Recently there seems to have been a massive amount of adverts for various national and and international child protection agencies exhorting us to give them money. Now, I’m as much of a sucker as the next man for these adverts-images of smiling children in schoolrooms etc (however I also believe in the maxim “Charity begins at home” and as such these lazy little tykes won’t see a brass penny of my money, mark my words…).
What I was wondering is why there is such a discrepancy in the amount of money needed per month for these children? I think “Save the Children” ask you for two quid a month per charming ethnic child, whereas the NSPCC says it should cost a fiver. Why? What are the “Save the Children” children not getting that the NSPCC are getting? Ice cream? Sausages?BMWs?
Or are the NSPCC just spoiling their children with extra rations of sausages and ice cream (and their luxury German automobiles)? I demand an independent inquiry immediately…
My own view is that most (if not all) children would be far better off in some kind of terrible gothic Victorian institution run by a drunken ruddy faced Beadle who would bugger them senseless for minor transgressions whilst exhorting the name of God.
It’s character building…
Wednesday 23 May 2007
Monday 21 May 2007
God Botherers
Bind us together Lord.
Bind us together
The Dark Thoughts
They Rise Unbidden...
We have been asked not to use “religious swear words” in the office any more because they might offend the sensibilities of some colleagues. This is a bit of a problem for me as I do have a slight predilection for standing up and shouting “JESUS CUNT FUCKER” over and over again when under stress. Not sure where this new directive has come from, as this has never been a problem in the past…
Dreadfully sorry if you get offended by that kind of thing, but it annoys me that no one seems to care that many of my colleagues seem to have carte blanche to behave in ways which offend me immeasurably- most notably by being in many cases completely fucking shit thick
I have no idea what the current hiring practices the company I work at are however I’m fairly certain when I joined they asked for more than a pulse and the ability to stand upright. Now it’s full of half formed monster people who read awful tabloid magazines (the ones that seem to have covers full of primary colours that make “Heat” magazine look sophisticated). It’s like a school reunion at a retard school here.
I really don’t like stupid people (you may have noticed). I just don’t think there’s an excuse for it at this stage in our evolution-why are they still here?
The worst thing about them is that they are so bloody noisy about it too. If I was as dim as some of the people in here I’d at least keep my fucking mouth shut and hope I had enough brain power left to keep my heart beating.
Friday 18 May 2007
Fucking Dentists
It’s got to be the best money spinner ever hasn’t it? Forty odd quid to stick a piece of melted tinfoil in someone’s teeth. Takes all of five minutes… Couple of hundred to replace a tooth with a melted down sovereign ring from Elizabeth Duke, it all fucking adds up doesn’t it? Tight fisted money grubbing pack of cunts…
I had a tiny little hole in my tooth, so the four eyed drill-bastard decides to hollow the whole fucking thing out, then shows me “the size of the cavity”. Yes, you cunt, the size of the cavity you just fucking made. That one wasn’t caused by bourbon biscuits and one sugar in my coffee, that’s for bastard certain. AND I'm going to sound like I have Down's Syndrome until the anaesthetic wears off.
Anyway, at least I might get some more gold teeth out of it (I might get some Cyrillic tattoos as well, so I look even more like a Russian gangster).
I had a tiny little hole in my tooth, so the four eyed drill-bastard decides to hollow the whole fucking thing out, then shows me “the size of the cavity”. Yes, you cunt, the size of the cavity you just fucking made. That one wasn’t caused by bourbon biscuits and one sugar in my coffee, that’s for bastard certain. AND I'm going to sound like I have Down's Syndrome until the anaesthetic wears off.
Anyway, at least I might get some more gold teeth out of it (I might get some Cyrillic tattoos as well, so I look even more like a Russian gangster).
Thursday 17 May 2007
You know you're ill when your piss looks like soup...
I'm not going to do all that normal blog stuff you’re supposed to do - apologising for not posting and give a load of excuses (yeah, it's been really crazy in here, etc), as that is the province of cunts.
As far as I know there’s only about 6 people who read this shit anyway, and I know them all personally. In case you were wondering folks, my predictably bad guts have been in tied up in fucking knots for two days so I haven’t written owt.
I have however taken a few days off work, which I thought I would report back on, as I am terribly excited by a programme I watched whilst ill.
It’s on every morning as far as I could tell, and it’s called “Animal Park” and it’s absolutely fucking brilliant (it’s marred slightly by the fact that it’s presented by that twat Ben Fogle).
Normally I’m not one of these twee fuckwits that like watching cute furry creatures doing cute furry things, but this programme has got the fucking lot as far as I am concerned-tears, laughter, drama, pathos, tragedy, suspense, great big fucking teeth…
Tuesday’s episode was a proper tear jerker when they had to put down a massive white Bengal tiger called Shandy. It was a fucking immense thing and even though it was really, really ill it was still trying to bite through the bars to kill the fucking vet. Nearly managed it too. Fantastic Stuff White Tiger!!
There were two blokes in charge of the tigers, and they both looked like they could have been in “Deliverance” (one has no teeth and a baseball cap, the other had some kind of strange elongated teeth disease and an Elvis haircut). Despite these handicaps (Can I still use that word??), I bet they still get loads of women:
Woman in Pub: “What do you then?”
Deliverance Looking Guy: “Me-oh I have a mysterious, mystical and primal bond with huge predatory tigers-do you fancy a fuck?”
Woman in Pub: “Yes please”.
One of them said “Shandy was really nice, really affectionate and likeable. Well, for a tiger anyway” which I thought was a great quote. One of their other tigers was ill too, and it was touch and go for a while for her, but she was fine in the end.
Then there was a wallaby with severe psychological problems doing nuts stuff. That was good too.
The next day they gave a giraffe a Caesarean. Absolute madness -they never did that on “All Creatures Great and Small”. I was rather hoping that a giraffe would kick Ben Fogle's smug fucking face right off but that didn’t happen. You can’t have everything though, and perhaps it might happen later in the series. I do hope so.
Anyway, it’s better than pretty much every other program on TV combined. I advise you to set your video/Sky plus box/Memory Crystal for it.
As far as I know there’s only about 6 people who read this shit anyway, and I know them all personally. In case you were wondering folks, my predictably bad guts have been in tied up in fucking knots for two days so I haven’t written owt.
I have however taken a few days off work, which I thought I would report back on, as I am terribly excited by a programme I watched whilst ill.
It’s on every morning as far as I could tell, and it’s called “Animal Park” and it’s absolutely fucking brilliant (it’s marred slightly by the fact that it’s presented by that twat Ben Fogle).
Normally I’m not one of these twee fuckwits that like watching cute furry creatures doing cute furry things, but this programme has got the fucking lot as far as I am concerned-tears, laughter, drama, pathos, tragedy, suspense, great big fucking teeth…
Tuesday’s episode was a proper tear jerker when they had to put down a massive white Bengal tiger called Shandy. It was a fucking immense thing and even though it was really, really ill it was still trying to bite through the bars to kill the fucking vet. Nearly managed it too. Fantastic Stuff White Tiger!!
There were two blokes in charge of the tigers, and they both looked like they could have been in “Deliverance” (one has no teeth and a baseball cap, the other had some kind of strange elongated teeth disease and an Elvis haircut). Despite these handicaps (Can I still use that word??), I bet they still get loads of women:
Woman in Pub: “What do you then?”
Deliverance Looking Guy: “Me-oh I have a mysterious, mystical and primal bond with huge predatory tigers-do you fancy a fuck?”
Woman in Pub: “Yes please”.
One of them said “Shandy was really nice, really affectionate and likeable. Well, for a tiger anyway” which I thought was a great quote. One of their other tigers was ill too, and it was touch and go for a while for her, but she was fine in the end.
Then there was a wallaby with severe psychological problems doing nuts stuff. That was good too.
The next day they gave a giraffe a Caesarean. Absolute madness -they never did that on “All Creatures Great and Small”. I was rather hoping that a giraffe would kick Ben Fogle's smug fucking face right off but that didn’t happen. You can’t have everything though, and perhaps it might happen later in the series. I do hope so.
Anyway, it’s better than pretty much every other program on TV combined. I advise you to set your video/Sky plus box/Memory Crystal for it.
Friday 11 May 2007
Friday Afternoons are Fucking Rubbish
Friday afternoons are fucking rubbish. They go on for bastard ever, and all anyone ever asks you is “have you got anything planned for the weekend”.
If you’re going to waste my time, at least have the decency to do it imaginatively…
Unfortunately the woman who has a desk next to me (I forget her name, but I call her “Elizabeth Duke” because of the astonishing amount of really cheap gold jewellery she wears) is a singularly witless old trout who insists on having these kinds of exchanges on an afternoon. Generally a little too loudly, and over the top of my head to the five bellied fuck pig of a woman (yes, she is a bit “chunky”, seen as you’re asking) who sits on the other side of me.
All this whilst I am trying to work. Those that know me well know that I have the patience of saint, however the constant rounds of “she said that I said that she said that I said that she said” and “I’ve managed to lose 2 pounds in the last six months on this diet! Eh, you never did? I did you know-I managed it by only eating cakes in a dark room where no one could see me because that means they aren’t fattening then” etc is driving me a bit nuts, to the extent where I have tried to put AIDS in their coffee.
“Have you got anything planned for the weekend?”
“Why, yes I have-a home invasion actually. I’m going to break into your house then kill, rape and eat (although not necessarily in that order) your entire fucking family. And I’m going to be dressed as fucking Goldilocks whilst I do it. Or I might finish off my bathroom instead. Or, if it’s nice I might go to York for the day.”
happy days...
If you’re going to waste my time, at least have the decency to do it imaginatively…
Unfortunately the woman who has a desk next to me (I forget her name, but I call her “Elizabeth Duke” because of the astonishing amount of really cheap gold jewellery she wears) is a singularly witless old trout who insists on having these kinds of exchanges on an afternoon. Generally a little too loudly, and over the top of my head to the five bellied fuck pig of a woman (yes, she is a bit “chunky”, seen as you’re asking) who sits on the other side of me.
All this whilst I am trying to work. Those that know me well know that I have the patience of saint, however the constant rounds of “she said that I said that she said that I said that she said” and “I’ve managed to lose 2 pounds in the last six months on this diet! Eh, you never did? I did you know-I managed it by only eating cakes in a dark room where no one could see me because that means they aren’t fattening then” etc is driving me a bit nuts, to the extent where I have tried to put AIDS in their coffee.
“Have you got anything planned for the weekend?”
“Why, yes I have-a home invasion actually. I’m going to break into your house then kill, rape and eat (although not necessarily in that order) your entire fucking family. And I’m going to be dressed as fucking Goldilocks whilst I do it. Or I might finish off my bathroom instead. Or, if it’s nice I might go to York for the day.”
happy days...
Thursday 10 May 2007
You've got to be Cruel to be Kind
A friend recently asked me to explore this old maxim using my sophisticated analytical philosophical mind techniques and lots of fucking swearing.
Although I generally find myself much more in the “you’ve got to be cruel to cruel” camp I can kind of see where people are coming from when they say this kind of thing.
It’s a bit like the time my friend Dave fell into an open sewer in my back garden whilst carrying a heavy rock. He hurt himself and wanted me to help him get out but I just started laughing uncontrollably. I think he learned a lot more from that than if I had just helped him out, I really do.
I also like to explore the “You’ve got to be kind to be cruel” approach, although it is a bit sick and perverted and speaks volumes about the fucked up mess between my ears.
I do it at work when you get those keen little fuckers coming in straight from university with all kinds of ideas and ambitions. I hate them, with their happy little smiles and their tales of their zany student days.
However, rather than just stomp on this kind of individuality immediately so they get all ground down and institutionalised and do what I fucking tell them I like to encourage them to come up with all kinds of new ideas and ways of doing things. I tell them to “go for it!!” when they see an opportunity and they get all fired up and run around like happy little monkey children with their shiny new laptops.
Then they find out of course that anyone with any new ideas in a large company who tries to implement them is immediately stifled and restricted by (at best) a complete blank wall of disinterested apathy and office politics, or (at worst) by a viscous and concerted rumour campaign (often coordinated by me), marking them out as pariahs, potential trouble makers or paedophiles.
Almost overnight their little shoulders sag and their postures stoop and they go strangely quiet and withdrawn forever. Suddenly they're not so damn chirpy anymore and they rarely come up with those fucking zippy little ideas anymore.
And I congratulate myself, because I have just created a perfect new soulless middle management cretin.
It’s a bit like taking a little baby bird with a broken wing, then nursing and tending it back to health, then just when it’s ready to fly away happily to freedom, shooting it down with the grim sense of a job well done.
I am available and am taking bookings for any corporate team building events you may be planning.
Although I generally find myself much more in the “you’ve got to be cruel to cruel” camp I can kind of see where people are coming from when they say this kind of thing.
It’s a bit like the time my friend Dave fell into an open sewer in my back garden whilst carrying a heavy rock. He hurt himself and wanted me to help him get out but I just started laughing uncontrollably. I think he learned a lot more from that than if I had just helped him out, I really do.
I also like to explore the “You’ve got to be kind to be cruel” approach, although it is a bit sick and perverted and speaks volumes about the fucked up mess between my ears.
I do it at work when you get those keen little fuckers coming in straight from university with all kinds of ideas and ambitions. I hate them, with their happy little smiles and their tales of their zany student days.
However, rather than just stomp on this kind of individuality immediately so they get all ground down and institutionalised and do what I fucking tell them I like to encourage them to come up with all kinds of new ideas and ways of doing things. I tell them to “go for it!!” when they see an opportunity and they get all fired up and run around like happy little monkey children with their shiny new laptops.
Then they find out of course that anyone with any new ideas in a large company who tries to implement them is immediately stifled and restricted by (at best) a complete blank wall of disinterested apathy and office politics, or (at worst) by a viscous and concerted rumour campaign (often coordinated by me), marking them out as pariahs, potential trouble makers or paedophiles.
Almost overnight their little shoulders sag and their postures stoop and they go strangely quiet and withdrawn forever. Suddenly they're not so damn chirpy anymore and they rarely come up with those fucking zippy little ideas anymore.
And I congratulate myself, because I have just created a perfect new soulless middle management cretin.
It’s a bit like taking a little baby bird with a broken wing, then nursing and tending it back to health, then just when it’s ready to fly away happily to freedom, shooting it down with the grim sense of a job well done.
I am available and am taking bookings for any corporate team building events you may be planning.
A few notes on sausages
Recently I have been giving much thought to the purchase of a sausage making machine. The thought of having an almost limitless supply of fresh delicious sausages fills me with glee and an unfamiliar tight sensation in the groin.
I’ve found one that gives me 5 yards of free sausage casings-that’s 15 feet of sausage! I’m terribly excited… I plan to be “International King of Sausages” within the year.
My greatest regret is not purchasing a sausage maker I saw in a charity shop a few weeks ago-should have got it when I had the chance. I really fancy the idea of owning a “Dead Man’s Sausage Maker” now.
No longer will I have to buy my sausages from fucking ASDA anyway. Don’t ever buy sausages from supermarkets if you can help it. They are fucking rubbish. What kind of marketing dickhead thinks that people will really want “Organic Wild Boar sausages, delicately flavoured with juniper and fennel (and now containing 50% less fat)”? Fucking tossers...
That’s not a proper sausage-those are sausages for people that don’t like sausages. And they can just fuck off. Real sausages should be made of Pig offal, Lard and Chinese Newspapers. If you’re going to buy sausages you should get them from a butcher- at least that way you also get a proper sausage buying experience as well.
You get to discuss the properties of each of different sausages with the butcher who created them, who’s generally a very large and florid man in a striped apron who seems slightly educationally subnormal and looks like he abuses children. He’ll know all about sausages though, which is the main thing and you get to leave the shop with a couple of pounds of best pork sausages, or some chipolatas (which are an ideal “starter” sausage for children) and the knowledge you have been responsible for the death of another animal..
It’s so much more satisfying than picking out a pre-packaged carton of pale, insipid sausages (in packaging covered with LIES about how they are made to a traditional recipe) from a fridge, then getting them scanned through the till by a girl who looks Lady Sovereign (or like Myra Hindley if you shop at Morrisons) who clearly doesn’t give a fuck about sausages.
Incidentally, for best results you should cook your sausages in a frying pan whilst naked-it’s the only way to ensure that they are cooking at the correct temperature. If the pan is too cool you won’t get splashed by hot grease as they are not cooking, whereas if the pan gets too hot your cock will look like Simon Weston after a few minutes as the sausages burn and spit.
For a good sausage, you want to be aiming for a temperature that keeps you moving, but that doesn’t cause permanent scarring.
Apologies for those expected a more bitter and cynical post- I can’t help it, sausages make me happy.
FACT- Just 6 sausages count as 1 portion of your "5 a day" fruit and vegetables quota. Why not get rid on that poncy bowl of fruit and just have a big greasy bucket of sausages on your desk?
I’ve found one that gives me 5 yards of free sausage casings-that’s 15 feet of sausage! I’m terribly excited… I plan to be “International King of Sausages” within the year.
My greatest regret is not purchasing a sausage maker I saw in a charity shop a few weeks ago-should have got it when I had the chance. I really fancy the idea of owning a “Dead Man’s Sausage Maker” now.
No longer will I have to buy my sausages from fucking ASDA anyway. Don’t ever buy sausages from supermarkets if you can help it. They are fucking rubbish. What kind of marketing dickhead thinks that people will really want “Organic Wild Boar sausages, delicately flavoured with juniper and fennel (and now containing 50% less fat)”? Fucking tossers...
That’s not a proper sausage-those are sausages for people that don’t like sausages. And they can just fuck off. Real sausages should be made of Pig offal, Lard and Chinese Newspapers. If you’re going to buy sausages you should get them from a butcher- at least that way you also get a proper sausage buying experience as well.
You get to discuss the properties of each of different sausages with the butcher who created them, who’s generally a very large and florid man in a striped apron who seems slightly educationally subnormal and looks like he abuses children. He’ll know all about sausages though, which is the main thing and you get to leave the shop with a couple of pounds of best pork sausages, or some chipolatas (which are an ideal “starter” sausage for children) and the knowledge you have been responsible for the death of another animal..
It’s so much more satisfying than picking out a pre-packaged carton of pale, insipid sausages (in packaging covered with LIES about how they are made to a traditional recipe) from a fridge, then getting them scanned through the till by a girl who looks Lady Sovereign (or like Myra Hindley if you shop at Morrisons) who clearly doesn’t give a fuck about sausages.
Incidentally, for best results you should cook your sausages in a frying pan whilst naked-it’s the only way to ensure that they are cooking at the correct temperature. If the pan is too cool you won’t get splashed by hot grease as they are not cooking, whereas if the pan gets too hot your cock will look like Simon Weston after a few minutes as the sausages burn and spit.
For a good sausage, you want to be aiming for a temperature that keeps you moving, but that doesn’t cause permanent scarring.
Apologies for those expected a more bitter and cynical post- I can’t help it, sausages make me happy.
FACT- Just 6 sausages count as 1 portion of your "5 a day" fruit and vegetables quota. Why not get rid on that poncy bowl of fruit and just have a big greasy bucket of sausages on your desk?
Wednesday 9 May 2007
Failed. Again
Once again I seem to have failed my driving test. To a lesser man this would seem like a setback, but not to me, in my blinkered arrogance and sheer bloody pig headedness.
Even now that I have failed for the 3rd time I am not for one moment thinking that I shouldn’t ever be allowed on the road, even though under normal circumstances the only people who should take this long to pass are old ladies or spacktards… (for those interested I failed on 2 counts-I had a problem with the gears that meant I nearly stalled and my signal came off when I was on a roundabout. And I’m fairly sure neither of these would have happened if I hadn’t been really, really pissed. Also, there is new EU legislation now that means you have to stop for tramps now. it's one of those "Stealth Taxes" I think).
Instead I get driven around by my partner (who passed first time on the day I failed for the third time, bless her). Over the weekend we went to York, which was mercifully free of fat fucking Americans for once. It really is an inbred, insular horrible little town you know, despite all this spurious “Merrie England” nonsense in the city centre.
You can’t go past a pub without being lured in to try “Ye Finest Hammes, Pyes and Ales in ye Whole of Christendom- Est the year of our Lord 1456” only to find when you get in that all they have is Carling Premier, Nobby’s Nuts and a fucking Australian behind the bar.
I think it’s about time that if we have to but up with all this Olde English stuff it should at least be honest and realistic history rather than the normal round of Ghost Walks and Jorvik museum (which is indistinguishable from the outer suburbs of York anyway. Although I once watched 2 chavs who were driving past me in a car stop the car in the middle of the road to have a fight without bothering to get out of the car when I was in York. I bet even the Vikings weren’t that fucking stupid).
You never pick up leaflets from tourist information that pick up something of the real flavour of York and say:
“Welcome to the City of York’s Yearly Heretic Burning Festival, where in times past the citizens of York used to rise up and slaughter all the Filthy Jews, and hang their heads all around a wall as a warning to outsiders. And if any of the fucking Catholics tried to stop them, they’d cut off their fucking hands, the papist bastards.”
Tip of the day- Trains to York are cheap and frequent throughout the summer, and many of the American Tourists found there are ideal test audiences for any jokes about 9/11 you may have thought up.
Even now that I have failed for the 3rd time I am not for one moment thinking that I shouldn’t ever be allowed on the road, even though under normal circumstances the only people who should take this long to pass are old ladies or spacktards… (for those interested I failed on 2 counts-I had a problem with the gears that meant I nearly stalled and my signal came off when I was on a roundabout. And I’m fairly sure neither of these would have happened if I hadn’t been really, really pissed. Also, there is new EU legislation now that means you have to stop for tramps now. it's one of those "Stealth Taxes" I think).
Instead I get driven around by my partner (who passed first time on the day I failed for the third time, bless her). Over the weekend we went to York, which was mercifully free of fat fucking Americans for once. It really is an inbred, insular horrible little town you know, despite all this spurious “Merrie England” nonsense in the city centre.
You can’t go past a pub without being lured in to try “Ye Finest Hammes, Pyes and Ales in ye Whole of Christendom- Est the year of our Lord 1456” only to find when you get in that all they have is Carling Premier, Nobby’s Nuts and a fucking Australian behind the bar.
I think it’s about time that if we have to but up with all this Olde English stuff it should at least be honest and realistic history rather than the normal round of Ghost Walks and Jorvik museum (which is indistinguishable from the outer suburbs of York anyway. Although I once watched 2 chavs who were driving past me in a car stop the car in the middle of the road to have a fight without bothering to get out of the car when I was in York. I bet even the Vikings weren’t that fucking stupid).
You never pick up leaflets from tourist information that pick up something of the real flavour of York and say:
“Welcome to the City of York’s Yearly Heretic Burning Festival, where in times past the citizens of York used to rise up and slaughter all the Filthy Jews, and hang their heads all around a wall as a warning to outsiders. And if any of the fucking Catholics tried to stop them, they’d cut off their fucking hands, the papist bastards.”
Tip of the day- Trains to York are cheap and frequent throughout the summer, and many of the American Tourists found there are ideal test audiences for any jokes about 9/11 you may have thought up.
Why liking "Friends" doesn't make me gay
Quite why I have suddenly come to like this programme is a complete mystery to me, as for many years I hated it for its smug blandness (and hated the people that watched it for broadly similar reasons).
Possibly it’s because despite the publicity spin the show had (That "Hey, the actors who play the character really are "Friends" outside the show-isn't that just soooo cool...."), it was quite clear (especially towards the end) that the actors despised each other with a level of suppressed hatred and fury even I would have trouble matching it, so you got exchanges like this:
The fat sarcastic one who clearly wears a corset: "Hey there buddy, how’s it going? My Old Buddy..."
The Italian one who's weight control problems are so severe they actually have to write his eating disorders into the fucking plotline: "Jeez buddy, you're such a funny guy..."
And then there's that other one-Ross, the one who even the people who normally like the show think is a complete cunt. I’ve not seen the last ever episode so I’m just pretending that at the end of the series he gets caught by the people in the film “Hostel” and that theytie him to a chair and tear his testicles off with pliers or something.
The writers obviously gave him the name "Geller" because they thought giving him the surname "Fucking Annoying and Predictably Neurotic Jewish Guy" was a bit too obvious, even for American audiences. Incidentally he was also for some time seeing Natalie Imbruglia-famous for one song you will have heard and many albums you won't have.
(She's one of those girls who desperately try to look like they are giving the camera coy, vulnerable glances but in reality look like they are staring at the camera with mongoloid blankness. Is that supposed to be sexy? 'cos if you think it is, you should be in Prison. (you may be interested to know that “Imbruglia” is apparently not pronounced "Imbruglia", it's pronounced "Imbrouhahaha" or something. Now, how the fuck were we supposed to guess that then?))
Anyway, back to the fucking point (if there is one, which I don’t think there is)...
I've always lumped the programme together with shows like "Sex and the City" and "Seinfeld" and "That one with the woman with the gay best friend that's like, so funny..."
I.e. I have always assumed that I would never watch it, and if it came it on TV I would immediately think “What kind of fucking bollocks is this?” then change channels until I found a re-run of "The Sweeney" or " The Professionals" then sit back to watch it farting manfully, drinking a can of lager whilst scratching my cock ( I could have Lewis Collins in a fight by the way, even if he does think he’s a bit tasty…). But that doesn't seem to be the case.
If anyone can think of a way out of this predicament that doesn't end up with me chugging cock and wearing pink shoes I would be most grateful...
Possibly it’s because despite the publicity spin the show had (That "Hey, the actors who play the character really are "Friends" outside the show-isn't that just soooo cool...."), it was quite clear (especially towards the end) that the actors despised each other with a level of suppressed hatred and fury even I would have trouble matching it, so you got exchanges like this:
The fat sarcastic one who clearly wears a corset: "Hey there buddy, how’s it going? My Old Buddy..."
The Italian one who's weight control problems are so severe they actually have to write his eating disorders into the fucking plotline: "Jeez buddy, you're such a funny guy..."
And then there's that other one-Ross, the one who even the people who normally like the show think is a complete cunt. I’ve not seen the last ever episode so I’m just pretending that at the end of the series he gets caught by the people in the film “Hostel” and that theytie him to a chair and tear his testicles off with pliers or something.
The writers obviously gave him the name "Geller" because they thought giving him the surname "Fucking Annoying and Predictably Neurotic Jewish Guy" was a bit too obvious, even for American audiences. Incidentally he was also for some time seeing Natalie Imbruglia-famous for one song you will have heard and many albums you won't have.
(She's one of those girls who desperately try to look like they are giving the camera coy, vulnerable glances but in reality look like they are staring at the camera with mongoloid blankness. Is that supposed to be sexy? 'cos if you think it is, you should be in Prison. (you may be interested to know that “Imbruglia” is apparently not pronounced "Imbruglia", it's pronounced "Imbrouhahaha" or something. Now, how the fuck were we supposed to guess that then?))
Anyway, back to the fucking point (if there is one, which I don’t think there is)...
I've always lumped the programme together with shows like "Sex and the City" and "Seinfeld" and "That one with the woman with the gay best friend that's like, so funny..."
I.e. I have always assumed that I would never watch it, and if it came it on TV I would immediately think “What kind of fucking bollocks is this?” then change channels until I found a re-run of "The Sweeney" or " The Professionals" then sit back to watch it farting manfully, drinking a can of lager whilst scratching my cock ( I could have Lewis Collins in a fight by the way, even if he does think he’s a bit tasty…). But that doesn't seem to be the case.
If anyone can think of a way out of this predicament that doesn't end up with me chugging cock and wearing pink shoes I would be most grateful...
Thursday 3 May 2007
A few notes on the subject of slavery...
Are you getting a bit sick of all the coverage on TV recently about the abolition of slavery?* I know I am anyway-seems like such an arbitrary anniversary of one specific (and not particularly effective) piece of legislation that was part of the process of the abolition.
You can’t turn on the TV at the moment without a seeing a Rastafarian saying “Yes. It was a very unpleasant thing, being a slave”. Well, was it really? I never would have guessed. I thought it looked like great fun-out in the open all day, plenty of fresh air and you get to sing all day as well. It looks positively idyllic, if you don't count the beatings...
The other night on BBCsomething cable for instance I was treated to yet another (about the fourth shown that week) well balanced expose of this heinous trade, this time by none other than the respected historian and academic “Miss Dynamite”. I particularly enjoyed her “black and white” (pardon the pun) view of the trade and her endearingly childlike inability to retain facts and understand reasoned argument.
Anyway, if Blair is going to be made to apologise (and perhaps pay reparations) on behalf on the British Government for Slavery (which is absurd-what's a fair rate anyway and how can it be calculated? "Right then, you say you're great Grandad had his bollocks nailed to a tree for insubordination you say? That's another four quid") I think we should request the various Governments of West African nations to apologise to us for killing and subsequently cooking our missionaries in big pots, then stealing their top hats.
Anyway, call me a racialist if you like…
*Please note that throughout the duration of the slave trade as a European economic phenomenon my own ancestors were peasants dragging cartloads full of coal and turnips whilst being beaten by a man on a horse under indentured service for 18 hours a day. In fact my family were like this until about 1952 when i think about it. So fuck off if you don't think I'm sensitive enough.
You can’t turn on the TV at the moment without a seeing a Rastafarian saying “Yes. It was a very unpleasant thing, being a slave”. Well, was it really? I never would have guessed. I thought it looked like great fun-out in the open all day, plenty of fresh air and you get to sing all day as well. It looks positively idyllic, if you don't count the beatings...
The other night on BBCsomething cable for instance I was treated to yet another (about the fourth shown that week) well balanced expose of this heinous trade, this time by none other than the respected historian and academic “Miss Dynamite”. I particularly enjoyed her “black and white” (pardon the pun) view of the trade and her endearingly childlike inability to retain facts and understand reasoned argument.
Anyway, if Blair is going to be made to apologise (and perhaps pay reparations) on behalf on the British Government for Slavery (which is absurd-what's a fair rate anyway and how can it be calculated? "Right then, you say you're great Grandad had his bollocks nailed to a tree for insubordination you say? That's another four quid") I think we should request the various Governments of West African nations to apologise to us for killing and subsequently cooking our missionaries in big pots, then stealing their top hats.
Anyway, call me a racialist if you like…
*Please note that throughout the duration of the slave trade as a European economic phenomenon my own ancestors were peasants dragging cartloads full of coal and turnips whilst being beaten by a man on a horse under indentured service for 18 hours a day. In fact my family were like this until about 1952 when i think about it. So fuck off if you don't think I'm sensitive enough.
Hitting Liam Gallagher in the face with a Frying Pan. Really Fucking Hard. Over and over and over again...
I recently a made a (fully justified) comment about Cornish people looking like Liam Gallagher after he has been hit in the face with a Frying Pan.
I have since then been unable to get the idea of hitting Liam Gallagher in the face with a frying pan (whilst screaming DIE MOTHERFUCKER DIE!!) out of my head-and let's be honest, who doesn't, deep down, really want to do this to the shambling, charmless cunt?
A friend of mine went to college with him (or it might have been his brother - the one that wears sunglasses and looks like a gay seal, or it could even have been both of them. I don't actually care, the pair of twats). Anyway, they were by far and away the most unpopular kids in the building. I expect even the students with Downs Syndrome didn't want to be seen with them as it would be bad for their "Street Cred"...
On a related anecdote, the reason why Damien Hirst's work is so dark and emotionally charged may have something to do with the fact that another friend used to beat him up on regular (daily) basis when they were at school. He's not proud of the fact now (although I would be), but does console himself a bit by reasoning he has been a dynamic (if unwitting) driving force behind the British Arts Scene.
Anyway, smashing Liam Gallagher in the face with a frying pan. What a fucking great idea!!!
If anyone posts a picture of themselves hitting Liam Gallagher in the face with a frying pan, I'll give them £4.50 out of my own money. Can't say fairer than that...
I have since then been unable to get the idea of hitting Liam Gallagher in the face with a frying pan (whilst screaming DIE MOTHERFUCKER DIE!!) out of my head-and let's be honest, who doesn't, deep down, really want to do this to the shambling, charmless cunt?
A friend of mine went to college with him (or it might have been his brother - the one that wears sunglasses and looks like a gay seal, or it could even have been both of them. I don't actually care, the pair of twats). Anyway, they were by far and away the most unpopular kids in the building. I expect even the students with Downs Syndrome didn't want to be seen with them as it would be bad for their "Street Cred"...
On a related anecdote, the reason why Damien Hirst's work is so dark and emotionally charged may have something to do with the fact that another friend used to beat him up on regular (daily) basis when they were at school. He's not proud of the fact now (although I would be), but does console himself a bit by reasoning he has been a dynamic (if unwitting) driving force behind the British Arts Scene.
Anyway, smashing Liam Gallagher in the face with a frying pan. What a fucking great idea!!!
If anyone posts a picture of themselves hitting Liam Gallagher in the face with a frying pan, I'll give them £4.50 out of my own money. Can't say fairer than that...
Wednesday 2 May 2007
My Fear of Dwarves
the little bleeders...
There's really no way to broach this subject area and discuss it irrationally (as I am wont to do) without entering into a veritable minefield of "political correctness gone mad" type hysteria.
So it's best for all concerned if i just cut to the chase and just say "All Dwarves are Evil" (not as evil as clowns though, but still pretty fucking evil). Have you ever followed a dwarf? I have. Lots of times. You'd be surprised what they get up to. Oh, Yes...it's nothing like "The Ewok Adventure", that's for sure.
A friend of mine had a particularly traumatic experience as a young woman. She worked in a pub next to a theatre playing "Snow White and the Seven Dwarves" during the run up to Christmas. Apparantly real dwarves are much worse than "Seven Dwarves" type dwarves...Dirty, viscous little fuckers.
How would you like it if your local was overrun every night by a crowd of steaming, sexually aggressive, hyperactive midgets? I think it gave her PTSD, the poor cow.
Mind you, you can hardly blame them can you? Everyone else gets told at school they can be whatever they like when they leave school (which is of course bollocks, but at least they made the effort to maintain the illusion until you got your exam results)- you can be a Doctor, Dentist, Prime Minister, whatever...
What do little dwarf children get told? I expect it's something along the lines of "Look Kid, unless they make a sequel to "Time Bandits", you're fucked. Your best bet is porn...Buy yourself a cowboy hat and move to Amsterdam".
FACT-every year more people are killed by dwarves than by fire.
There's really no way to broach this subject area and discuss it irrationally (as I am wont to do) without entering into a veritable minefield of "political correctness gone mad" type hysteria.
So it's best for all concerned if i just cut to the chase and just say "All Dwarves are Evil" (not as evil as clowns though, but still pretty fucking evil). Have you ever followed a dwarf? I have. Lots of times. You'd be surprised what they get up to. Oh, Yes...it's nothing like "The Ewok Adventure", that's for sure.
A friend of mine had a particularly traumatic experience as a young woman. She worked in a pub next to a theatre playing "Snow White and the Seven Dwarves" during the run up to Christmas. Apparantly real dwarves are much worse than "Seven Dwarves" type dwarves...Dirty, viscous little fuckers.
How would you like it if your local was overrun every night by a crowd of steaming, sexually aggressive, hyperactive midgets? I think it gave her PTSD, the poor cow.
Mind you, you can hardly blame them can you? Everyone else gets told at school they can be whatever they like when they leave school (which is of course bollocks, but at least they made the effort to maintain the illusion until you got your exam results)- you can be a Doctor, Dentist, Prime Minister, whatever...
What do little dwarf children get told? I expect it's something along the lines of "Look Kid, unless they make a sequel to "Time Bandits", you're fucked. Your best bet is porn...Buy yourself a cowboy hat and move to Amsterdam".
FACT-every year more people are killed by dwarves than by fire.
Tuesday 1 May 2007
Cheese Sandwich Update
my partner has just mailed me to let me know she has 9 extra cheese sandwiches (surplus to requirements).
Please could anyone who still requires a cheese sandwich please contact me ASAP as supplies are very limited, and will be distributed on a strictly first come, first served basis.
Please could anyone who still requires a cheese sandwich please contact me ASAP as supplies are very limited, and will be distributed on a strictly first come, first served basis.
The Face of Britain (is unappealing)
I recently watched the above programme on C4 and was absolutely astounded at what scientists can do these days (I stumbled across it because I originally thought it was going to be a programme about cockney gangsters presented by Ray Winstone, and although disappointed to find I was mistaken I decided to keep watching).
It was all about DNA testing and where your ancestors were from and that kind of thing (I thought we were all descended from Monkeys in Africa but apparently it's all a bit more complicated than that, and went some way to explaining the link between Monkeys in Africa and my own ancestors, who lived in Manchester).
I forgot what it was they did exactly, but it was clever stuff with test tubes and they all wore lab coats (like they do in adverts), and I was suitably impressed and fairly certain it was all kosher.
Anyway, the premise of the show was that if you get pictures of all the people in Cornwall and then amalgamate them somehow (using computers and technology and the like), you get an image of a typical Cornish face (if you really want one).
As I said, there was some DNA testing and stuff in there as well but I didn’t really follow that too well. Programmes about DNA if they involve Mutant Sharks, or some hellish form of hybrid Chimera between a tiger and a wolf are interesting, whereas DNA in Cornish people isn’t really as compelling. I think most people would agree with me on that.
The programme was presented by that little bloke off “Coast”-the one that looks like a cross between Tony Robinson and Michael Praed from “Robin of Sherwood”, (I forgot his name and can’t be arsed looking it up).
He’s a weaselly little fucker, and looks a bit French-you’d know him if you saw him. He wears a wax jacket and looks like the man who sells dodgy speed and knock-off rolling tobacco in your local-fuck knows how he got on TV really, as he looks like a professional rapist…
I don’t suppose it came as a surprise to anyone that the “Average Cornish Face” (as i had been suspecting) actually looks like Liam Gallagher after he’s been hit in the face with a frying pan a couple of times.
I could have told them that for half the cost and spent the difference buying myself a sausage mountain.
It was all about DNA testing and where your ancestors were from and that kind of thing (I thought we were all descended from Monkeys in Africa but apparently it's all a bit more complicated than that, and went some way to explaining the link between Monkeys in Africa and my own ancestors, who lived in Manchester).
I forgot what it was they did exactly, but it was clever stuff with test tubes and they all wore lab coats (like they do in adverts), and I was suitably impressed and fairly certain it was all kosher.
Anyway, the premise of the show was that if you get pictures of all the people in Cornwall and then amalgamate them somehow (using computers and technology and the like), you get an image of a typical Cornish face (if you really want one).
As I said, there was some DNA testing and stuff in there as well but I didn’t really follow that too well. Programmes about DNA if they involve Mutant Sharks, or some hellish form of hybrid Chimera between a tiger and a wolf are interesting, whereas DNA in Cornish people isn’t really as compelling. I think most people would agree with me on that.
The programme was presented by that little bloke off “Coast”-the one that looks like a cross between Tony Robinson and Michael Praed from “Robin of Sherwood”, (I forgot his name and can’t be arsed looking it up).
He’s a weaselly little fucker, and looks a bit French-you’d know him if you saw him. He wears a wax jacket and looks like the man who sells dodgy speed and knock-off rolling tobacco in your local-fuck knows how he got on TV really, as he looks like a professional rapist…
I don’t suppose it came as a surprise to anyone that the “Average Cornish Face” (as i had been suspecting) actually looks like Liam Gallagher after he’s been hit in the face with a frying pan a couple of times.
I could have told them that for half the cost and spent the difference buying myself a sausage mountain.
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