Sean Bean must Die

The missus has been spending a lot of time watching “Sharpe” on TV recently, which is odd, as she used to hate it. The only reason for this I can think of (and she denies this) is the presence of Sean Bean.

I’ve tried wearing a Napoleonic era military uniform around the house and shouting “Lets get them Frog Bastards lads!” in my best loud northern voice but this doesn’t seem to be cutting the mustard.

I’ve had a quick look on Wikipedia and I don’t think I’m able to compete with him at all, which means I have no alternative but to assassinate him.

So far I think my best bet is either Poison or Archery.

Jeremy Kyle-“Bread and Circuses” for the benefit culture

Have you ever actually watched the Jermey Kyle show? I advise you to watch at least one episode, just so you know exactly how pathetic and awful some people’s lives really are.

It worth watching as Kyle’s pleb-goading skills are absolutely exceptional, and his hatred and contempt for his “guests” is abundantly apparent. However I still can’t believe anyone’s life is so awful they feel it could actually get better, on any level, by meeting him.

Most of the “debates” on the show seem to revolve around dole scum who have no idea about personal responsibility and who have managed to involve themselves in what I will grudgingly describe as “Love Triangles” (although this term is more usually applied to situations in sophisticated French films of the 1950’s rather than a series of sordid couplings involving ugly people in Margate). Actually, given the rate at which some of these filth seem to spawn and their indiscriminate approach to parenting when producing their vile progeny perhaps “Love Octagon” would be a more appropriate term.

The format of the show is simple-a series of idiots are paraded in front of a baying studio audience of thick cunts and each dreadful piece of dirty laundry is aired for the public. Does anyone really need to know which one of the two interchangeable fat, pig shit thick skinheads on the stage fathered some toothless boiler’s child? They’re all fucked anyway…Surely this could have all been sorted out without recourse to national television for fucks sake?

And while were on the subject-this is national television so why on earth would everyone on the show want to appear on it dressed as either a) a prostitute or b) a vagrant?

You make me physically sick with your petty jealousies and empty tedious lives you fucking maggots-why do you feel the need to inject this kind of attention seeking drama into your pathetic and worthless lives? No one needs to know which equally worthless pieces of human wreckage you have been rutting with. Why can’t you all get jobs instead? Or just fucking die?

Welcome to Leeds-it’s full of human vermin and it fucking stinks

Over the Bank holiday I had the misfortune to visit Leeds City centre for a short shopping trip. It’s been some time since I last did this and I was struck by how bloody awful the city is. It’s been a good ten years since Leeds tried to market itself as a modern, trendy exciting city (do you remember “Come to the place that’s going to be the place to be” slogan? I do-in fact it still makes me laugh). A decade later and it’s still basically just another decrepit northern mill town with a dingy tiny city centre, profoundly unexciting architecture and a distinctly unpleasant smell.

This isn’t helped by the general standard of hygiene of many of its residents. I’m fairly sure, just from my informal observations over the weekend that in terms of Washing Machine purchases and Soap consumption we are lagging behind the rest of Europe (even France).

A casual visitor to the city could easily be forgiven for thinking that most residents of Leeds are feral, weasely types that smell of old sweat and stale Lambert and Butler smoke and that most of them choose to wear tracksuit bottoms that look like they have been shat in several times, and everyone over the age of 40 has awful grey skin and very few teeth. One gets the impression they subsist from benefit cheque to benefit cheque of a diet of McCains Savoury pancakes, Cheap lager and cigarettes, Gregg’s pasties and grinding resentment.

Also visitors would very probably believe that at least 1 in every 10 people is on (or at least should be on) some kind of mental health register, as it evident that a large proportion of the population is (probably due to inbreeding) clearly just not fucking wired up correctly (e.g. their behaviour includes shouting at windows, walking sideways etc).

No, I don’t work for the Leeds City Council Public Relations department, although you’d be forgiven for thinking that…

I’m 82 and I think it’s disgusting

http://news.bbc.co.uk/wearescaredoftheblacks

I originally checked this article out because it thought it said “Cameron urges Youth Crime Fight” and I though “Gladiatorial Contests for young offenders? What a fine idea-this man Cameron has my vote!” But it turns out to be something far more mundane that that, and is entirely indistinguishable from anything any other politician has ever said. Shame really...

Irritating Pseudo Scientific Bollocks

I have been asked if I wish to attend a seminar on Neuro Linguistic Programming with some other colleagues. How super, I simply can’t wait to take part and be one of those “team players” you hear about. And afterwards perhaps we could all to go to a séance where I could speak to my dead Granddad, drink some snake oil then see David fucking Icke…

Not sure how much people know about it, but New Langoustine Procedure is a set of techniques that reputedly allow you to influence others USING ONLY THE POWER OF YOUR MIND!!!!

Yeah, right…that sounds likely… It all reminds me of that “These aren’t the droids you’re looking for” scène in Star Wars, but done by men in unpleasant cheap suits.

Basically, from what I’ve observed from people who have attended these courses it entails shaking hands for slightly too long for it to be comfortable, looking directly and unblinkingly into peoples eyes and placing peculiar stresses on certain words, meaning that the person in question just looks and sounds like they have mild learning difficulties (which isn’t that unusual if you work in a big enough company).

Essentially, it’s just more management claptrap disguised as good business practice. Nasty Lasagne Protocol is yet another of those phenomena, like buzzwords, that weak people use to cover up professional inadequacies.

It’s quite clear when you see the people running these seminars that there is absolutely no way that any normal company (unless it was one of those awful loans companies that advertise on daytime TV) would employ them as they are quite clearly either deluded, incompetent, a twat, or a combination of all three, however by obfuscating these apparently self evident truths with a thick veneer of utter bullshit they seem able to carve out these precarious careers.

Which is fine as far as it goes because I admire a successful chancer as much as the next chap, and provided I don’t have to work with the cunt it doesn’t bother me

What does irritate me is when other people fall for this rubbish-otherwise sane individuals leave these seminars thinking (for about 2 days) that they actually have secret super powers. Only instead of having been bitten by a radioactive spider or something of that ilk they got them from sitting in a “Holiday Inn” conference room in Leicester, looking at flipcharts and listening to a bloke who normally does “Quit Smoking Now” seminars and thinks he is Paul McKenna.

So even if I don’t go to this seminar I’ve still got the best part of a week of people staring like swivel eyed madmen and talking like Ben Fucking Kenobi at me. Joy…

How many grossly overweight people can YOU see?

From my desk I can see eight, which is quite horrific considering there are only about two dozen people in this (big) room. I’m not talking slightly chubby here either, I’m talking morbidly obese, wheeze as they stand up to get to a vending machine, porky type fuckers here.

It looks like a lorry load of fucking weebles crashed into the building…

Do you know why this is? I’ll fucking tell you why…

So far this morning we’ve already had a sandwich run, a bacon sandwich run, some cakes brought in and there is a chip shop run, a McDonald’s run and a Subway run set up for lunchtime.

This is all apparently OK because it’s Friday today which is a special day, and today we can stuff ourselves in plain sight (despite the fact that it looks like a pack of fucking pigs at a trough all bastard day) and not have to hide in cupboards to eat family sized bags of Doritos in about four fucking fistfuls like on "normal" days.

And yet, they still have the sheer bloody gall to ask me how I stay in shape despite being on the down side of thirty. Well, let me see, perhaps it’s because I don’t look like Captain Caveman waving a turkey drumstick around all day. Or that I have to occasionally buy new shoes because I actually walk around in mine. Or that I don’t drink the equivalent of a pint of pork fat each day. It could be any of those couldn’t it?

My God, you make me sick you pack of obese fucking hyenas…

random fucking pointless nonsense

Had a weird dream last night (yes, I am aware they are supposed to be weird-they are dreams after all) in which I was fighting in the Fray Bentos army against the army of Ribena. It was all very lifelike (well, it was like “Call of Duty” or something similar anyway) and I was some kind of Andy McNab type character.

Anyway, eventually the top brass at Fray Bentos betrayed me and sent me on a mission I wasn’t supposed to survive. Luckily, instead of my demise (as they had planned) I was captured alive by the Ribena army, whose cause was just, so I ended up fighting for them against the Fray Bentos side instead.

It was a fantastic dream, I thoroughly enjoyed it and I think there’s a book in it too.

Anyway, what I was actually going to write about was either a) Elvis or b) a Lad’s nights out. Couldn’t think of anything to write about Elvis until the 30^th anniversary of his death hysteria dies down (and by “hysteria” what I mean is a series of ITV specials)

We had a Lad’s night out last week, which was a right good laugh except I felt absolutely bloody awful the next day (although I wasn’t sick on any furniture).

I have however found the secret of getting your partner to agree to Lads nights out (or girls nights out for that matter) without undue levels of tricky negotiation. Simply ask for far, far more than you require and slowly haggle it down to an acceptable level:

“Hi Love-got a mail from Barry Bear earlier-We’re off out next Friday to kill some prostitutes then buy loads of crack from a black man in an inner city pub car park”

“No”

“Can we go out to a knocking shop, then onto an all night drinking den, frequented by people who have just come out of prison instead?”

“Hmmm…well…..”

“How about if I just go out and get completely fucking twatted and promise to come home alive, if somewhat unsteady and be fuck all use for anything the next day? (As indeed I did)”

“Yeah, OK. Have Fun love!!”

Easy…

ANGERCISE

This is an advertisement I am putting in “Men’s Health” for my new exercise programme. It’s one of the many commercial “irons in the fire” I currently have, including a revolutionary new type of biscuit and a small cannon that fires pork pies (I believe it will have many uses in the law enforcement community).

I’m always looking for new investors, so please feel free to give me a shout if you fancy “Making ££££££££££££s in your spare time”.

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“You know, people often say to me “Fat Edgar, how do you stay so lean and slim despite eating old meat like some kind of fucking industrial bin?” to which I reply “Because, you Fat Slob, I exercise like a bastard as much as possible, rather than sitting in the dark eating biscuits and crying. Now get your hands out of your desk drawer, you orange fingered old cunt, I can see the enormous open bag of wotsits you have in there.”

To help people like this, and even yourselves I have created my own exercise programme, it’s called “Angercise” and it’s something that works very well for me AND IT CAN WORK FOR YOU TOO!!

Scientifically developed using a combination of psychological and physical techniques the programme relies almost entirely on emotional “triggers” that are based on the limited emotional concepts most men are capable of experiencing (very little extra equipment is needed for the programme).

The triggers themselves are:

“Sex”
“Fighting”
“Anger”
“Sausages”
“Sleep”

By conscious manipulation of these concepts; for example by thinking about fighting, whilst at the same time restricting your sausage consumption you will find much “Anger” is created-“Anger” is the core component of “Angercise”, however I believe Anger alone is not enough-it must be precisely honed and focused into a blinding red mist.

By combining other triggers-for instance by realising it is now sometime since you have had a decent nights sleep-you can whip yourself up into a massive fury and move onto other, much more useful anger states including (but in no way limited) to:

“Paranoid Revenge Fantasies”
“Envy”
“It’s all their fault”
“I hate my body”
“I will fucking murder you all, you spineless pack of gibbons”
“Look at him, the smug fucking cunt, I’ll smash his fucking face in”

The only limit to your potential is your lack of personal demons!!!

All you need is complete random directionless fury, and a punch bag (or vagrant) and you’re well away-just watch the pounds drop off!

Why not sign up today?”
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It’s always worked for me, and if this proves popular I will be producing a line of “Angercise” sports wear and accessories, and also a range of special sport/energy sausages (essentially premium pork sausages containing different ratios of Amphetamines/alcohol)

Of all the sheer fucking idiocy

A close mate is getting married soon, which is all well and good, but we need to arrange a stag do for him.

These are notoriously bloody annoying to arrange because everyone wants to do different things, you end up trying to please everyone and spend ages arranging a weekend of GoKarting/drinking/strippers/archery/Ibiza/falconing/wall of death riding, then 3 days before everyone it’s due to happen everyone fucking cancels anyway, leaving you about £4000 out of pocket because you’ve just rented a load of elephants and knocking shop full of child prostitutes in Latvia for three weeks.

Anyway, a friend of the bride has suggested amalgamating the Stag and Hen nights. After telling her to “go get your fucking head looked at woman” it set me off thinking about what we should actually do.

So far the most popular idea has been riding around the desert in Mexico on motorcycles, hunting down condemned criminals with crossbows whilst wearing dresses. Is this the midlife crisis we were expecting?

I have just received an email

It is an email advising me that the email address of our own internal IT service desk is temporarily out of order, due to technical problems.

Oh, the terrible, bittersweet irony of it…

The Crazy Toilet Man

I got caught by the crazy toilet man again this morning-I’m not sure if I ever mentioned the crazy toilet man before, but he’s a very friendly bloke who works here (at least, I think he works here. I hope he works here because he’s always hanging round the toilets, and if he isn’t employed here I’m pretty sure he’s a security risk) whose job it is to go from toilet to toilet emptying the bins and putting new bin liners in.

The only problem with this is that he is quite clearly utterly mad-he has one of those “unfinished” sort of faces you see only on the very ill and/or insane-all scraggly hair, wobbly eyes and missing teeth. He doesn’t exhibit any signs of learning difficulties/Downs syndrome etc though, just sheer rampant insanity.

He lurches from toilet to toilet heaving massive bags of rubbish whilst singing to himself and accosting people who pass by and dragging them into his extremely strange one-sided conversations:

“I’m only here Tuesdays. Tuesdays, Thursdays. I can come Wednesdays though, I can. Could if I want. Always full. Always. By Wednesdays, always. I told them it would be full!! I did!!!!! HAHAHAHA” etc. Very disconcerting indeed.

If you’re actually in the toilet when he comes in it’s even worse-your best bet is to get yourself locked into a cubicle ASAP before he starts, otherwise you end up listening to him and nodding for five minutes before you have to say something like “I’m shutting the door now” loudly and clearly and then he stops.

This is what happened to me this morning, unfortunately it was worse than normal because someone had been putting paper towels down the toilet (again) which blocks them and this ALWAYS sets him off “lookatthis!!lookatthis!! all over floor, all over. Is there a boss? Is there? Toilet paper, towels. Towels, toilet paper…Needs telling, needs saying…” and so forth.

I sent him off in the general direction of the building manager. He hasn’t sent me an email to thank me yet…

I AM MONOBROW!!!!!!

I noticed yet another distressing sign of ageing yesterday-I looked in the mirror and noticed that my eyebrows appear to have joined up.

Startled, I ran downstairs and showed my partner (well, I pointed frantically at my face whilst spluttering), who calmly advised me “Yes, I noticed it a few weeks ago, you fucking freak”.

So there we are-I am now destined to become a werewolf. Wonderful…

Cretinous Fuckdonkeys

I mainly write technical documents for a living, that and deal with system queries, often from people who have suffered Brain Death. Sometimes these two worlds collide with depressing results.

When writing professionally I don’t write like this of course-it would be considered extremely bad form indeed to write a manual containing passages like: “If the previous menu option (fig 112b) is inoperative and /or greyed out, you are clearly a cunt. Return to command line and furiously wank like a gibbon until a keeper arrives”.

However, recently I received a comment from an end user about some documentation, saying it was “complex and difficult to understand”. Well, yes, this would be because:

a) It’s a technical document (do you understand?).

and

b) You’re a fucking clueless fool (fit only to have your bones boiled for soup).

However, as our internal policy states under these circumstances I have had to review the document writing proecedurezzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Suffice to say, from now on I am going to write everything in Mong, just for this person.

Having some trouble with the 5 bellied fuck pig

The five bellied fuck pig has taken a break from writing her erotic fan fiction to try to “write”* some “software”** which is predictably utter cock and manages to fall over every bastard time.

She only tested it on her computer of course, as no one else lets her use their computer due to the excessive amount of bacon grease deposits she leaves behind.

Unfortunately it’s now gone out to most of our customers and instead of trying to rectify the problem she’s gone off into a corner to cry loudly and eat biscuits.

Guess who’s trying to sort it out now? Yes, it’s fucking Muggins here, with the help of a strange French bloke who seems very helpful (although like most French, not necessarily to be relied upon under conditions of war).

Does anyone else work under these conditions?

* Cobble together

** Complete fucking rubbish

Customer service is an art form

One with which i am most adept...

Recently, against almost everyone’s better judgment we have created a facility whereby our customers can unlock the magic powers of their computers to create and log queries with us, rather than pick up the phone and speak to our highly trained team of call centre monkeys (which is almost always a collision of low impact intellects).

We have been tasked to produce suitable automated replies to these queries, here is mine:

"Dear valued customer

Many thanks for your recent query.

After filtering the contents of your brain through one of our special “Mind Sieves” we have been to ascertain the general gist of your train of thought, and even if we still haven’t managed to really grasp the specifics of your unfocused rage we feel more than optimistic about rectifying the terrible personal slight our company appears to have randomly inflicted on you.

There may be a small delay in reviewing your query due to the fact that you did not, at any point add any contact details to your query, which is of course our fault entirely (as indeed is the awful standard of spelling and grammar within the content of your query. We would like to assure that has nothing to do with the fact that you appear to have the typing skills of something with a set of pig’s tits for fingers and is entirely our responsibility).

If there is any further way in which I can help you at this juncture please do not hesitate, even for one moment, before picking up the phone and bellowing randomly down it like a wounded and confused cow, as I for one like nothing better than to listen to the petty vindictive ramblings of a low calibre intellect for a protracted period of time.

Please rest assured that I will not allow myself, or anyone else within this vast and spurious organisation, to rest until this grave and terrible insult has been wiped forever from the pages of history.

Your spastic hat is in the post.

Fat Edgar"

I think this hits exactly the right balance between professionalism and caring..

Sometimes I wish I had hooves instead of feet just so I could kick idiots to death more effectively…

But that’s just the way I am really. Recently I said some unkind things about supermarket sausages and “fancy poofter sausages”. I’d like to apologise for this. A few days ago I tried some ASDA finest pork, cranberry and Chilli sausages which were absolutely top notch bangers. It’s opened up a whole new world of sausage treats for me. Highly recommended, however the pork and leek ones, although tasty, did give me an upset stomach.

Sometimes I think my love of all things pork is all that stops me being one of those “Jihadists” you hear about in the news. That, and that if I grow a beard my face itches. No self respecting suicide bomber should be seen without a full luxuriant beard. It would be letting the side down.

This morning we have a representative from one of our branches in London in our office (we are most honoured). He’s a bit like Ray Winstone but on amphetamines. It’s quite disconcerting at this hour, especially as he’s ranting about the withdrawal of British troops from Northern Ireland.

Big sharp hooves…