughing so hard that I was now crying.
Oh the joy. I'm guessing right now that someone is about to get sacked in a big fat hurry.
Oh well, back to work
Saturday 31 January 2009
Covert Bullshit In Adland
I've mentioned on here before how much I hate my job, you may have read that at some point. If I were to go into a little more detail I would say that the job in itself wasn't really what I hated, it is the people that I have to converse with that make it such a soul expunging day to day existence. As time has gone on I have found myself automatically adjusting so that I can wheedle myself into some little corner of my mind that allows me to approach the situation and retain some sense of dignity. Not easy. Now I mainly hate myself during the week.
There is one part of my job that makes it a more bearable way to earn money. We are constantly entertaining clients. That can mean taking them to football matches in Spain to watch Real Madrid play at the Bernebeu, or getting tickets to the biggest gigs in town. VIP. Taking their entire team of 50 to the pub for a huge piss up. That kind of thing. We always pick up the tab. All my boss gives a fuck about is that they have fun with us and we forge relationships with them.
It all sounds like great fun right there doesn't it? Only problem is, the people you will be watching football with, visiting movie premieres with, getting fucking hammered with, are all fucking massive cunts. To a fucking man. I've been doing this for 3 years now and have had a huge internal tussle with where I sit in amongst all of this. I tried playing their game and couldn't keep up the pretence for too long. I'm not fucking interested in your iphone. I'm not interested in hearing about how you really know banksy and sniffed coke with him. Your trendy beard nauseates me, and so does your face. It is offensive to me how you put countless creams and lotions on your face and hair just so that it looks "naturally untended".
That didn't work. So I backed off, puzzled and questioning if I could really do this. The director asks me why I am spending less of his cash getting fucked with my clients. I tell him they are all cunts and hate myself when I am with them. He laughs conspiratorially and agrees with me, shrugs his shoulders as if to say "What can you do?". Bit of a shock really as he would be well up there in the final three if the BBC ever decide to make my proposition to them of "Cunt Idol".
I eventually came to the conclusion, not so long ago, that I would just be completely and totally me. The next time you flash your new trendy gadget at me I am going to theatrically yawn in your fucking face, and then laugh. I'm going to tell you that your beard looks like a spider crawled all over your face after jogging around in an ink pot if you ask me my opinion. It offended some and surprisingly intrigued others. Strange developments were afoot and although I am forever trying to kerb myself, and feeling guilty when I fail, it seemed to have the opposite effect and drove me on.
Imagine my fucking heart singing arias written by angels, both fallen and exalted, when I am at lunch with an entire media agency team (one of the big ones) including three board directors. Swapping meaningless words with their main man and then finding myself getting carried away simulating sucking a dogs cock, while telling him why he is such a daft cunt, to such an extent that two of the directors choke on their food with laughter. The other director is snorting ridiculously expensive sherry from a spoon and two of the girls start kissing.
I'm winning the battle and beating these motherfuckers from the inside.
There is one part of my job that makes it a more bearable way to earn money. We are constantly entertaining clients. That can mean taking them to football matches in Spain to watch Real Madrid play at the Bernebeu, or getting tickets to the biggest gigs in town. VIP. Taking their entire team of 50 to the pub for a huge piss up. That kind of thing. We always pick up the tab. All my boss gives a fuck about is that they have fun with us and we forge relationships with them.
It all sounds like great fun right there doesn't it? Only problem is, the people you will be watching football with, visiting movie premieres with, getting fucking hammered with, are all fucking massive cunts. To a fucking man. I've been doing this for 3 years now and have had a huge internal tussle with where I sit in amongst all of this. I tried playing their game and couldn't keep up the pretence for too long. I'm not fucking interested in your iphone. I'm not interested in hearing about how you really know banksy and sniffed coke with him. Your trendy beard nauseates me, and so does your face. It is offensive to me how you put countless creams and lotions on your face and hair just so that it looks "naturally untended".
That didn't work. So I backed off, puzzled and questioning if I could really do this. The director asks me why I am spending less of his cash getting fucked with my clients. I tell him they are all cunts and hate myself when I am with them. He laughs conspiratorially and agrees with me, shrugs his shoulders as if to say "What can you do?". Bit of a shock really as he would be well up there in the final three if the BBC ever decide to make my proposition to them of "Cunt Idol".
I eventually came to the conclusion, not so long ago, that I would just be completely and totally me. The next time you flash your new trendy gadget at me I am going to theatrically yawn in your fucking face, and then laugh. I'm going to tell you that your beard looks like a spider crawled all over your face after jogging around in an ink pot if you ask me my opinion. It offended some and surprisingly intrigued others. Strange developments were afoot and although I am forever trying to kerb myself, and feeling guilty when I fail, it seemed to have the opposite effect and drove me on.
Imagine my fucking heart singing arias written by angels, both fallen and exalted, when I am at lunch with an entire media agency team (one of the big ones) including three board directors. Swapping meaningless words with their main man and then finding myself getting carried away simulating sucking a dogs cock, while telling him why he is such a daft cunt, to such an extent that two of the directors choke on their food with laughter. The other director is snorting ridiculously expensive sherry from a spoon and two of the girls start kissing.
I'm winning the battle and beating these motherfuckers from the inside.
You Touched It Last
At what point does the product wrapping or the empty drinks can in your hand become rubbish? Once it has served the intended purpose, and is empty, is it rubbish? No, it seems that it only becomes rubbish once it touches the floor.
The London Underground subway system hasn't had any rubbish bins at all for some years now. If I remember correctly it was an IRA bomb placed in a bin on the underground that prompted this. Fair enough of course but now there is nowhere to dispose of the crap we have no choice but to accumulate so frequently. Wrappings and cannisters and used cartons, all that shit needs to go somewhere and people don't seem willing to carry it with them to their destination.
Now, i'm no eco warrior. I don't recycle, I would if we had some sort of local collection, but we don't. I wouldn't think twice about nonchalantly setting fire to a pile of used tyres in a nature reserve. However, I am a sometime antagonist and after a particularly stressful journey to work, and then straight out to an external meeting, I saw my chance and jumped. A middle aged man with a face that offended me, for no apparent reason, had just finished messily eating a cornish pasty and was looking around for somewhere to put the crumpled paper bag that was now useless to him. We were on the platform and the train was just pulling into the station so he hurriedly chose his easiest option: He placed it onto the upper part of the outwardly jutting "London Underground" sign on the wall. It wobbled precariously but finally decided to stay put. He looked horrified for a second at the thought of the paper bag hitting the floor and becoming rubbish, and then relieved as it didn't. The train arrived, we both got on but not before I grabbed the crumpled bag and got on the train behind him. I was hoping to hand it to him and announce "oh, I think you dropped this" in a loud voice. Unfortunately he had his back to me for the entire time we were on the train so I just gently placed it in his hood without him noticing. All those childhood years playing Operation and Buckaroo came in handy after all.
I was a little miffed at the gentle conclusion and was fully prepared to revert to 8 year old mode and play "You touched it last" with a 50 year old. I even cleared my trouser pockets so when I shoved the bag into his arms and announced that he had indeed touched it last, I could speedily place my hands in my pockets to place a devastating checkmate and end this game the victor.
Life doesn't always give us the outcomes we crave but we must consistently approach every situation believing it will. In that way we can at least smile inwardly to ourselves, even if we piss off every last fucker in the process.
The London Underground subway system hasn't had any rubbish bins at all for some years now. If I remember correctly it was an IRA bomb placed in a bin on the underground that prompted this. Fair enough of course but now there is nowhere to dispose of the crap we have no choice but to accumulate so frequently. Wrappings and cannisters and used cartons, all that shit needs to go somewhere and people don't seem willing to carry it with them to their destination.
Now, i'm no eco warrior. I don't recycle, I would if we had some sort of local collection, but we don't. I wouldn't think twice about nonchalantly setting fire to a pile of used tyres in a nature reserve. However, I am a sometime antagonist and after a particularly stressful journey to work, and then straight out to an external meeting, I saw my chance and jumped. A middle aged man with a face that offended me, for no apparent reason, had just finished messily eating a cornish pasty and was looking around for somewhere to put the crumpled paper bag that was now useless to him. We were on the platform and the train was just pulling into the station so he hurriedly chose his easiest option: He placed it onto the upper part of the outwardly jutting "London Underground" sign on the wall. It wobbled precariously but finally decided to stay put. He looked horrified for a second at the thought of the paper bag hitting the floor and becoming rubbish, and then relieved as it didn't. The train arrived, we both got on but not before I grabbed the crumpled bag and got on the train behind him. I was hoping to hand it to him and announce "oh, I think you dropped this" in a loud voice. Unfortunately he had his back to me for the entire time we were on the train so I just gently placed it in his hood without him noticing. All those childhood years playing Operation and Buckaroo came in handy after all.
I was a little miffed at the gentle conclusion and was fully prepared to revert to 8 year old mode and play "You touched it last" with a 50 year old. I even cleared my trouser pockets so when I shoved the bag into his arms and announced that he had indeed touched it last, I could speedily place my hands in my pockets to place a devastating checkmate and end this game the victor.
Life doesn't always give us the outcomes we crave but we must consistently approach every situation believing it will. In that way we can at least smile inwardly to ourselves, even if we piss off every last fucker in the process.
Pigeons. Again
Me: Briskly walking on stretch of pavement with wall to my left, and security railings to my right. Enough room for two abreast.
Pigeon: Happily minding own business pecking at random detritus on floor.
Me: Notice pigeon for first time. Keep exact pace and position on pavement.
Pigeon: Notices me. Looks alarmed from a distance. Stops pecking and freezes.
Me: Wondering if pigeons can sense my derision. Then have two second daydream of me sitting on throne of Planet Of The Pigeons. All around me are dead pigeons. Now within 4 paces of pigeon. Directly in my path. One of us is gonna have to change direction.
Pigeon: Not happy, slightly alarmed. Decides to abandon completely the random food stuff on floor and makes erroneous decision to walk and not fly in opposite direction
Me: Wondering why pigeon doesn't just move aside
Pigeon: Why is this cunt following me? Shit he is huge and he is getting closer. Must walk quicker
Me: MAINTAIN PACE. MAINTAIN DIRECTION. Move aside little pigeon. This is all about testosterone now. Honk imaginary truck horn.
Pigeon: Now beginning to flap wings in panic but not enough to take off. Walking in straight line away from scary man
Me: MAINTAIN PACE. MAINTAIN DIRECTION
Pigeon: Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. I am so scared I will continue to walk in a dead straight line away from scary man
Me: MAINTAIN PACE. MAINTAIN DIRECTION. Now giggling
Pigeon: FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK. Brain still not decided to fly yet. Sprinting in a straight line
Me: MAINTAIN PACE. MAINTAIN DIRECTION. Laughing openly, attracting attention from passers by.
Pigeon: FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK. ALERT, ALERT. ESCAPE STRATEGY NOT WORKING. NEW DIRECTIVES NEEDED
...computing
...computing
...computing.
NEW DIRECTIVES ARRIVED. WALK INTO BUSY ROAD.
Bus: "Hey, 'sup"
Me: Amazed at amount of blood caused by freshly squashed pigeon. Looks like a pancake. Mmmmmm, pancakes...
Pigeon: Happily minding own business pecking at random detritus on floor.
Me: Notice pigeon for first time. Keep exact pace and position on pavement.
Pigeon: Notices me. Looks alarmed from a distance. Stops pecking and freezes.
Me: Wondering if pigeons can sense my derision. Then have two second daydream of me sitting on throne of Planet Of The Pigeons. All around me are dead pigeons. Now within 4 paces of pigeon. Directly in my path. One of us is gonna have to change direction.
Pigeon: Not happy, slightly alarmed. Decides to abandon completely the random food stuff on floor and makes erroneous decision to walk and not fly in opposite direction
Me: Wondering why pigeon doesn't just move aside
Pigeon: Why is this cunt following me? Shit he is huge and he is getting closer. Must walk quicker
Me: MAINTAIN PACE. MAINTAIN DIRECTION. Move aside little pigeon. This is all about testosterone now. Honk imaginary truck horn.
Pigeon: Now beginning to flap wings in panic but not enough to take off. Walking in straight line away from scary man
Me: MAINTAIN PACE. MAINTAIN DIRECTION
Pigeon: Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. I am so scared I will continue to walk in a dead straight line away from scary man
Me: MAINTAIN PACE. MAINTAIN DIRECTION. Now giggling
Pigeon: FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK. Brain still not decided to fly yet. Sprinting in a straight line
Me: MAINTAIN PACE. MAINTAIN DIRECTION. Laughing openly, attracting attention from passers by.
Pigeon: FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK. ALERT, ALERT. ESCAPE STRATEGY NOT WORKING. NEW DIRECTIVES NEEDED
...computing
...computing
...computing.
NEW DIRECTIVES ARRIVED. WALK INTO BUSY ROAD.
Bus: "Hey, 'sup"
Me: Amazed at amount of blood caused by freshly squashed pigeon. Looks like a pancake. Mmmmmm, pancakes...
Stabbed In The Arse On The Train
I like my dry cleaner. He and his wife are one of the very few people I will happily pass the time of day with in my area. I visit him at least once a week and to date he has always done a great job on any of the clothes I drop off with him. I am gonna have words with him after this though.
Lunchtime today found me hunting yet again for my sisters christmas present. She wanted some specific cosmetics and I had hunted for them on three separate occasions with no joy. Today I meant business. No toodling around the shops near my office. No. Today I jumped on a train to travel a few miles to a place I was sure would have these cosmetics. I went into the underground, waited on the platform for the train and when it came I hopped on. It was quite busy in the carriage and maybe three quarters of the seats were taken. I located a free seat and sat down between two people. The second my arse hit the seat I felt an intense jabbing pain just under my right arse cheek and before I could jump up the jabbing had travelled further into my flesh and jarred into bone. Before I knew what I was doing, and more importantly where I was, I leapt high into the air with what must have been a cartoon expression of pain and screamed my favourite expletive at the top of my lungs. More than once and with other adjoining words scattered inbetween.
Everyone is now watching. Everyone. And they look shocked.
I instantly stare at the seat for the offending something that has stabbed me right in the arse with such force. Nothing jumped out at me and I bent over for a closer look. Nothing. Half the carriage can see my arse and the other half can see the pained look disappearing from my face and merging into something resembling embarrassment. This had all gone on now for maybe three or four seconds and I needed to triumphiantly hold aloft something to let everyone know I wasn't some kind of weirdo but that my arse had been publicly violated, and I wasn't having it. Still nothing.
Now I was noticing the jarring pain in my arse again and instinctively reached behind to touch the exact epicentre. I don't know why but it is something we all do isn't it. I felt a foreign something. Then I felt it dislodge and fall down my trouser leg where I heard a soft noise as it hit the floor. As there was total silence at this point I think the entire carriage may well have heard that soft noise too so some of them were already gleefully glaring at my feet to see what had made this strange man scream like a little girl, and then curse like the most fervent of Somalian pirates upon discovering the Indian navy at the horizon.
A safety pin. With blood on the end.
I grabbed it and got the fuck off the train in a hurry. Fate had thrown me an olive branch and we were suddenly at my station. As I limped off the train it all began to fall into place. My dry cleaner puts little blue paper tags on every piece of clothing he cleans. He usually tags them there with one of those machines that annoyingly fastens price labels to clothes. He must have run out and used a safety pin. I guess I sat on it during the morning and as I got up from my desk to go to lunch it unfastened and was hanging there awaiting its opportunity.
Holy fuck that hurt. It actually hit bone.
Lunchtime today found me hunting yet again for my sisters christmas present. She wanted some specific cosmetics and I had hunted for them on three separate occasions with no joy. Today I meant business. No toodling around the shops near my office. No. Today I jumped on a train to travel a few miles to a place I was sure would have these cosmetics. I went into the underground, waited on the platform for the train and when it came I hopped on. It was quite busy in the carriage and maybe three quarters of the seats were taken. I located a free seat and sat down between two people. The second my arse hit the seat I felt an intense jabbing pain just under my right arse cheek and before I could jump up the jabbing had travelled further into my flesh and jarred into bone. Before I knew what I was doing, and more importantly where I was, I leapt high into the air with what must have been a cartoon expression of pain and screamed my favourite expletive at the top of my lungs. More than once and with other adjoining words scattered inbetween.
Everyone is now watching. Everyone. And they look shocked.
I instantly stare at the seat for the offending something that has stabbed me right in the arse with such force. Nothing jumped out at me and I bent over for a closer look. Nothing. Half the carriage can see my arse and the other half can see the pained look disappearing from my face and merging into something resembling embarrassment. This had all gone on now for maybe three or four seconds and I needed to triumphiantly hold aloft something to let everyone know I wasn't some kind of weirdo but that my arse had been publicly violated, and I wasn't having it. Still nothing.
Now I was noticing the jarring pain in my arse again and instinctively reached behind to touch the exact epicentre. I don't know why but it is something we all do isn't it. I felt a foreign something. Then I felt it dislodge and fall down my trouser leg where I heard a soft noise as it hit the floor. As there was total silence at this point I think the entire carriage may well have heard that soft noise too so some of them were already gleefully glaring at my feet to see what had made this strange man scream like a little girl, and then curse like the most fervent of Somalian pirates upon discovering the Indian navy at the horizon.
A safety pin. With blood on the end.
I grabbed it and got the fuck off the train in a hurry. Fate had thrown me an olive branch and we were suddenly at my station. As I limped off the train it all began to fall into place. My dry cleaner puts little blue paper tags on every piece of clothing he cleans. He usually tags them there with one of those machines that annoyingly fastens price labels to clothes. He must have run out and used a safety pin. I guess I sat on it during the morning and as I got up from my desk to go to lunch it unfastened and was hanging there awaiting its opportunity.
Holy fuck that hurt. It actually hit bone.
Jesus. Tell Your Followers To Chill Out Would You?
Had an interesting experience the other night. It was maybe 11pm or so and I was considering going to bed and just flicking through the channels. My wandering thumbs took me unintentionally to the once small section of Jesus channels. I say used to cos there are now 15 or 20 of them. What was previously just American evangelical preachers in stadiums healing people in the name of Jesus, now seemed to have home grown English versions as well. Glee! I'd never seen this before. As far as I can see, in England, evangelical Christianity is ruled by the Africans. I'm no expert, but that is what it seems like to me. Poorly recorded preachers in cheap looking rent a rooms preaching in heavily African accented English. Huge black women fanning themselves in the audience dressed in their finest, which means every single colour of the rainbow in one dress.
That piqued my interest for a few minutes and I started clicking again. Ohhhh, what's this? It was the cheapest looking set up so far by a long shot. A fixed camera on close up on an African preacher, but this time he was taking calls from the public. I very much doubt there were more than 3 people involved in this broadcast in totality, and that included Mr Preacher and the caller. 30 quid tops. He was midway through a conversation with Mamase Mamasa Mamamboosa from Foooolam (Fulham). Nothing too interesting. He told her that if she believed in the "powa of tha wahd of tha Load", then all would be peachy. Next call was pretty much the same. Kalititi from Romfahd (Romford). I was beginning to lose interest and was about to get up when Karen from Sydenham came on. She sounded English as well. She didn't sound classy though. Pregnant at 13 kind of not classy.
After chatting about nothing in particular for a few minutes Mr African Preacher told her how he could hear the word of the lord right now and she cut him completely dead.
Karen: *excited* "WOW. YOU TOO! I HEAR VOICES ALL THE TIME."
Mr African Preacher: "You heah tha wahd of tha load too?"
K: "I hear voices all the time. Do you know what I mean? They're always talking to me. Telling me to do things"
MrAP: "What things theez voices ah tell you?"
K: "They just whisper. All the time. They never stop. Always whispering. Do you know what I mean?"
MrAP: "I don't tink theez voices ah tha load. Tha load would nevah..."
K: *cutting in* "They're always talking, always *starts sounding nervous now* They won't leave me alone now. Always there, do you know what I mean? *speech quickens and she sounds slightly out of breath* Should I do what they say? They say some strange things. *shouting now* I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO, THEY NEVER STOP. ALWAAAAAYS......."
It was at this point that I swear I could hear her clawing her own eyes out as she screamed down the phone. It was also at this point that Mr African Preacher decided to cut her off.
I'm going to be watching this channel sporadically from now on.
That piqued my interest for a few minutes and I started clicking again. Ohhhh, what's this? It was the cheapest looking set up so far by a long shot. A fixed camera on close up on an African preacher, but this time he was taking calls from the public. I very much doubt there were more than 3 people involved in this broadcast in totality, and that included Mr Preacher and the caller. 30 quid tops. He was midway through a conversation with Mamase Mamasa Mamamboosa from Foooolam (Fulham). Nothing too interesting. He told her that if she believed in the "powa of tha wahd of tha Load", then all would be peachy. Next call was pretty much the same. Kalititi from Romfahd (Romford). I was beginning to lose interest and was about to get up when Karen from Sydenham came on. She sounded English as well. She didn't sound classy though. Pregnant at 13 kind of not classy.
After chatting about nothing in particular for a few minutes Mr African Preacher told her how he could hear the word of the lord right now and she cut him completely dead.
Karen: *excited* "WOW. YOU TOO! I HEAR VOICES ALL THE TIME."
Mr African Preacher: "You heah tha wahd of tha load too?"
K: "I hear voices all the time. Do you know what I mean? They're always talking to me. Telling me to do things"
MrAP: "What things theez voices ah tell you?"
K: "They just whisper. All the time. They never stop. Always whispering. Do you know what I mean?"
MrAP: "I don't tink theez voices ah tha load. Tha load would nevah..."
K: *cutting in* "They're always talking, always *starts sounding nervous now* They won't leave me alone now. Always there, do you know what I mean? *speech quickens and she sounds slightly out of breath* Should I do what they say? They say some strange things. *shouting now* I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO, THEY NEVER STOP. ALWAAAAAYS......."
It was at this point that I swear I could hear her clawing her own eyes out as she screamed down the phone. It was also at this point that Mr African Preacher decided to cut her off.
I'm going to be watching this channel sporadically from now on.
Useless Yiddo
The two back legs on my bed broke the other day while I was moving it. That'll teach me to buy cheap beds. Rather than sleep on a slant I decided to do the only thing a Jewish man can do. Go kill thousands of Palestinians. Shit did I just say that or think it? That'll be those cursed Jew genes talking. What I actually meant was I chopped off the other two legs to put myself on an even keel when sleeping.
Guys will generally learn their DIY skills from their fathers. I don't know too many Jewish plumbers or carpenters (apart from Jesus and that useless fucker was nowhere to be found) and so I learnt fuck all in that respect from my dad. My entire toolbox consists of one of those multi tool things, a hammer, a drill that never gets used and a few screwdrivers.
One of my biggest regrets is being as remarkably unhandy as is humanly possible. Luckily I have many goy mates to do that kind of shit for me. Symbiosis is a wonderful thing
Guys will generally learn their DIY skills from their fathers. I don't know too many Jewish plumbers or carpenters (apart from Jesus and that useless fucker was nowhere to be found) and so I learnt fuck all in that respect from my dad. My entire toolbox consists of one of those multi tool things, a hammer, a drill that never gets used and a few screwdrivers.
One of my biggest regrets is being as remarkably unhandy as is humanly possible. Luckily I have many goy mates to do that kind of shit for me. Symbiosis is a wonderful thing
Fat Chefs
I like my chefs fat. Why would you trust a whip lean cook? If I wanted a personal trainer I would find one with muscles. If I wanted advice on art (not that I would of course) I would find someone who looks like Salvador Dali, all spindly moustaches and long floppy bow ties. If I wanted to discuss the finer points of washing the dishes, I would consult the nearest woman.
In fact, when I look for advice on any subject I turn to someone who looks like they know what they are talking about. Qualifications mean nothing.
In fact, when I look for advice on any subject I turn to someone who looks like they know what they are talking about. Qualifications mean nothing.
Coppers Make Me Nervous
I got a letter pushed through the door last week from the police. It asked "Sir/Madam" to contact them on the below number as there was something they wanted to talk to me about. Now I didn't really worry too much due only to the fact that it was addressed to generic house owner and not me specifically. If it had been addressed to me then I would have started doing that auto brain scan thing you do when you think you may be in trouble. What the fuck have I done and more importantly how am I going to wiggle out of this one? I called the number on the letter the next day. I was told that the two detectives that wanted to speak to me weren't at the station right now and could I leave my full name, address, phone number and date of birth with them and they would call me back when they could. My date of birth? Why? Are you at all interested in the colour of my underpants perhaps? White before you ask. My socks? Of course. They are black, and I once watched a midget porn show in Bangkok and was mildly repulsed by the whole thing but that was years ago now and surely you will take my inebriation at the time into consideration detective?
If someone asks me unnecessary questions the usual response would be short sharp answers delivered with the straightest of faces and with an icy undertone. And an overtone if I'm really angry. Not so with the police though, no need to get on the bad side with the coppers. Especially when they already want to come to my house in the first place. They didn't call back that day and as I have had an old friend over from Sweden recently I just forgot about it. Two days ago found me sitting in the pub with my friend when my phone rang. It was the police and could they come round to my house tomorrow night at 8 to talk. No problem, see you then. My friend and I then decided to have a ban on smoking anything dodgy after 4pm that day and clear all potentially incriminating evidence. We would open the windows from 4 as well. It is fucking freezing but cold and at home is preferable to warm and in prison.
We did our stuff the next day. Both of us scanned the shit out of the flat at 4 and by 4:45 we were both happy that we were now completely sanitized although we were sundered with several layers of extra clothing. Imagine our surprise when we got a knock on the door at 5:30. It was one of those knocks that only policeman use. 4 short sharp raps. My friend looks at me with an incredibly guilty look on his face and whispers "Fuck, it's them!". He knew it was them and so did I. I got up and had a last glance across the room as I walked to the door repeating "It's cool, it's cool, it's cool" to myself. I opened the door and there was a him and a her. She flashed her badge and he instantly told me that he was sorry he was early but he had just had to change the wheel on his car and could he come in and wash his hands. He pushed past me into the house. Brilliant.
She came into the front room and told me she wanted to show me a photofit of a man they think is local and had been committing all kinds of naughtiness. She showed me a picture of a black man in a balaclava. All I could see were his eyes. I laughed and told her that she would have to give me a little more as staring into random mens eyes on the street wasn't really my kind of thing. As I was handing the photofit back to her Mr.Policeman came out of the bathroom and asked me to sign a sheet saying "Yes I have seen the picture of a black mans eyes and no I didn't recognise them". I was smoking a cigarette and went to place it in the ashtray and his eyes followed my hand down and that was when we both saw it. At the same time. A half smoked joint just sitting there looking up and smiling at both of us. I could not fucking believe it. I had cleared under the fucking sofa and hidden my hash box so totally that a psychic would have had a job finding it. I had even emptied my drawers in my room of anything naughty. All that and we had both completely forgotten to clean the fucking ashtray, and here we were with far too many clothes and windows wide fucking open in January. Then he looked at me and we locked eyes. I had an easy smile on my face as if to say "So what, it's only a joint". He then started looking around my place as Ms.Policewoman was talking to my friend.
A few more nonsensical pleasantries were exchanged between them and I am just thinking what a fucking stupid stupid cunt I am. Fucking busted because I didn't empty the ashtray. We had been so concerned with all the secret little places that we forgot the most obvious.
Mr.Policeman finishes his hungry eyed search across my room, looked back to me and smiled and this is what I heard ringing in my ears
"You are fucking nicked my son. What else you got in this place? I'm going to do a full search."
What he actually said
"Thanks very much for your time. We'd better get going now"
I couldn't believe it when I realised he was going to leave it there. As soon as he left I showed my friend the ashtray and we both laughed and then I sparked it up.
If someone asks me unnecessary questions the usual response would be short sharp answers delivered with the straightest of faces and with an icy undertone. And an overtone if I'm really angry. Not so with the police though, no need to get on the bad side with the coppers. Especially when they already want to come to my house in the first place. They didn't call back that day and as I have had an old friend over from Sweden recently I just forgot about it. Two days ago found me sitting in the pub with my friend when my phone rang. It was the police and could they come round to my house tomorrow night at 8 to talk. No problem, see you then. My friend and I then decided to have a ban on smoking anything dodgy after 4pm that day and clear all potentially incriminating evidence. We would open the windows from 4 as well. It is fucking freezing but cold and at home is preferable to warm and in prison.
We did our stuff the next day. Both of us scanned the shit out of the flat at 4 and by 4:45 we were both happy that we were now completely sanitized although we were sundered with several layers of extra clothing. Imagine our surprise when we got a knock on the door at 5:30. It was one of those knocks that only policeman use. 4 short sharp raps. My friend looks at me with an incredibly guilty look on his face and whispers "Fuck, it's them!". He knew it was them and so did I. I got up and had a last glance across the room as I walked to the door repeating "It's cool, it's cool, it's cool" to myself. I opened the door and there was a him and a her. She flashed her badge and he instantly told me that he was sorry he was early but he had just had to change the wheel on his car and could he come in and wash his hands. He pushed past me into the house. Brilliant.
She came into the front room and told me she wanted to show me a photofit of a man they think is local and had been committing all kinds of naughtiness. She showed me a picture of a black man in a balaclava. All I could see were his eyes. I laughed and told her that she would have to give me a little more as staring into random mens eyes on the street wasn't really my kind of thing. As I was handing the photofit back to her Mr.Policeman came out of the bathroom and asked me to sign a sheet saying "Yes I have seen the picture of a black mans eyes and no I didn't recognise them". I was smoking a cigarette and went to place it in the ashtray and his eyes followed my hand down and that was when we both saw it. At the same time. A half smoked joint just sitting there looking up and smiling at both of us. I could not fucking believe it. I had cleared under the fucking sofa and hidden my hash box so totally that a psychic would have had a job finding it. I had even emptied my drawers in my room of anything naughty. All that and we had both completely forgotten to clean the fucking ashtray, and here we were with far too many clothes and windows wide fucking open in January. Then he looked at me and we locked eyes. I had an easy smile on my face as if to say "So what, it's only a joint". He then started looking around my place as Ms.Policewoman was talking to my friend.
A few more nonsensical pleasantries were exchanged between them and I am just thinking what a fucking stupid stupid cunt I am. Fucking busted because I didn't empty the ashtray. We had been so concerned with all the secret little places that we forgot the most obvious.
Mr.Policeman finishes his hungry eyed search across my room, looked back to me and smiled and this is what I heard ringing in my ears
"You are fucking nicked my son. What else you got in this place? I'm going to do a full search."
What he actually said
"Thanks very much for your time. We'd better get going now"
I couldn't believe it when I realised he was going to leave it there. As soon as he left I showed my friend the ashtray and we both laughed and then I sparked it up.
Don't Scribble On Eddies Face Or I'll Whip You In The Cock
When I was about 13, my best friend had this annoying 9 year old living in the house next door. My mates mum was friends with the annoying 9 year olds mum and they were frequently encouraged to "play together". You can imagine how happy he was with that arrangement. My pride and joy then was the Iron Maiden LP "Powerslave". My friend had borrowed it and then annoying 9 year old boy from next door asked his mum to ask my friends mum if he could borrow it. Without the knowledge of my friend, his mother took it and let annoying 9 year old boy borrow it. When my friend got it back it had a huge scratch on it and the artwork on the front had been scribbled on with felt tip pen. All over Eddies face.
A plan was hatched between us to exact revenge. We invited annoying 9 year old boy round to my friends house to "play". What followed was a junior version of Reservoir Dogs. We stripped annoying 9 year old boy naked and tied him to a chair with his hands tied behind his back. We then whipped his annoying 9 year old boys cock with our belts until he cried.
He never scribbled on my Iron Maiden albums again so I guess you could say he learnt his lesson.
This friend of mine is now a messianic cult attending Rabbi. No Joke. I got an email from him a few years ago showing me a "news report" of a talking fish found in New York harbour and how this presaged the second coming of the Messiah. Fuck you Robert for becoming a fruit loop. I preferred it when we used to set fire to things and abuse smaller boys.
Sunday 2 November 2008
Cats And Cunts - You Never See Them In The Same Room Together
Cats on the internet. This one has been done to death and i'm not having a gripe. I am however rather stoned right now so humour me.
As technology advances, so we advance alongside it. Every little breakthrough is broadcast to us all in the form of quicker computers, smaller televisions, larger televisions, quicker cars etc. All this is taken in stride of course as we have enough time to become totally used to the new advance as the next one arrives. If I were to see what I see now when I was 7 years old, I am sure I would be astounded. I had not made the journey and could therefore not become accustomed to the details along the way.
With that in mind; how will the internet manifest itself in 40 or 50 years? Will it be more like what virtual reality was supposed to be a few years ago? This speculation is borne more of a stoned countenance than a scientific mind of course but I don't think that would be too impossible. Imagine the whole world online in a completely virtual world. 100% interactable.
Ok, now I have painted the picture. Imagine getting a message from one of those annoying people that forward shitty emails. Would the internet have evolved enough to have you just going about your own business and then being utterly swarmed by lolcats? All talking in nonsense. All daft faces and "HALP!" and "OH HAI!". Fucking smothering you in that annoying way cats have. 300 retarded and spasticated cats weaving between your legs as you are crossing the street. Appearing out of nowhere to reduce your life to useless fragments.
Wouldn't that be the most horrific experience.
As technology advances, so we advance alongside it. Every little breakthrough is broadcast to us all in the form of quicker computers, smaller televisions, larger televisions, quicker cars etc. All this is taken in stride of course as we have enough time to become totally used to the new advance as the next one arrives. If I were to see what I see now when I was 7 years old, I am sure I would be astounded. I had not made the journey and could therefore not become accustomed to the details along the way.
With that in mind; how will the internet manifest itself in 40 or 50 years? Will it be more like what virtual reality was supposed to be a few years ago? This speculation is borne more of a stoned countenance than a scientific mind of course but I don't think that would be too impossible. Imagine the whole world online in a completely virtual world. 100% interactable.
Ok, now I have painted the picture. Imagine getting a message from one of those annoying people that forward shitty emails. Would the internet have evolved enough to have you just going about your own business and then being utterly swarmed by lolcats? All talking in nonsense. All daft faces and "HALP!" and "OH HAI!". Fucking smothering you in that annoying way cats have. 300 retarded and spasticated cats weaving between your legs as you are crossing the street. Appearing out of nowhere to reduce your life to useless fragments.
Wouldn't that be the most horrific experience.
Sorry State Of Affairs
14 year old Olympians, 12 year old pop stars, 9 year old graduates from Oxford University, 8 year old preachers. What the fuck is up with the youth of today? When I was a lad any self respecting child would be lighting fires, smashing windows, raping old ladies and breaking into pharmacies.
I Nosh Camels
I don't think I have ever brushed my teeth and not ended up looking like I have just sucked off a camel. I get that fucking shit everywhere. It really is something I should have mastered by now but alas, my keeping-all-the-fucking-toothpaste-in-my-mouth skills are sorely lacking.
Monkey-Spider. Spider-Monkey
The importance of putting words in the right order.
Spider Monkey - Awww. Cute.
Monkey Spider - Holy shit. Scariest thing on eight legs. Run for the fucking hills
Spider Monkey - Awww. Cute.
Monkey Spider - Holy shit. Scariest thing on eight legs. Run for the fucking hills
Monotheism Is Fucking Useless When The One And Only God Is A Cunt
Proof that God is a cunt. Me treading on an upturned plug three times in two days. I know that we are supposed to have free choice and that is why God doesn't interfere but I would gladly be a God driven robot of the apocalypse if it meant no more fucking plugs.
A plug is a handy thing until it lies on its back. Then it becomes a cunt.
I prefer the religious system of the old pagans. The religions where they have Gods for every little thing. Makes far more sense than the single omnipotent God. The God Of Making A Cup Of Tea has been a close personal friend of mine for years. We chat, laugh, joke. He giveth up his juice and I sup heartily at his teat. That kind of thing. Then you get the more scurrilous Gods. The God Of Painting for instance. He is a huge cunt. I rarely see him but whenever I do he makes my life miserable. The God of Drama is another one. She comes and goes in waves. She is pretty busy right now. As long as she isn't looking at me, I enjoy her frilly and turbulent ministrations.
Life is way easier thinking like this. You fuck badly with someone and mess them up a little too much, well, you've only pissed off the God Of Harassment. As long as you help old ladies across the road and gain the good favour of the God of Cardigans And Biscuits And Slippers, you are even. No single entity to keep score on your life as a total and you can mix it up a bit.
Plus, praying can be more fun and far more relevant.
"Please God of Train Timetables, hold that train for 2 more minutes. I'm nearly at the station"
"Please God of My Annoying Colleagues, make a meteor fall on my office while i'm outside for a cigarette"
"Please God of Social Interaction, don't let me make a tit of myself while drunk. Actually, pass this one on to the God of Beer while you're at it. I think he hates me even though I love him"
That sort of thing.
A plug is a handy thing until it lies on its back. Then it becomes a cunt.
I prefer the religious system of the old pagans. The religions where they have Gods for every little thing. Makes far more sense than the single omnipotent God. The God Of Making A Cup Of Tea has been a close personal friend of mine for years. We chat, laugh, joke. He giveth up his juice and I sup heartily at his teat. That kind of thing. Then you get the more scurrilous Gods. The God Of Painting for instance. He is a huge cunt. I rarely see him but whenever I do he makes my life miserable. The God of Drama is another one. She comes and goes in waves. She is pretty busy right now. As long as she isn't looking at me, I enjoy her frilly and turbulent ministrations.
Life is way easier thinking like this. You fuck badly with someone and mess them up a little too much, well, you've only pissed off the God Of Harassment. As long as you help old ladies across the road and gain the good favour of the God of Cardigans And Biscuits And Slippers, you are even. No single entity to keep score on your life as a total and you can mix it up a bit.
Plus, praying can be more fun and far more relevant.
"Please God of Train Timetables, hold that train for 2 more minutes. I'm nearly at the station"
"Please God of My Annoying Colleagues, make a meteor fall on my office while i'm outside for a cigarette"
"Please God of Social Interaction, don't let me make a tit of myself while drunk. Actually, pass this one on to the God of Beer while you're at it. I think he hates me even though I love him"
That sort of thing.
I Bet You Didn't Know I Was A Rapist...
I've been having quite a lot of underwear related mishaps recently. I have only made that connection by realising that I have told you lot about them all already. Not sure what I shall take from that little snippet but all knowledge has power so maybe it shall become apparent later.
Back to the pants. As ridiculously inane as it seems at this moment, I have mentioned the fact that I bought a load of new underpants recently. I like them. Having nice pants is one of the little seemingly insignificant check points you encounter in everyday life that can make or break your day. I'm not going to go into the other points because I have been dithering for long enough telling you this much, and so to the point.
My pants. I like them, but am still not completely at home in their enveloping confines. We're still working things out you know? I like them, they like me. We're at that "Should I ask her to move in? She spends most nights here anyway?" stage. Not quite 100% sure yet. So, there is me walking down the street today. On my way to some particularly unimpressive event or other when I encounter an uncomfortable feeling. The inside left leg of the trunks has ridden up until it is all wedged right at the top of my gusset (what a fucking word gusset is, marvellously disgusting). After maybe ten or so steps I have come to the conclusion that this is a situation that requires immediate attention. No, I can't wait until I get to wherever I am going. Action is necessary. I look left, then right and realise the only person near me is a woman about 15 feet in front walking in the same direction. Action was necessary and so I unzipped my fly (all on the hoof), reached right inside and grabbed the offensive gathering taking place in my trousers. Then she glanced behind her. Why? I wasn't making any noise. You hadn't looked around in the few minutes I was walking a distance behind you. Why now?
What she saw: A large man walking determinedly behind her with half his arm in his fly as he followed on.
What I realised I looked like: A large man walking determinedly behind a poor woman with half my arm in my fly as I followed her.
What I did: Sprinted toward her before she could make a noise, grabbed her around the mouth and dragged her into an alleyway and raped her. For at least 4 hours.*
*that last bit isn't true
Back to the pants. As ridiculously inane as it seems at this moment, I have mentioned the fact that I bought a load of new underpants recently. I like them. Having nice pants is one of the little seemingly insignificant check points you encounter in everyday life that can make or break your day. I'm not going to go into the other points because I have been dithering for long enough telling you this much, and so to the point.
My pants. I like them, but am still not completely at home in their enveloping confines. We're still working things out you know? I like them, they like me. We're at that "Should I ask her to move in? She spends most nights here anyway?" stage. Not quite 100% sure yet. So, there is me walking down the street today. On my way to some particularly unimpressive event or other when I encounter an uncomfortable feeling. The inside left leg of the trunks has ridden up until it is all wedged right at the top of my gusset (what a fucking word gusset is, marvellously disgusting). After maybe ten or so steps I have come to the conclusion that this is a situation that requires immediate attention. No, I can't wait until I get to wherever I am going. Action is necessary. I look left, then right and realise the only person near me is a woman about 15 feet in front walking in the same direction. Action was necessary and so I unzipped my fly (all on the hoof), reached right inside and grabbed the offensive gathering taking place in my trousers. Then she glanced behind her. Why? I wasn't making any noise. You hadn't looked around in the few minutes I was walking a distance behind you. Why now?
What she saw: A large man walking determinedly behind her with half his arm in his fly as he followed on.
What I realised I looked like: A large man walking determinedly behind a poor woman with half my arm in my fly as I followed her.
What I did: Sprinted toward her before she could make a noise, grabbed her around the mouth and dragged her into an alleyway and raped her. For at least 4 hours.*
*that last bit isn't true
...Click...
Got up a little late yesterday morning and had a speedy shave that left my face feeling despoiled. Something every man has experienced at some point or another. As luck would have it, one of my colleagues had been having close discussions with Nivea and as a result was sent 4 boxes of Nivea products. I promptly grabbed some post shave balm and was surprised at how it helped as I had never used any product like this before.
I got talking with my boss about this and a nonsensical discussion ensued concerning how much of a pain in the arse it was to have to shave every day. As is the way with discussions of this type a quandary was pronounced and all considered it.
If you could pay a large sum of money, say £10,000, to undergo a procedure that meant you would never have to shave again, would you entertain the idea? Surprisingly, quite a few guys said they would. I don't enjoy scraping my face daily with a blade but £10,000 is a lot of cash. There is also the masochistic joy of waking up the morning after the night before and feeling like shit. Having to put on yesterdays crumpled clothes in a strange house, lighting a cigarette despite your throat screaming at you to do anything other than that, and rubbing your hand across your face and feeling a scratchy covering of whiskers. You only look and feel like shit because you threw caution to the wind the night before. The wages of hedonism are hangovers. That was my contribution to the discussion anyway but it did get me thinking along the same lines.
Stupid propositions I would consider:
1. Paying a large sum of money to have the ability to click your fingers and instantly appear at a single pre arranged place.
I like this one. It may not seem so attractive a proposal now while you read this at your computer but being somewhere you don't want to be and being able to navigate the problem by simply clicking your fingers sounds great to me. Needing a cab at 4am and can't find one? Click. Being at a friends house that is at least 2 hours away and needing to go through the fucking hassle of up, out, train, bus, home? Click. Being arrested and placed in jail? Click.
Her: "I've been thinking, we've been friends for a while and I want to take this relationship to the next level. What do you think?"
Me: Click.
Sounds like a fucking winner to me
2. Paying a large sum of money to have the ability to make others internal thoughts audible to all regardless of their wishes. All at the click of your fingers.
Again this one needs a little imagination. Having a chat with the boss about the wage increase you've been wanting for ages:
Boss: "Well, we think that if you can just try that bit harder in the next 6 months you will definitely be in line for a pay increase
Me: Click
Boss: *Give me yet more of your precious life, I shall wring more blood from your weary corpse for the pleasure of another £50 a month.*
I would also take great joy in sitting in on any discussion between two or more ultra PC people and clicking my fingers like I was part of a travelling flamenco troupe.
Person 1: "I honestly believe that implementing these rulings will have a positive impact on how we treat fellow human beings"
Me: Click
Person 1 again: *I hate all niggers, jews, pakis and gyppos but think I can climb the ladder faster this way*
Marvellous
I have others and will add them when my hangover recedes a little.
If you want to play along, all propositions MUST INVOLVE THE CLICKING OF FINGERS. Any propositions without this will be instantly discounted.
I got talking with my boss about this and a nonsensical discussion ensued concerning how much of a pain in the arse it was to have to shave every day. As is the way with discussions of this type a quandary was pronounced and all considered it.
If you could pay a large sum of money, say £10,000, to undergo a procedure that meant you would never have to shave again, would you entertain the idea? Surprisingly, quite a few guys said they would. I don't enjoy scraping my face daily with a blade but £10,000 is a lot of cash. There is also the masochistic joy of waking up the morning after the night before and feeling like shit. Having to put on yesterdays crumpled clothes in a strange house, lighting a cigarette despite your throat screaming at you to do anything other than that, and rubbing your hand across your face and feeling a scratchy covering of whiskers. You only look and feel like shit because you threw caution to the wind the night before. The wages of hedonism are hangovers. That was my contribution to the discussion anyway but it did get me thinking along the same lines.
Stupid propositions I would consider:
1. Paying a large sum of money to have the ability to click your fingers and instantly appear at a single pre arranged place.
I like this one. It may not seem so attractive a proposal now while you read this at your computer but being somewhere you don't want to be and being able to navigate the problem by simply clicking your fingers sounds great to me. Needing a cab at 4am and can't find one? Click. Being at a friends house that is at least 2 hours away and needing to go through the fucking hassle of up, out, train, bus, home? Click. Being arrested and placed in jail? Click.
Her: "I've been thinking, we've been friends for a while and I want to take this relationship to the next level. What do you think?"
Me: Click.
Sounds like a fucking winner to me
2. Paying a large sum of money to have the ability to make others internal thoughts audible to all regardless of their wishes. All at the click of your fingers.
Again this one needs a little imagination. Having a chat with the boss about the wage increase you've been wanting for ages:
Boss: "Well, we think that if you can just try that bit harder in the next 6 months you will definitely be in line for a pay increase
Me: Click
Boss: *Give me yet more of your precious life, I shall wring more blood from your weary corpse for the pleasure of another £50 a month.*
I would also take great joy in sitting in on any discussion between two or more ultra PC people and clicking my fingers like I was part of a travelling flamenco troupe.
Person 1: "I honestly believe that implementing these rulings will have a positive impact on how we treat fellow human beings"
Me: Click
Person 1 again: *I hate all niggers, jews, pakis and gyppos but think I can climb the ladder faster this way*
Marvellous
I have others and will add them when my hangover recedes a little.
If you want to play along, all propositions MUST INVOLVE THE CLICKING OF FINGERS. Any propositions without this will be instantly discounted.
Please Look The Other Way, I'm About To Kill Someone
Have you ever hated someone so completely despite the fact that you have never had any interaction with them whatsoever? I have. Frequently. I must also state at this point that whenever I have then come to know these people I find that my instant snap judgements are usually erroneous and they are in fact ok. Doesn't stop me doing this though and it certainly doesn't stop the level of derision within me for them.
There is this one guy I see every day on my way to work. I get the mainline train into one of the main commuter hubs into London and then descend into the underground system to grab a tube into work. Considering that the mainline trains arrive into the station every couple of minutes, and the underground distributes them to all corners of London at least every minute, the chances of seeing the same faces every day are not exactly slim but they're not nailed on either.
When I get down into the underground there is always the same fucking guy standing there. Always. It irks me that I have to look at his fat slab of a face every day. Every fucking day.
This is why I hate him:
1. He wears a brown suit. Never trust a man in a brown suit
2. He reads the same shitty sensationalist newspaper that disguises itself as a more respectable publication every day.
3. He is always 2 bites into the same fucking cereal bar when I arrive. Always.
4. He chews so fucking slowly that I swear he is part cow.
5. He breathes through his nose so loudly that it can be heard in the next carriage.
6. He wears a different shirt every day of the week. Not so bad in itself of course, commendable in fact but does it have to be the same fucking shirt for the same fucking day of the week? Every week?
7. He is bald.
8. He has a fat neck which spills out of the back of his collar forming a little roll of fat that stares at me balefully. Urging me to stab him.
9. He always has this serene look on his face and there is me silently fuming and planning and planning his death in a million different ways.
I could list the things that annoy me about him all day but I must stop or I think I shall go permanently hurt my elderly neighbours, and that wouldn't stand up in court as a defence.
I fucking hate him.
There is this one guy I see every day on my way to work. I get the mainline train into one of the main commuter hubs into London and then descend into the underground system to grab a tube into work. Considering that the mainline trains arrive into the station every couple of minutes, and the underground distributes them to all corners of London at least every minute, the chances of seeing the same faces every day are not exactly slim but they're not nailed on either.
When I get down into the underground there is always the same fucking guy standing there. Always. It irks me that I have to look at his fat slab of a face every day. Every fucking day.
This is why I hate him:
1. He wears a brown suit. Never trust a man in a brown suit
2. He reads the same shitty sensationalist newspaper that disguises itself as a more respectable publication every day.
3. He is always 2 bites into the same fucking cereal bar when I arrive. Always.
4. He chews so fucking slowly that I swear he is part cow.
5. He breathes through his nose so loudly that it can be heard in the next carriage.
6. He wears a different shirt every day of the week. Not so bad in itself of course, commendable in fact but does it have to be the same fucking shirt for the same fucking day of the week? Every week?
7. He is bald.
8. He has a fat neck which spills out of the back of his collar forming a little roll of fat that stares at me balefully. Urging me to stab him.
9. He always has this serene look on his face and there is me silently fuming and planning and planning his death in a million different ways.
I could list the things that annoy me about him all day but I must stop or I think I shall go permanently hurt my elderly neighbours, and that wouldn't stand up in court as a defence.
I fucking hate him.
This Is Why...
One of the premier arguments for men against women in the gender war is that we can piss standing up. Nothing too intellectual but then the gender war has never been particularly highbrow.
You just know that every single woman on the planet has wanted the freedom of just whipping out their cock and taking a waz. I think us guys take it for granted but we shouldn't. We have all seen the pathetic spectacle of a woman urinating somewhere other than a toilet when she has been caught short. All bunched up and defenceless. It has ever reminded me of a dog taking a huge shit. You know, the ones where their back legs bow inwards and their whole fucking body shakes. I always expect to see the dog doing the breathing exercise expectant mothers are taught.
The ability and freedom a penis offers for this is a definite plus point but the ladies have boobs. Never has a nickname for a body part described their secondary nature so perfectly than when they are referred to as funbags. Who am I to argue with histories greatest scholars who have eulogised many times on that exact point. I am nothing if not modest.
All this went through my mind today as I got home and ran into the bathroom and then realised that my new jeans were button fly. I did wonder why I hadn't worn a pair of button fly jeans since my teenage years, and me dancing foot to foot as I struggled with a belt and 6 buttons before I could exhale loudly, place my left hand on my waist and tip my head back as I enjoyed the third greatest feeling the human body can offer, told me why. Cumming and sneezing taking the first two places of course.
I shall be purchasing some zip fly jeans as I am not in the business of denying myself one of the gifts given to me by The God Of Being Able To Piss Easily.
You just know that every single woman on the planet has wanted the freedom of just whipping out their cock and taking a waz. I think us guys take it for granted but we shouldn't. We have all seen the pathetic spectacle of a woman urinating somewhere other than a toilet when she has been caught short. All bunched up and defenceless. It has ever reminded me of a dog taking a huge shit. You know, the ones where their back legs bow inwards and their whole fucking body shakes. I always expect to see the dog doing the breathing exercise expectant mothers are taught.
The ability and freedom a penis offers for this is a definite plus point but the ladies have boobs. Never has a nickname for a body part described their secondary nature so perfectly than when they are referred to as funbags. Who am I to argue with histories greatest scholars who have eulogised many times on that exact point. I am nothing if not modest.
All this went through my mind today as I got home and ran into the bathroom and then realised that my new jeans were button fly. I did wonder why I hadn't worn a pair of button fly jeans since my teenage years, and me dancing foot to foot as I struggled with a belt and 6 buttons before I could exhale loudly, place my left hand on my waist and tip my head back as I enjoyed the third greatest feeling the human body can offer, told me why. Cumming and sneezing taking the first two places of course.
I shall be purchasing some zip fly jeans as I am not in the business of denying myself one of the gifts given to me by The God Of Being Able To Piss Easily.
Oh How I Hate The Deluge Of Fucking Pirates
Holy shit. What a day I am having.
I have been on the phone to China all day so far. There is absolutely no messing with those fuckers. Hard as nails and straighter than Gods plumb line. Fucking exhausting. The problems arise with the time difference and gaining access to people before they get to bed over there. To say I have been feeling frustrated today is a massive understatement. So, when I finally admit some kind of defeat and realise that no fucker is gonna pick the phone up now, I decide to take a walk as I had hardly left the office all day. I walked to the nearest pub, grabbed a pint and sat down outside with my mp3 player blaring and the newspaper in front of me. I want to be spoken to or bothered about as much as I want to be anally raped by the Iranian National Guard. Or any National Guard for that matter. I ain't racist. It is the anal rape thing I have a problem with.
I am a million miles away, reading about the upcoming Ryder Cup and with music blaring in my ears when I see movement out of the corner of my eyes. I look up to see 7 pirates, in full dress (peglegs, eyepatches etc) and one of them is attempting to talk to me. I look up and make no fucking attempt to remove my earphones and I know they can hear residual drums and guitars as it is at full blast. I stare the guy in the eye and see his lips move. He is talking to me but I don't give a fuck so I continue to stare in his face. He motions for me to take the earphones out and I shake my head. He motions again, so I reluctantly remove them and the conversation went something like this (bear in mind I am in the foulest of dark moods and am wearing a permanent scowl):
Him: "Aarrggghh, have ye a soul young man?"
Me: "What the fuck kind of question is that? Fuck off now, I'm not interested". *In go the earphones again*
Him: *motions for me to take the earphones out again*
Me: *earphones out* "What part of fuck off did you not understand? Leave me alone, I'm really not feeling up to anything other than my own company"
Him: "Aarrgghh, we be collectin' for charity...." He carried on talking but the earphones were back in now. Incidentally I had all 7 pirates now focused on me.
Me: "Seriously, get the fuck away from me before I give you a real speech impediment and crutches"
Now I'm not gonna detail the rest of the conversation but I Iost the plot a bit and laid into all of them for dressing up like a bunch of fictional cunts. I focused on the fact that the youngest one looked about 35. They should be fucking ashamed of themselves and I didn't give a fuck about their charity as I regularly donate cash to charities of my own choosing. I then got sarcastic and asked if I could kick the fuck out of all of them for my own charity. I'd be generous, £10 per pirate cunt I knocked out. Would that be acceptable?
All seven got the message and Arrgghhed off to bother other people
I have been on the phone to China all day so far. There is absolutely no messing with those fuckers. Hard as nails and straighter than Gods plumb line. Fucking exhausting. The problems arise with the time difference and gaining access to people before they get to bed over there. To say I have been feeling frustrated today is a massive understatement. So, when I finally admit some kind of defeat and realise that no fucker is gonna pick the phone up now, I decide to take a walk as I had hardly left the office all day. I walked to the nearest pub, grabbed a pint and sat down outside with my mp3 player blaring and the newspaper in front of me. I want to be spoken to or bothered about as much as I want to be anally raped by the Iranian National Guard. Or any National Guard for that matter. I ain't racist. It is the anal rape thing I have a problem with.
I am a million miles away, reading about the upcoming Ryder Cup and with music blaring in my ears when I see movement out of the corner of my eyes. I look up to see 7 pirates, in full dress (peglegs, eyepatches etc) and one of them is attempting to talk to me. I look up and make no fucking attempt to remove my earphones and I know they can hear residual drums and guitars as it is at full blast. I stare the guy in the eye and see his lips move. He is talking to me but I don't give a fuck so I continue to stare in his face. He motions for me to take the earphones out and I shake my head. He motions again, so I reluctantly remove them and the conversation went something like this (bear in mind I am in the foulest of dark moods and am wearing a permanent scowl):
Him: "Aarrggghh, have ye a soul young man?"
Me: "What the fuck kind of question is that? Fuck off now, I'm not interested". *In go the earphones again*
Him: *motions for me to take the earphones out again*
Me: *earphones out* "What part of fuck off did you not understand? Leave me alone, I'm really not feeling up to anything other than my own company"
Him: "Aarrgghh, we be collectin' for charity...." He carried on talking but the earphones were back in now. Incidentally I had all 7 pirates now focused on me.
Me: "Seriously, get the fuck away from me before I give you a real speech impediment and crutches"
Now I'm not gonna detail the rest of the conversation but I Iost the plot a bit and laid into all of them for dressing up like a bunch of fictional cunts. I focused on the fact that the youngest one looked about 35. They should be fucking ashamed of themselves and I didn't give a fuck about their charity as I regularly donate cash to charities of my own choosing. I then got sarcastic and asked if I could kick the fuck out of all of them for my own charity. I'd be generous, £10 per pirate cunt I knocked out. Would that be acceptable?
All seven got the message and Arrgghhed off to bother other people
Amy Fucking Winehouse - The Junkie
What a fucking mess. Can everyone stop feeling sorry for Amy now please. I'm fed up of hearing how she has made the wrong choices and being given so much sympathy. No one says the same about other junkies lying in the street and rightly so. It is no different for her just because she can fucking sing. How the fuck does that change anything?
This is a woman from a privileged background with absolutely no other worries past the same ones we all contend with on a daily basis. She chooses to marry a thuggish man with a double barrelled name who happily goes round menacing anyone and everyone that is stupid enough to appear on his radar. Her addiction isn't anything new either.
There are far more deserving cases of your pity out there and I can almost guarantee that everyone who cries out about how worried they are for her are the same people that gladly walk past countless homeless every single day. The problem here is not her drug addiction, it is the way we now perceive celebrity. If you were happy enough to pass again that man that stands at the station asking for a little change then you are a hypocrite. Of the worst kind. If we were all to take care of those within our direct community then someone somewhere would be stopping and putting an arm around Miss Winehouse because they have known her since she was a child and not because they see her ravaged face every day in the newspaper. That might work but it will never happen. Feeling sorry for Amy is now almost within the protecting confines of political correctness. You HAVE to feel sorry for her, that is a thing you will talk about at your bourgeois dinner parties. Along with global warming and treatment of the disabled. All conversation to be accompanied while quaffing the finest of red wines ("Honestly Cressida, I have no idea how they make it so cheap as well. There really isn't too much shame in buying this in Tescos for under a fiver these days you know") and a few lines of the choicest Colombian cocaine ("Tarquin, isn't it funny how the price of cocaine hasn't gone up in over twenty years? I wonder why that is?"). To those who would gladly invite a crackhead into their house purely out of concern for them, I apologise. Everyone else should look and think, and then stop talking shit.
Forget how good her voice is and pay more attention to how she chooses to live her life. If anyone needed to take a look at themselves in the mirror it is Winehouse and all she would need to do is pick up any newspaper to see how far her standards have dropped.
I have never felt anything other than extreme distaste where I have encountered such cases myself and Winehouse is no different. She has been in this situation herself now for long enough to have had any personal epiphanies and wake the fuck up from her drug induced stupour. To give her any more pity than any other drugged up fuck face is blatant double standards. Treat her as you would any other user. They are to be stepped over in the gutter and that is it. It isn't that hard to change your life, don't believe the media commentators when they tell you how hard it is to kick these habits cos it fucking isn't. I know it isn't that hard as I have encountered similar problems myself in my youth. I wasn't a millionaire either.
She is now reaping the fruits of her labour and we should all stand back and let her enjoy them. Yum yum, eat up Amy
This is a woman from a privileged background with absolutely no other worries past the same ones we all contend with on a daily basis. She chooses to marry a thuggish man with a double barrelled name who happily goes round menacing anyone and everyone that is stupid enough to appear on his radar. Her addiction isn't anything new either.
There are far more deserving cases of your pity out there and I can almost guarantee that everyone who cries out about how worried they are for her are the same people that gladly walk past countless homeless every single day. The problem here is not her drug addiction, it is the way we now perceive celebrity. If you were happy enough to pass again that man that stands at the station asking for a little change then you are a hypocrite. Of the worst kind. If we were all to take care of those within our direct community then someone somewhere would be stopping and putting an arm around Miss Winehouse because they have known her since she was a child and not because they see her ravaged face every day in the newspaper. That might work but it will never happen. Feeling sorry for Amy is now almost within the protecting confines of political correctness. You HAVE to feel sorry for her, that is a thing you will talk about at your bourgeois dinner parties. Along with global warming and treatment of the disabled. All conversation to be accompanied while quaffing the finest of red wines ("Honestly Cressida, I have no idea how they make it so cheap as well. There really isn't too much shame in buying this in Tescos for under a fiver these days you know") and a few lines of the choicest Colombian cocaine ("Tarquin, isn't it funny how the price of cocaine hasn't gone up in over twenty years? I wonder why that is?"). To those who would gladly invite a crackhead into their house purely out of concern for them, I apologise. Everyone else should look and think, and then stop talking shit.
Forget how good her voice is and pay more attention to how she chooses to live her life. If anyone needed to take a look at themselves in the mirror it is Winehouse and all she would need to do is pick up any newspaper to see how far her standards have dropped.
I have never felt anything other than extreme distaste where I have encountered such cases myself and Winehouse is no different. She has been in this situation herself now for long enough to have had any personal epiphanies and wake the fuck up from her drug induced stupour. To give her any more pity than any other drugged up fuck face is blatant double standards. Treat her as you would any other user. They are to be stepped over in the gutter and that is it. It isn't that hard to change your life, don't believe the media commentators when they tell you how hard it is to kick these habits cos it fucking isn't. I know it isn't that hard as I have encountered similar problems myself in my youth. I wasn't a millionaire either.
She is now reaping the fruits of her labour and we should all stand back and let her enjoy them. Yum yum, eat up Amy
I Think I was On My Period
Top tip:
Shouting at your director in front of the whole office while you are shaking with rage may make you feel better in the short term but the long term effects should be considered first.
Also, "CUNT" is probably one of the best words to shout out loud. Talk about cathartic
EDIT: The journey home threw up more entertainment. I managed to hold it together on the tube but it all kicked off as soon as I got on the train. Within 20 seconds of being on the train I had asked one guy, who was staring at me, what the fuck he was looking at, he didn't answer. Directly after that an ageing lady asked me to turn my mp3 player down and being the insufferable cunt that I am I turned it up. Then I fell asleep for the 30 minute journey home. Thinking that was the end of my moody shenanigans I surprised even myself by being overly sarcastic with a young Polish couple who were standing in front of the exit doors when I wanted to get off the bus. I felt bad for both of them as I stepped off, she in particular looked rather distressed. Meh, shit happens. As I walked to my place, I was ruminating on the slender grip I have on my temper and talking myself out of an explosion. I opened my door to find a little slip from the fucking useless package delivery company who I am convinced have been set up with the sole purpose of fucking my life up. I'm not going into it but we have exchanged heated words recently so when I saw another slip saying "we called and you were out!" I fucking screamed with frustration although that swiftly changed to elation as I read it and noticed it said they had left it with my neighbour. I went to grab the package and was very happy to see that someone had sent me some "Mega Sour Acid Drops" for my birthday. My mouth is is a sorry state of puckeredness and it feels great.
Man, I'm shit scared to pick the phone up if it rings in case I call all out jihad on whoever it is...
Shouting at your director in front of the whole office while you are shaking with rage may make you feel better in the short term but the long term effects should be considered first.
Also, "CUNT" is probably one of the best words to shout out loud. Talk about cathartic
EDIT: The journey home threw up more entertainment. I managed to hold it together on the tube but it all kicked off as soon as I got on the train. Within 20 seconds of being on the train I had asked one guy, who was staring at me, what the fuck he was looking at, he didn't answer. Directly after that an ageing lady asked me to turn my mp3 player down and being the insufferable cunt that I am I turned it up. Then I fell asleep for the 30 minute journey home. Thinking that was the end of my moody shenanigans I surprised even myself by being overly sarcastic with a young Polish couple who were standing in front of the exit doors when I wanted to get off the bus. I felt bad for both of them as I stepped off, she in particular looked rather distressed. Meh, shit happens. As I walked to my place, I was ruminating on the slender grip I have on my temper and talking myself out of an explosion. I opened my door to find a little slip from the fucking useless package delivery company who I am convinced have been set up with the sole purpose of fucking my life up. I'm not going into it but we have exchanged heated words recently so when I saw another slip saying "we called and you were out!" I fucking screamed with frustration although that swiftly changed to elation as I read it and noticed it said they had left it with my neighbour. I went to grab the package and was very happy to see that someone had sent me some "Mega Sour Acid Drops" for my birthday. My mouth is is a sorry state of puckeredness and it feels great.
Man, I'm shit scared to pick the phone up if it rings in case I call all out jihad on whoever it is...
Do You Hate Your Colleagues Too?
Women always go on about guys needing to be honest and that honesty is imperative to a healthy relationship.
I just got into work after having had the last two days off. I was the first in as usual and was trying to get a little head start on the piles of paperwork that I knew would have accumulated on my desk. 20 minutes or so after I got in my colleagues started to trickle in and one girl who is always fucking happy said:
Her (high pitched squeaky annoying voice): "Hi! How were your days off? We all missed you you know."
Me: "I didn't miss you" *chuckling with my head still buried in the things that need my attention*
This was a joke. It was punctuated with a sly wink and a little laugh. She didn't find it funny. I have made her cry unintentionally in the recent past and now she thinks I'm some sort of ogre. *sniff* "Why can't you just be nice Sam?" *sniff*. I've always said that because I am frugal with my compliments you can be fucking sure I mean them when they do come out.
From this I can safely say that the truth is a double edged sword and she doesn't really want my honesty. Just like I don't want her emails entitled "Fwd:Fwd:Fwd:Fwd:Fwd This is hilarious!!!!!!!!!!!!"
It is a fair fucking swap I think
I just got into work after having had the last two days off. I was the first in as usual and was trying to get a little head start on the piles of paperwork that I knew would have accumulated on my desk. 20 minutes or so after I got in my colleagues started to trickle in and one girl who is always fucking happy said:
Her (high pitched squeaky annoying voice): "Hi! How were your days off? We all missed you you know."
Me: "I didn't miss you" *chuckling with my head still buried in the things that need my attention*
This was a joke. It was punctuated with a sly wink and a little laugh. She didn't find it funny. I have made her cry unintentionally in the recent past and now she thinks I'm some sort of ogre. *sniff* "Why can't you just be nice Sam?" *sniff*. I've always said that because I am frugal with my compliments you can be fucking sure I mean them when they do come out.
From this I can safely say that the truth is a double edged sword and she doesn't really want my honesty. Just like I don't want her emails entitled "Fwd:Fwd:Fwd:Fwd:Fwd This is hilarious!!!!!!!!!!!!"
It is a fair fucking swap I think
Fighting The Good Fight. For Queen And Country...
I was chatting to a friend the other day and she asked me what was the scariest position I had ever found myself in. I thought I had written about it somewhere on this account and went hunting for it. Couldn't find it anywhere. So here it is...
I was with 4 friends and we were island hopping in Indonesia. Now, as sets of islands go, the Indonesian Archipelago is fucking awesome. Thousands of islands grouped together. Some tiny, some immense. All offering something different yet on recollection they all blend into one in a sunny haze. That's probably the drugs that has done that.
We had maybe 6 weeks or so to explore so half the fun was planning it beforehand. Obviously you wouldn't stick to the plan as after a couple of days you would get sidetracked and find yourself investigating some ruin or beach or bar or whatever. One of these times we decided to deviate from the plan found us at the port of one island looking to jump on a boat somewhere to the next island. Always over the horizon but that is brilliant. I remember we got to the port as the sun was coming down and found ourselves waiting lazily for the next boat to leave, not doing too much and being surrounded by inquisitive children. Kids over there are born knowing how to play the guitar. I am fucking convinced. None of them own one but they can all play them brilliantly. A strange phenomenon indeed but carrying musical instruments in that part of the world always draws attention. Wherever we went we were begged by street kids to let them play with the guitars for a few minutes, and we used to let them sometimes. So this group of maybe 30 or so street urchins approaches us and while laughing and joking around, they ask if they can play with one of the guitars. Their ages ranged from 5 to 8 maybe? I wasn't in the business of cutting them down the middle and counting the rings so that is an approximation. Anyway, as I went to hand my guitar over I see this one kid dip his hands into my friends pocket and shouted out a warning to him. He heard me, looked down, cuffed the kid round the head, and then laughed. This was when it got weird. As if they were fucking insects and had given off an immediate attack pheromone they switched en masse from laughing kids to angry little cunts. The mood completely shifted and we were suddenly being attacked from all sides. I was kind of shocked but was fending them off and laughing nervously. They looked angry and I heard a friend shout "He's got a knife!" and then they all had knives or some form of either sharp or pointy thing. This was a constant attack, from all angles. Within 5 seconds of this beginning I have now decided to use my guitar to fend them off and then swiftly into a swinging battle axe. It was pretty furious by this point and I finally snapped and went mental. I roared as I swung the guitar from behind my head with all my might towards this little cunt who was trying to stab me with all of his being. We locked eyes and the battle was now in our minds as well. He snarled and stabbed. My guitar connected with his head. I heard a sharp crack and am ashamed to say that I was more concerned for the guitar than his head. He went down in a heap and I saw a lull in the fighting and we all made a run for it. All this happened in maybe 10 seconds and all I can remember from there is running until my lungs were burning. Arms pumping hard as I ran first through streets, then alleys, and finally trees. I know it was only a small skirmish but that is the closest I have ever got to a war. With 5 year olds.
That is the most scared I have ever been in my life
I was with 4 friends and we were island hopping in Indonesia. Now, as sets of islands go, the Indonesian Archipelago is fucking awesome. Thousands of islands grouped together. Some tiny, some immense. All offering something different yet on recollection they all blend into one in a sunny haze. That's probably the drugs that has done that.
We had maybe 6 weeks or so to explore so half the fun was planning it beforehand. Obviously you wouldn't stick to the plan as after a couple of days you would get sidetracked and find yourself investigating some ruin or beach or bar or whatever. One of these times we decided to deviate from the plan found us at the port of one island looking to jump on a boat somewhere to the next island. Always over the horizon but that is brilliant. I remember we got to the port as the sun was coming down and found ourselves waiting lazily for the next boat to leave, not doing too much and being surrounded by inquisitive children. Kids over there are born knowing how to play the guitar. I am fucking convinced. None of them own one but they can all play them brilliantly. A strange phenomenon indeed but carrying musical instruments in that part of the world always draws attention. Wherever we went we were begged by street kids to let them play with the guitars for a few minutes, and we used to let them sometimes. So this group of maybe 30 or so street urchins approaches us and while laughing and joking around, they ask if they can play with one of the guitars. Their ages ranged from 5 to 8 maybe? I wasn't in the business of cutting them down the middle and counting the rings so that is an approximation. Anyway, as I went to hand my guitar over I see this one kid dip his hands into my friends pocket and shouted out a warning to him. He heard me, looked down, cuffed the kid round the head, and then laughed. This was when it got weird. As if they were fucking insects and had given off an immediate attack pheromone they switched en masse from laughing kids to angry little cunts. The mood completely shifted and we were suddenly being attacked from all sides. I was kind of shocked but was fending them off and laughing nervously. They looked angry and I heard a friend shout "He's got a knife!" and then they all had knives or some form of either sharp or pointy thing. This was a constant attack, from all angles. Within 5 seconds of this beginning I have now decided to use my guitar to fend them off and then swiftly into a swinging battle axe. It was pretty furious by this point and I finally snapped and went mental. I roared as I swung the guitar from behind my head with all my might towards this little cunt who was trying to stab me with all of his being. We locked eyes and the battle was now in our minds as well. He snarled and stabbed. My guitar connected with his head. I heard a sharp crack and am ashamed to say that I was more concerned for the guitar than his head. He went down in a heap and I saw a lull in the fighting and we all made a run for it. All this happened in maybe 10 seconds and all I can remember from there is running until my lungs were burning. Arms pumping hard as I ran first through streets, then alleys, and finally trees. I know it was only a small skirmish but that is the closest I have ever got to a war. With 5 year olds.
That is the most scared I have ever been in my life
Not my problem
I had a very interesting discussion at work yesterday. It was one of those discussions that eventually enveloped the entire office. A colleague asked me if I genuinely hated anything. I had to really think about it as I wasn't in a comical mood and my usual answer of "pigeons and junkies" didn't seem appropriate. So I told her that the only thing I hated were thick people. She knows I have a very low regard for her as she once read an email I had written where I had mentioned that she was so boring that I would like to stab her in the eye with a pencil. I didn't apologise to her because she had walked over to my desk and seen the email while fucking around on my computer. Her choice and I thought it only prudent to let her suffer the impact of my brutal truth. She offers absolutely nothing to me.
Anyway, she knew I was referring to her with the thick people comment and so attempted to gain support from our co-workers with a look of indignation on her face. Not one other person had the balls to admit I was right. We're not a lolcats office. We used to be but that soon stopped after one colleague of mine found out that I have a great arm over thirty feet with a stapler.
I was completely unrepentant during the discussion and was chuffed to see that the only person who wasn't getting animated was me. I was simply explaining that I found it ridiculously rude of someone to expect me to share my precious time with them if they offer me nothing in the way of entertainment. Why the fuck should I gift you with my presence and gain nothing in return? I'm not asking for cash of course but is it too much to ask for an original thought every now and then? I closed the discussion by stating that if she were on fire, not only would I not piss on her, I wouldn't even give her the steam from my piss. It's mine, fuck off.
Anyway, she knew I was referring to her with the thick people comment and so attempted to gain support from our co-workers with a look of indignation on her face. Not one other person had the balls to admit I was right. We're not a lolcats office. We used to be but that soon stopped after one colleague of mine found out that I have a great arm over thirty feet with a stapler.
I was completely unrepentant during the discussion and was chuffed to see that the only person who wasn't getting animated was me. I was simply explaining that I found it ridiculously rude of someone to expect me to share my precious time with them if they offer me nothing in the way of entertainment. Why the fuck should I gift you with my presence and gain nothing in return? I'm not asking for cash of course but is it too much to ask for an original thought every now and then? I closed the discussion by stating that if she were on fire, not only would I not piss on her, I wouldn't even give her the steam from my piss. It's mine, fuck off.
A bath, a bath, my kingdom for a bath. With lots of fucking bubbles
Baths. I fucking love them. With fucking plenty of bubbles too.
Pouring a bath in my flat is a long and protracted procedure. A bath has to be hot enough to peel the fucking skin from your body. Anything less makes you gay. The only way I get scalding hot water is by running the hot tap at barely a trickle. I need that bath hot (I'm not gay) so it is gonna take a good 40 minutes to pour a decent bath. Sometimes I forget it is running and come in to find the bath full to the brim of steaming water. I need to let some out obviously and since the chain on the plug has broken, and I am way too lazy to fix it, I have to open the cold tap until it is cool enough to reach in and grab the plug. I wasn't joking about the heat of this water. I mean technically it isn't a bath i'm having. It is more like a fucking lightly simmering Jewish broth once i'm in. Letting the water out after making it colder then making sure there are enough bubbles. This is some serious business we're talking here.
I defend my right to have a bath that is hotter than the sun, screaming, and listening to ABBA CD's while totally immersed in bubbles. So what if afterwards I pull my cock between my legs and pose into the mirror.
This is something I seriously believe in and if you don't like it you can chew on my cock. Just the end, don't want you to choke.
Pouring a bath in my flat is a long and protracted procedure. A bath has to be hot enough to peel the fucking skin from your body. Anything less makes you gay. The only way I get scalding hot water is by running the hot tap at barely a trickle. I need that bath hot (I'm not gay) so it is gonna take a good 40 minutes to pour a decent bath. Sometimes I forget it is running and come in to find the bath full to the brim of steaming water. I need to let some out obviously and since the chain on the plug has broken, and I am way too lazy to fix it, I have to open the cold tap until it is cool enough to reach in and grab the plug. I wasn't joking about the heat of this water. I mean technically it isn't a bath i'm having. It is more like a fucking lightly simmering Jewish broth once i'm in. Letting the water out after making it colder then making sure there are enough bubbles. This is some serious business we're talking here.
I defend my right to have a bath that is hotter than the sun, screaming, and listening to ABBA CD's while totally immersed in bubbles. So what if afterwards I pull my cock between my legs and pose into the mirror.
This is something I seriously believe in and if you don't like it you can chew on my cock. Just the end, don't want you to choke.
With Muzz Comes Mayhem
Not too long ago I had fuck all. No job, I was unemployable. If your job involves spinning roulette wheels and telling cheating cunts that if they do that again they will get bounced down the stairs, sir, then being banned from working in a casino pretty much fucks you. No job obviously means no cash. Can't pay the bills, can't fucking eat properly....
We've all been there, I know.
It wasn't just me in this situation. muzzoid.stumbleupon.com [stumbleupon.com] was in the same boat as me. We were a pair of fucked motherfuckers with thirty years of useless experience between us. A marvellous situation to find yourself in. Days dragged as the distinct lack of possibilities crawled oh so slowly through my mind. They may as well have been doing a fucking cabaret for all the good it did me. I'm sure you can empathise that it was a reasonably unhappy time for me.
One day Muzzoid discovers that he has two pills going spare and has a ten pound note burning a hole in his pocket. Off we trot to a rather trendy part of South London, wondering how fucking messy we can get on a tenner. First up a trip to the off licence for a hip flask bottle of scotch that was promptly trousered. We then necked the pills and purposefully marched into a popular looking pub overlooking the central grassy common surrounded by ridiculously expensive real estate.
"Two cokes please barman".
Back to the table, surreptitious addition of scotch.
Bang.
Down the hatch.
Repeat.
By the third time, I was at the bar asking for the obligatory two cokes and wondering if I could be as nonchalant as possible despite the fact that I was in love with every single person in that room. I was worried that I would draw suspicious glances and was immensely proud that I was seeming to hold it together. I needn't have worried though as I turned back to the table with the drinks in my hand to see Muzzoid raving in his fucking chair. Had he white gloves and a whistle he could have topped it, but only just. Evil grin on his face tipped me over the edge and the rest of the evening was a blur. I can remember both of us making a real nuisance of ourselves. Slapping tables, spilling drinks, shouting profanities and monkey noises, and the zenith was the introduction of the 15 year old smackhead with his glamorous (spotty teenager) assistant. He was fresh into his latest batch and was drooping all over the place as she smoked nervously on the bench opposite us. I can remember both of us laughing at him when he spilt an entire pint of water on his cock. That was funny. I have just been reminded that we also attempted to chat up 3 girls who were peacefully minding their own business in a quiet corner of the bar. A quiet corner of the bar until we breezed into their lives. Muzzoid smashed a drink the very second he sat down. What an entrance. More James Monged than James Bond. As smooth as a bag of frogs. The ladies love that one. Pour a drink over her as a first impression and she will be noshing you off within half an hour. Or not.
I think the final straw was Muzzoid ordering the two cokes at the bar and then not being coherent enough to realise that pouring the secret scotch in at the bar was a bad idea.
I have no idea how we got home without being gang raped by the local basketball team. Or maybe I just blanked it out.
We've all been there, I know.
It wasn't just me in this situation. muzzoid.stumbleupon.com [stumbleupon.com] was in the same boat as me. We were a pair of fucked motherfuckers with thirty years of useless experience between us. A marvellous situation to find yourself in. Days dragged as the distinct lack of possibilities crawled oh so slowly through my mind. They may as well have been doing a fucking cabaret for all the good it did me. I'm sure you can empathise that it was a reasonably unhappy time for me.
One day Muzzoid discovers that he has two pills going spare and has a ten pound note burning a hole in his pocket. Off we trot to a rather trendy part of South London, wondering how fucking messy we can get on a tenner. First up a trip to the off licence for a hip flask bottle of scotch that was promptly trousered. We then necked the pills and purposefully marched into a popular looking pub overlooking the central grassy common surrounded by ridiculously expensive real estate.
"Two cokes please barman".
Back to the table, surreptitious addition of scotch.
Bang.
Down the hatch.
Repeat.
By the third time, I was at the bar asking for the obligatory two cokes and wondering if I could be as nonchalant as possible despite the fact that I was in love with every single person in that room. I was worried that I would draw suspicious glances and was immensely proud that I was seeming to hold it together. I needn't have worried though as I turned back to the table with the drinks in my hand to see Muzzoid raving in his fucking chair. Had he white gloves and a whistle he could have topped it, but only just. Evil grin on his face tipped me over the edge and the rest of the evening was a blur. I can remember both of us making a real nuisance of ourselves. Slapping tables, spilling drinks, shouting profanities and monkey noises, and the zenith was the introduction of the 15 year old smackhead with his glamorous (spotty teenager) assistant. He was fresh into his latest batch and was drooping all over the place as she smoked nervously on the bench opposite us. I can remember both of us laughing at him when he spilt an entire pint of water on his cock. That was funny. I have just been reminded that we also attempted to chat up 3 girls who were peacefully minding their own business in a quiet corner of the bar. A quiet corner of the bar until we breezed into their lives. Muzzoid smashed a drink the very second he sat down. What an entrance. More James Monged than James Bond. As smooth as a bag of frogs. The ladies love that one. Pour a drink over her as a first impression and she will be noshing you off within half an hour. Or not.
I think the final straw was Muzzoid ordering the two cokes at the bar and then not being coherent enough to realise that pouring the secret scotch in at the bar was a bad idea.
I have no idea how we got home without being gang raped by the local basketball team. Or maybe I just blanked it out.
Spiders, the eight legged cunts
How does one almost eat a spider big enough and bad enough to trap and eat a fucking bird? (in list form)
In Australia
Was 24
With friend
Out drinking
Lots of drinking
Leave bar, go to club
Getting late, not pulled yet
Both switch to "standards lowered" mode
Bingo
Leave club
Go back to theirs (of course, you can't creep silently out of your own house at 6am)
Stop off at bottle shop for big bottle of whisky as the heroin required to slightly dull the memory of what was about to happen sadly wasn't available
Back to theirs, whisky. Giggling girls disappear into bedroom
More whisky
Girls emerge. One dressed in feather boa (that was it), other dressed as french maid
Friend quickly disappears with feather boa woman leaving me with french maid
Within 2 minutes hear friend going at it
French maid plays a little coy prompting me to come on strong
French maid begins to tell me how she was dumped by long term boyfriend only weeks ago.
Sexual screaming by feather boa woman. Mental note to congratulate friend on serious nature of action
French maid starts crying about her boyfriend
I lose interest. Move away
Whisky and a big fat disinterested blank
More whisky. Muffled sobs from french maid
Both myself and french maid giggle as we hear "SHOVE IT IN MY ARSE!"
Crescendo from friend and feather boa woman
French maid STILL fucking crying
Emergence of grinning friend
Whisky
More whisky
Look at watch, feign yawn. 6am! "Must go"
Leave apartment to look for cab
Walking directly next to fence, turn corner while yawning
Biggest fucking web I have ever seen spun completely across pathway, inches from my face.
Angry looking cunt of a spider. FUCKING MASSIVE and aggressively shaking in the web. All within inches of my yawning mouth
Stop dead, face actually brushes web. Spider looks me in the eye and grins.
I fucking lose my mind a little bit. Drunkenly screaming nonsense about munching a cunt that size
Legs go
On arse
Shake
Repeat for 10 minutes.
That is how I nearly ate a spider that could have easily ripped my fucking face off
In Australia
Was 24
With friend
Out drinking
Lots of drinking
Leave bar, go to club
Getting late, not pulled yet
Both switch to "standards lowered" mode
Bingo
Leave club
Go back to theirs (of course, you can't creep silently out of your own house at 6am)
Stop off at bottle shop for big bottle of whisky as the heroin required to slightly dull the memory of what was about to happen sadly wasn't available
Back to theirs, whisky. Giggling girls disappear into bedroom
More whisky
Girls emerge. One dressed in feather boa (that was it), other dressed as french maid
Friend quickly disappears with feather boa woman leaving me with french maid
Within 2 minutes hear friend going at it
French maid plays a little coy prompting me to come on strong
French maid begins to tell me how she was dumped by long term boyfriend only weeks ago.
Sexual screaming by feather boa woman. Mental note to congratulate friend on serious nature of action
French maid starts crying about her boyfriend
I lose interest. Move away
Whisky and a big fat disinterested blank
More whisky. Muffled sobs from french maid
Both myself and french maid giggle as we hear "SHOVE IT IN MY ARSE!"
Crescendo from friend and feather boa woman
French maid STILL fucking crying
Emergence of grinning friend
Whisky
More whisky
Look at watch, feign yawn. 6am! "Must go"
Leave apartment to look for cab
Walking directly next to fence, turn corner while yawning
Biggest fucking web I have ever seen spun completely across pathway, inches from my face.
Angry looking cunt of a spider. FUCKING MASSIVE and aggressively shaking in the web. All within inches of my yawning mouth
Stop dead, face actually brushes web. Spider looks me in the eye and grins.
I fucking lose my mind a little bit. Drunkenly screaming nonsense about munching a cunt that size
Legs go
On arse
Shake
Repeat for 10 minutes.
That is how I nearly ate a spider that could have easily ripped my fucking face off
Urban Feline Interpretation
I was on my way to work this morning. I leave the house earlier than most of the other commuters so am usually one of the first out on the streets. I live in what you would call a repressed part of London and every now and then it wouldn't be too unusual to find the odd curiosity on my morning walk to the station.
I find the walk to the station in the morning to be a time for curious happenings. I've seen junkies completely whacked out and sleeping while standing up, the remains of a dog fight, foxes fucking, I regularly see sofas and mattresses freshly dumped in the middle of the street, mashed up cars that have been stripped to the bone. You get the picture.
Today however proved different. Today gave me hope. Today proved to me that the diverse urban fauna that I share my little corner of London with have a hidden and coded message to tell to us all. Through the medium of contemporary minimalist art. I learnt today that cats in Catford are either brilliant post modernist modern day commentators, or just plain living up to my lifetime maxim of "Cats and Cunts, you rarely see the two of them together in the same room".
I give you their latest offering...
Cat Shit Slap Bang In The Middle Of A Slice Of Bread On Street
What a fucking shot!
I find the walk to the station in the morning to be a time for curious happenings. I've seen junkies completely whacked out and sleeping while standing up, the remains of a dog fight, foxes fucking, I regularly see sofas and mattresses freshly dumped in the middle of the street, mashed up cars that have been stripped to the bone. You get the picture.
Today however proved different. Today gave me hope. Today proved to me that the diverse urban fauna that I share my little corner of London with have a hidden and coded message to tell to us all. Through the medium of contemporary minimalist art. I learnt today that cats in Catford are either brilliant post modernist modern day commentators, or just plain living up to my lifetime maxim of "Cats and Cunts, you rarely see the two of them together in the same room".
I give you their latest offering...
Cat Shit Slap Bang In The Middle Of A Slice Of Bread On Street
What a fucking shot!
Sunday 7 September 2008
Triplicunt
| |
I still can't find it
Went out for lunch with a client today and got back to the office reasonably drunk. Nothing extreme, just merry. As soon as I got back to the office I headed for the toilets as I needed to take a leak. I'm at the urinal, undo my fly and reach inside.
I bought a load of new underwear a few weeks back. They are trunks, not too long but quite tight (please try and see past how gay that sounds). Like most trunks they have a flap at the front. Well, i'm still not perfectly used to them and as I got up late today and got dressed in a hurry, I must have put them on backwards and not noticed. Thus, no flap.
Back to me fiddling drunkenly in my fly. I must have been scrabbling about in there for about 10 seconds when I muttered to myself "Where the fuck is my cock?". It was only then that I noticed the new CEO of my company washing his hands at the sink. He was clocking me with a quizzical expression and I don't blame him.
I bought a load of new underwear a few weeks back. They are trunks, not too long but quite tight (please try and see past how gay that sounds). Like most trunks they have a flap at the front. Well, i'm still not perfectly used to them and as I got up late today and got dressed in a hurry, I must have put them on backwards and not noticed. Thus, no flap.
Back to me fiddling drunkenly in my fly. I must have been scrabbling about in there for about 10 seconds when I muttered to myself "Where the fuck is my cock?". It was only then that I noticed the new CEO of my company washing his hands at the sink. He was clocking me with a quizzical expression and I don't blame him.
B.Apples
The scientific world is reeling today as one of its cornerstone beliefs was shattered and scientific boundaries were pushed further into what had been previously the unknown.
Professor B.Apples recent study into "Hot Things and Drunkenness - A Happy Marriage?" was completed at the University Of My Kitchen. It was discovered that melted cheese straight from under the grill is actually 35 times hotter than the surface of the Sun.
Professor Apples was quoted as saying "This study is the culmination of an entire day drinking and then coming home hungry. Everything went to plan perfectly, I arrived at the University Of My Kitchen at about 8pm and found myself yearning for melted cheese on toast. Being the impatient cunt that I am, I decided to attempt eating the cheesy goodness within 10 seconds of it being removed from under the grill. Everything fell into place then and half of the cheese slid off the toast and flapped against my chin. Textbook. As every scientist knows, that shit sticks to you harder than herpes and I soon found myself screaming blue murder at a dairy product which was in the process of melting my lower face. *laughs* I am ashamed to say that a few choice words escaped my mouth at this point but once I had scraped the offending cheese off, and with it some of my face, I sprang into action. Luckily for science, I had the presence of mind to grab the nearest thermometer, you know, one of those you stick up your arse, and recorded a temperature of 525,000,000 Celsius. I had to really crane my neck to see the final temperature as the markers on the thermometer went in fives."
Professor Apples was said to be critical but stable in Great Ormond Street Hospital. When I spoke to the hospital administration earlier I asked them why the professor was admitted to a children's hospital. The orderly replied that since Professor Apples had a mental age of 7, a children's hospital was seen as the perfect place to aid him in his recovery.
Professor B.Apples recent study into "Hot Things and Drunkenness - A Happy Marriage?" was completed at the University Of My Kitchen. It was discovered that melted cheese straight from under the grill is actually 35 times hotter than the surface of the Sun.
Professor Apples was quoted as saying "This study is the culmination of an entire day drinking and then coming home hungry. Everything went to plan perfectly, I arrived at the University Of My Kitchen at about 8pm and found myself yearning for melted cheese on toast. Being the impatient cunt that I am, I decided to attempt eating the cheesy goodness within 10 seconds of it being removed from under the grill. Everything fell into place then and half of the cheese slid off the toast and flapped against my chin. Textbook. As every scientist knows, that shit sticks to you harder than herpes and I soon found myself screaming blue murder at a dairy product which was in the process of melting my lower face. *laughs* I am ashamed to say that a few choice words escaped my mouth at this point but once I had scraped the offending cheese off, and with it some of my face, I sprang into action. Luckily for science, I had the presence of mind to grab the nearest thermometer, you know, one of those you stick up your arse, and recorded a temperature of 525,000,000 Celsius. I had to really crane my neck to see the final temperature as the markers on the thermometer went in fives."
Professor Apples was said to be critical but stable in Great Ormond Street Hospital. When I spoke to the hospital administration earlier I asked them why the professor was admitted to a children's hospital. The orderly replied that since Professor Apples had a mental age of 7, a children's hospital was seen as the perfect place to aid him in his recovery.
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