Life’s Red Card, Changing Rooms and Existential Hokum

Were any of us  actually  children?  
I mean  I  know  I  was  a child  because  I  was  told  I  was  and  there  are  photographs  of  a  small  boy  that looks  like  me  doing  things that  a small  boy  would  do.  But  I  don’t  really  remember  being  a  small  boy.  I don’t  recall  ever  being  a  child.

There  are  memories but  again  most  of  them  are  triggered by  what people have  told  me,  like  my parents  reminiscing  on  a  time  when  I  wasn’t  a huge  bag  of  neurotic  doom  and  gloom.  

I  have  scars in  my  flesh  from  the  adventures  of  youth  but  how  did  I  get  them?  The  pain  of  the  cuts from  falling  off  my  bike  or trying  to  jump  something  a  little  over  my  ability  has long  since faded.  
Maybe it’s  paranoia,  too  many  late  nights  and  early  starts catching  up  with  me.  Sleep deprivation working  its bony  fingers  into  my  subconscious  like  a  physical  manifestation  of  death  kneading  my brain  like  a baker fisting  dough.  

I mean,  we  must  have  been  children…  right?   Right?   There  are  times when  I  look  back  at  my  school  years  and  think  “what the  fuck  was I actually  doing?”  I was  just  there. Existing  in a  reality  laid  out  for  me  by  a  comity. A group  of  people  got  together and agreed that  it  was  what  was best  for  me,  to  throw  me  in  with  all these  other  kids  and  shout  “GO!”
I guess  that’s  when  I  came  online.  

Presence  switched  on.  

Became  aware  of  the  things around  me  and  the  way  that  what  I  did  affected  others. I guess  that’s why  I  spend  great  periods  of time  on  my  own.  I  don’t  want to  affect  others.   Who am  I  to  make  any  kind  of  impact  on  the people  around  me?  
The  audacity  some  people  have  in  making  others  feel  things. How  fucking  dare  they.  Some  people just  have  no  consideration  to  the people around  them  like  a  guy  that  farts  in a packed  lift  without even laughing.  Like  it  was  no  big  thing. Just  the  contents  of  his digestive  tract  expelling  his inner stink, his  essence  shared  with the  rest  of  the  world.  

Not  even  a  sorry.  

Like  a  dirty  secret  held  between  two  people  that had  rough  sex  but  on  the  casual, a  one  night  stand; a knowing  blushed  smile  across  the  office  but  no  matter  what  happens to  you  both, no  matter where  you  end  up  that  butthole  still got  eaten  and  you  can’t  take  that back.  You  can’t  tell anyone but  it’s there  ready  to  be  let  out  like  a  fart  in the lift,  no  apology, with no  thought  for  the people around  you. 

Rumbling  away  in the  gut  of your  subconscious.  

How  many  of  you  out  there  are  smiling  but  feeling  a  twitch  in  your  sphincter?

So  here  I  go, beaning  out  another section  of  my  life into  the world, documenting  my  further adventures  to  the  edge  of  my  personal oblivion. 
A  step  closer to  the  void  every  day, preparing  for it to  look  into  me  when  the time  comes.  

What  will  it  see  I  wonder?  

Will  it see  all  the  good  you  have  done,  all  the  times  you  have  been  noble  or  brave, the  proud moments  and  the  joy  you  have  shared?  Or  will it be  that  school  kid  on  the  first  day, that  moment when you  came  online?   Scared  but  puffing  out  your  chest  like  a  little  bird  cornered by  a  cat,  make  yourself look  bigger  that way  it  will leave  you  alone.  Looking  for an  exit  and  wanting  to  be  back  home  with  cheese  on  toast and  a  glass  of strawberry  milk.  

But  enough  of this, it  bores  me  so  to  think  of  myself  in this way.
Everyone  goes  through  the  same thing  no  matter  what  their  situation  and  circumstance.  

Positive  vibes.  

So  I  decided to  give  up  smoking.   No  big  thing  just  time  for a  change  in  direction,  milk  the  teat  of life  for  those  extra  few  minutes  at the end.  Get  in  one  last  episode  of  my  favourite  show  whatever  it  may  be  when the  time  comes.  
I’m  not  going  on  some  mad  health kick  because  I  don’t  think  that  will do  me  much  good.  I  have  the feeling  that  if  I  did  turn  to  a  healthy  life  style  the  comedown  or the  relapse  would  kill  me.  

I  do  go  swimming  now,  not  often but  it’s something  to  do  with  my  time  I  guess, reliving  my  youth. But  there  is  a  downside.   I  had  forgotten  that  old  men  really  don’t  give  a fuck  about  who  sees  their penis.  

I  have  never been  one  for  communal  changing  rooms,  not  that  I  have  anything  to  hide,  I’m  what  you would  call  an average  guy.  I  just  feel uncomfortable  when an old  man  stretches near  me  with his dong  on  show. 
Or  when they  bend  over  to  pick up  a  dropped locker  key  and  you  get  an  eyeful  of fruit basket.  

I  mean,  fair play  to  them,  they  have  gotten to  the  point  in  their lives  where  they  really  couldn’t  care less  and  one  day  I  hope  to  be  there  but  not  yet. I’m  not  at  the  point  where  a  nudist  beach  on  the south coast  looks  like  an inviting  holiday  destination.  
Towelling  the  sand  off  my  balls  on  a  beach in  Brighton  doesn’t  have  an  appeal  to  me  but  I  applaud those  that  do.  Well  done  you, you  don’t  care  who  sees your withered,  wind  puckered  flesh.  
Fuck  em  if  they  don’t  like  it.   Let  your balls swing  free  in  the breeze  but  please  if  you’re  at  the pool  can  you  at  least  sit  a good  few meters  away  from  the guy  next  to  you. I  don’t  want  to  feel  the  matted  carpet  of  your leg hair  when you  stumble  back  trying  to  put  a sock  on.  

I have seen enough penis to last me a lifetime. 

Trumpet of Doom (and other annoyances)

It’s hard  to  put  into  words  just  how  much  I  hate  Coronation  Street…  but  I  shall  try.  
I’m  not  one  to  watch soaps  (at  a push  Emmerdale)  I  can’t  get  my  head around  all  the drama  and grimness. It  seems like  in  Soapland  for  every  moment  of happiness  there  is  several of  complete bleakness and  gloom.  
It’s the  only  time  you  will see  some  bloke  get  raped  by  an escaped  convict  at  a  gay  wedding  then a truck full  of petrol  crashes  into  the  reception  killing  nothing  but  the  children.   There’s  an  outbreak  of  necrotising  leprosy  at  little  Billy’s  fifth birthday  party  because  of  some undercooked  jelly  and  some  prick has  set  fire  to  a  load  of  tramps  in the  pub  while  everyone  was watching  the  fireworks.  

Sounds  like  something  I’d  normally  watch but  for  the  fact  that  it’s  all  done  at  a  PG  level  because  of the watershed  and  there  isn’t  one  swear  word  in  the  whole  thing. 
I’ve  been  up  north and  I  once heard  someone  refer  to  a  chicken pie  as  “One  ‘fuck  off  cunt’  of  a  dinner.”  It  was  a  woman  with  her children  outside  Tesco  so  the  idea  of loads  of northern  types  wandering  around  without  uttering  a single swear word  during  their daily  routine  is as  farfetched  as  me  waking  up  a  Chinese  millionaire tomorrow.  
Most  of the  people  I  know  that live  in  the  north (anywhere  past  the  Watford  Gap)  are really  nice, friendly  and  hospitable  people and  in no  way  represented  by  the drab, downtrodden cast  of  that despondent  nightmare  of  a  show.  
It  just  doesn’t  click  with  me.  
But  you  want  to  know  the  worst  part  of it,  the  part  that really  gets  my  fucking  back  up  and  reaching for  my  remote  control  every  fucking  time…  the fucking  theme  tune.  
Every  time  I  hear  that  fucking  trumpet  I  want  to  smash  my  telly  up. 
It’s  like  the song  sums up  the show.  That  horrid,  miserable sound  of a  winging  trumpet  playing  a  miserable  tune  with  a dead  cat stuck  up  on  the  roof  of a  shed,  kids pissing  in someone’s petrol tank  in  the  opening  credits  sets  the tone  for  the rest  of  your  half hours  (or  whatever  the  fuck  duration  it  is)  viewing.  
I  just  don’t  deal  with drama, never  have.  
I  see  loads  of it  on  social  media and  for  the  most  part  I  just  think  ‘sort  your fucking  lives  out’.  Don’t get  me  wrong,  I  have  by  no  means got  my  shit  together but  I  certainly  don’t  cause  drama  over nothing  just  because  I  have  nothing  better  to  do.   Some  people just  get  off  on  back biting  and  snipping  I guess  and  to  all  those  people  I  raise  a  huge middle finger  and  bid  them  a  fond  farewell.  “Go  fuck  yourselves  you  pathetic  twats”  as  I  tip  the fuck out  the  door.  

I  don’t  get  the  strife  people  heap on  themselves  by  starting  shit over  nothing  just  because  they  can.  I almost feel sorry  for these  types  of people.  They  really  have  nothing  better  to  do  with  their time  that start  talking  shit about  someone  when  that person  has  probably  done  nothing  to  deserve  it.  
Then  you  get  the  fuckers that  crave  the attention  of drama and  everything  that comes  with  it. The fuss vampires  that  want  you  to  fall  into  their  web  of drama,  wrap  you  up  in it  and  suck  you completely  dry.  
Then  you  have  the  attention  leeches, similar to  the fuss vampire in  many  ways but  with less  of a vindictive  streak.  They  lose  their  vindictiveness  due  to  a  lack  of  spine  and  a need  to  have  every  other sucker  on  the  planet  sort  their lives  out  for them;  constantly  with  their hand  waiting  for  that train that never  comes  and  taking  that  frustration  out  on  the rest  of  us.   I  guarantee  there  are a  few  of  these  on  your  social  media.  Constant  post  on  how  bad  their lives  are and  post  vague  statuses  designed to  hook  you  into  asking  a  dumb  question  like  ‘what’s up?’.   Do  not  fall  for these  traps, let  the  bastards  suffer,  toughen them  up. 
Heaven  forbid  anything  really bad  will happen to  them  they  would  probably  kill  themselves…  or  others  in  the  case  of America.
It’s always shit  like  I  can’t  get  a  boy/girlfriend,  my  life is so  crap,  why  am  I  so  ugly,  I’m  so  fat  and  a string  of  other  shallow  posts put  up  with  the soul intention  of getting  people to  massage  their  ego.  
Here’s a  tip, if  you  are  that  bored that  you  have  to  be  online  constantly  talking  to  other  sad sack wankers  that  do  nothing  but  wallow  in  drama how  about  you  turn  off  your computer and  read  a book.  
Sick  of  the  way  people treat  you?  Then  sort  it  out,  cut away  the dead  wood  and  move  on…  unless you’re  an  utter  cunt  and  they  are  just  treating  you  the  way  you  treat  them  in  which case  you  deserve to  be  treated  like  a  wanker.  
I guess  the  moral  of all  this  is  ‘don’t  be  a  twat’.  
My  granddad  once  told  me  something, the  one  piece  of advice  that  I  have  carried  with  me  all  my  life and  a  bit of  a  mantra  that  I  stick  by  and  will  one  day  pass  down to  my  kids and  grandchildren.  It’s a simple line  but  powerful none  the  less.  
“If you  act  like  a  cunt,  sooner  or  later  you’re  gonna get  fucked.” 
Powerful  stuff right  there  and  speaking  of  future  generations  my  girlfriend  is  carrying  my  first  child  in her  belly;  a  thing  that  both  amazes  and  petrifies  me  in  equal  measures.  One  the  one  hand  I  can’t  wait to  see  how  they  turn  out,  what  kind  of person  they  will grow  up  to  be and  I  relish  the  challenge  of being  a  parent.  On  the  other,  I  really  hope  they  don’t  grow  up  to  be  a complete  twat,  I  mean  I  know  that for the  most  part  children are the  product  of  their  environment but  sometimes  the  child  will  turn  out  the  exact  opposite  to  the  adult.  A  fake  tan sporting, gym membership  carrying, topknot/bun  sporting  tit  end  with a  sleeve  of tattoos  that  mean nothing  other than  the  fact  that  it  ‘looks  kinda cool’. 
Or  worse  one  of those  little  bastard  kids that  bangs around  in groups and  gets  mashed  down  the park  on  money  they  nicked  out  of their  mother’s  purse  and  gets brought  home  by  the  old  bill once  a  month.   
Shit,  worse  still  they  might  turn  out  like  me.   I  bloody  hope  they  don’t  start watching  Coronation  Street.  

And  at  that  moment  I  woke  up  drenched  in sweat,  gripping  handfuls  of bed clothes  pulled tight  to my chest  in  my  white  knuckled fists,  my  heart  thudding  like  a  diesel  generator.  My  vision  blurred,  my mind  racing  as  the  memory  of  the dream  slowly  vanished from  my  thoughts. I was  scared  for  the future but  I  was  starting  to  forget  why  as  the  nightmare  faded and  my  shallow  breathing  became calmer, deeper  breaths.  
I began  to  cry. 
It  was  the first  time  since  I  was  a  very  young  boy  that  I  had  wet  the  bed.  

Humans… I Mean, Why?

I am still not a fan of going outside.

Just once I want to walk down a street and not see a single person and not have a car/van/truck fly past me blaring out music, the driver staring at me like he has never seen someone eating an ice cream before.

Yes it is strawberry, yes it is refreshing on this fine spring afternoon and yes I am wearing shorts… focus on the road and get of your phone, dickhead.

Went for a walk a while back through a local park and there were this pack of lads climbing over the benches all wearing a track suit with no intention of going to the gym and they all had the same haircut and tiny shoulder bags. I’m not sure but it might be a gang thing.

One of the ‘crew’ though he’d pipe up with possibly the most cutting insult I have ever heard; he said in a big bold voice “ice cream!”

Bear in mind that I had already passed the lads by quite some way so this was said behind my back. I stopped, turned and gave that ice cream a big bite and raised it like I was toasting them.  They didn’t respond.

Then there was the incident with a dog I didn’t know.

Just having a stroll through of all places a cemetery when this black bull terrier came bounding out of nowhere and started jumping all over me in a manner accustomed to that breed. The hound was visibly aroused.

A woman came from around this massive tree looking a little flustered (what she was doing is purely speculation… I think she was taking a shit) say “oh, sorry, he won’t bite you he just gets excited.”

To which I replied “I’m more worried about him spunking up my trousers.”

Fucking thing was trying to have sex with me and its owner could do nothing. Had I been a small child the animal would have successfully accomplished coitus and after a local media backlash would have be humanly put to sleep.

I tried to cross the road the other day at the crossing outside my house and saw the opportunity to nip across quickly before the lights had changed. I was greeted on the other side by what I can only describe as a wall of mongs.  It was a family of fat, greasy looking fucktards just standing their preventing from getting onto the pavement.  There are railings either side of the crossing stopping me from going around.  They just stood there smoking at me while I stood in the road in front of oncoming traffic.

I had to shout in one of their bloated faces for her to “get the fuck out of the way” to prevent myself from getting clipped by a car. I actually had to shout at her.  I wanted to smash the fat fucks face in if I’m honest.

She was that fat her eyes had beer bellies.

Another occurrence last week while crossing the road. I was standing on the corner waiting for the traffic to die down so that I could cross and this pack of chav women with baby buggies surrounded me almost pushing me into the road.  One woman was so close to me I could feel her breathing down my neck; her breath smelt of savaloys, cigarettes and horse shit.

Why would you want to get that close to someone on the edge of the road?

In my head I was wishing that they would all step out in the road at the same time a lorry driver puts his foot down and sends they whole fucking bunch of the rat-bags flying like skittles.

Some bloke the other day nearly got his foot stamped on while I was queuing up in Tesco. He was far too close to me and staring at his phone, not paying any attention at what he was doing and twice stepped on the back of my shoe.  He nearly did it a third time but I told him to watch what he was doing or fuck off.

The look on his face told me that he had never been spoken to like that before.

His fucking parents brought him up wrong is what they did. If they had engaged with the little prick a bit better instead of leaving him glued to some kind of screen he may have the ability to walk places without having a touchscreen three inches from his face.

Give it another generation or so and we will be plagued with mindless stooped over zombie like children that will grow to have no skills other than being really good at Candy Crush Saga and having a shit tone of followers on Instagram. A generation of people that think a gallery of Snapchat nudes is art and that you spell the later, L8r.

We currently live in a world where we let Kanye West happen… your children are doomed.

Some will slip through the ‘dunce net’ but for the majority will succumb to blatant ignorance and stupidity. More people like Iggy Azalea and Nicki Minaj will be allowed to pedal their wears to the masses.

Remember when songs used to have metaphor in them, well now Miss Minaj is singing “I let him hit it cause he slang cocaine, He toss my salad like his name Romaine” to little girls while shaking her disgustingly fat arse up in the camera like we’re meant to be impressed.

Fuck off and die you hideous fat bitch and stop selling the idea of having anal sex with drug dealers to children… whore.

And as for Iggy Azalea, what the fuck happened there?

She’s got these mongy, beady little eyes which look like the penguin from Wallace and Gromit had a fucking stroke. She looks like a stunt double in the film White Chicks.  And why does a white Australian woman think she’s some ghetto rat black American chick for that matter, does anyone actually know?

“But you know she’s quite talented”… nope; have you seen the footage of her on live radio trying to ‘spit freestyle’? What a fucking disgrace to the music industry.   She was exposed for the fraud she truly is and if you are a fan of her stuff know this… I think you are retarded and have no musical taste whatsoever and that reflects on your personality which I guess would me I think you have next to none of.

And if you think she’s attractive I guess you like fat arsed, blockheaded women with hugely squared off jawlines that look like they have Down’s syndrome and Claymation character eyes… but you know… horses for courses.

What’s That Sound?

Why, it’s a bailiff knocking at your door wanting that payment on that PS4 you bought your snot nosed teenage kid who on boxing day told you he hated you because he wanted to play FIFA and not go to his elderly auntie’s place.

So…

I was watching a little television the other day… I think it may have been last Monday which bear in mind was the 30^th of December, and I noticed a rather disturbing thing.

Every other advert on the ITV channels was for the Park ‘dept free Christmas’ Company.

Within the space of a couple of hours I must have seen that advert more than ten times, it was fucking ridiculous. It got to the point where I knew the script word for word.  Before I had even realised what was going on I had been brainwashed by a money spinning coupon company that makes money from low income families.

What’s worse about these adverts is that it still puts pressure on people to spend money over Christmas.

If you have the sort of family members that will think any less of you for not getting them the latest gadgets or perfume or toys or can’t put a big enough spread on the table on Christmas day then you my friend have a fucking shit family.

Just saying.

What the people at Park are telling us is that you can still spend a shit ton of money just for one day that (let’s not forget) is based on a series of outdated, archaic fairy tales and lies. Collectively (as a race) we can put a spaceship on a comet millions of miles away but we can’t get passed the fact that a woman having sex with a ghost and giving birth to a deity might just be in the realm of fantasy fiction.

And the hardcore feminists of the world can’t get passed a guy’s shirt and make him really upset in an apology video, the guy was crying after one of the greatest scientific achievements the human race has witnessed. HE PUT A SPACECRAFT ON A COMET AND YOU CANT BE FUCKED TO SHAVE YOUR FUCKING ARMPITS YOU PACK OF JUMPED UP FUCKING DYKE HYENAS, FUCK YOU AND FUCK YOUR FEELINGS… CUNTS! 

Someone had to fucking say that.

And how do we celebrate this ‘miracle’?

By making already stupidly rich people a shit load richer than they already are.

What the fuck has owning a PlayStation got to do with the birth of ‘the son of god’? Nothing, yet the months leading up to the big day the ad-men at Sony will tell you it’s a must have and that you can’t live without it.

And here’s another thing, how much money have they made over at Park to be able to show two adverts per break between primetime shows for five or six hours every night… on five fucking channels?

Here’s the trick… when you shop with vouchers there is a ‘no change given’ policy, you spend £17.96 on a few bits and bobs and the woman at the till says “sorry love, we can’t give change on that voucher” to which you say, oh never mind, it’s only two quid.”

That money goes back to Park and you never see it again along with the ten pence to the pound they are already making off of you in the first place. So on average for every twenty pound voucher they make between £2 (minimum) and £4(ish) depending on your personal level of generosity (drunkenness while shopping).

It could be more, you’ve had a few beers with your burrito in the Bluewater food court and you say “Fuck it, keep the £4.49!”

The person at the till doesn’t get that money, dickhead, they don’t pocket the change like some bar keep with huge tits, flowing locks and teeth so bright you could start a fire with them; no… it all goes back to the accounts department at Park.

And another thing that I witnessed recently… the Cadbury’s Cream Egg advert… on January 4^th.

This is an advert put on solely to promote chocolate to greedy people for yet another religious money spinning event that is Easter.

This time instead of parting with your cash because something wondrous has happened like the birth of the saviour (complete bollocks, by the way just in case you thought I was some sort of believer), this time we are told to gorge ourselves on candy because some magician/medic bloke was beaten, tortured and humiliated until ultimately he died nailed to a big cross on a hill.

Oh yeah, then he came back to life three days later to forgive everyone (see what I mean about utter bollocks). I’m not sure if this is the first documented (like it’s a fucking text book, fuck you Chuck Norris) case of zombification… I think the Egyptians may have got in there first, or possibly the Mayans… or the Chinese?  But anyway, if it is it’s not a very good one, kind of like the last couple of George A. Romero films, the early stuff was classic with but the later stuff… not so much.

But enough bashing the church, it’s kind of like kicking a puppy with no back legs and they’ve stuck one of those trolley things on it… way, way too easy… and slightly funny.

In theory the advertisers are the ultimate atheists; they have basically thrown the idea of religion to the wind and got bewildered people to part with their cash in record breaking amounts year after year. Basically I can’t be angry at them for that, but I can get mad at the fact they are taking advantage of the masses by using their (stolen, because let’s face it Christianity has stolen everything that used to be considered pagan) religious holidays for financial gain.  And worse they use media brainwashing to put pressure on simple folk to spend more money every year.

There’s an old saying in warfare, ‘if you want to hurt a people go for their children’, and that’s exactly what they do, everything is aimed at the children.

And not just on the holidays, if you want people to spend money make the children have a go at their folks to buy stuff for them.

There was a report that a certain loan company was forced to stop advertising because it was using puppets with quirky jingles to sell their services. The fault of the loan company was said to be that it was using child orientated advertising to pressure adults into loans that they couldn’t afford by coercing people’s kids into asking their parents for payday loans to purchase things for them.

A court found the company guilty.

That’s just fucking low.  

I’m not going to justify having a go at people that enjoy Christmas and party with their families and put on a massive dinner because some guy was allegedly born two thousand years ago and is meant to be the physical embodiment of an alleged god. I can’t, fair play to you, if it brings you joy and you and yours get great enjoyment from it and you have love in your heart for all men even if it is only for a few days a year then more the power to you.

What I can’t get behind is that if your family are the sort to pressure you into putting yourself into massive dept just to get them a bunch of old tosh and stuff their bellies in front of the telly then they are horrible to you when they don’t get what you want, I’m saying you’ve brought your family up wrong and it’s time to get a divorce and move to an island.

Or you could just drown them all in the tub on boxing day.

Happy New Year.

Hey girl…

Well it certainly has been a while so I thought it might be nice to have a bit of a recap of the year; and not just a general whinge at my life but life for all of us… from my perspective… basically what I think of you lot and what we have all done over the last twelve months.

Us… the human race and all that.

But to be honest can we really recall some of the things that happened at the start of the year? I can’t.

There was a shit load of rain and I laughed because Somerset was underwater for most of January. The Prince of Wales turned up in wellies and mumbled something about crops and people’s houses and I tuned out.

Then we had a mild spring and summer and it didn’t rain at all which was quite nice.

We had a lot of action in the Middle East which caused some mad backlash of over the top nationalism in the western world turning a lot of folks on to racism. Hey, it gives something for stupid people to be into now that Big Brother has vanished into the obscurity of Channel 5.

It’s still on telly just no one cares.

This nationalism was bolstered with the centenary of the end of the First World War with people burning poppies and copies of the Quran in the street looking really angry and talking shit.

UKIP became really popular and Russell Brand found a new career by calling a reporter a snide on live television and gained new found respect from the people that though he was funny in the first place by sitting quietly on a ‘staged’ edition of the BBC’s Question Time.

A fat kid in North Korea got pissed off that two stoners made a pretty rubbish film about him then called the president of the United States a monkey. The fat kid then had a movie company hacked and the US retaliated by shutting down North Korea’s internet for a day subsequently starting World War Three that is being waged as we speak online.  Sorry goths, no nuclear fallout here, no dark future or zombie apocalypse just a massive game of online Risk played by governmental geeks.

My advice to Mr Obama, start in Australasia and spread out from there.

And speaking of computer games, some twat ruined Christmas by hacking a few game console networks so people couldn’t play their games for a few hours. It was almost like he had shot Santa the way the media were banging on about it.

Daniella Westbrook spunked all her money again and sat on This Morning crying her eyes out telling us that her family were in sheltered housing over Christmas and that we were all to feel sorry for her. Sorry love, you did it to yourself… again… we don’t owe you a living.  Why don’t you get a job like normal people to support your family or is that beneath you because you were on Eastenders and fucked Brian Harvey?

For those that don’t know who Brian Harvey was, he was the pint-sized, faux hard-man crooner in East 17 that run himself over with his own Mercedes. He was also famous for saying that the drug ecstasy is awesome on live children’s television.

Katie Hopkins survived another year without Holly Willoughby kicking the shit out of her on live television. How that Hopkins woman hasn’t been on the receiving end of an acid attack is beyond me?

And it just wouldn’t be the festive season without a plane going missing in the pacific… It’s almost a tradition now. I’ve said it before but HOW THE FUCK DO YOU LOSE A FUCKING PASSENGER PLANE!?  The dude on the radar at air traffic control nipped out the back for a quick ciggy and when he came back the fucker was just gone?

More international news and you might want to hold onto your hats for this one because it’s a real shocker… white American police don’t like black American people. No shit?  And apparently now that can just get away with killing them for no reason at all.

So you can smoke weed legally in parts of the States but just not be black, unarmed and minding your own business. Good effort America, really progressive.

But let’s leave all this shit behind us in the dead year of 2014, it’s over, done, throw the dust sheets over it and store it away in the vault of another boring year.

For me personally it’s be very much the roller coaster with personal down turns and professional highlights crashing together in a big ball of “WHAT THE FUCK, MAN!?” It really beat the shit out of me and left me in a state of emotional catatonia and at points got so on top of me I really didn’t see a way out the other side.

But hard work and a dogged determination saw me through… and that I found my ‘don’t give a fuck’ switch at just the right time. So now I’m a published author and I make jams and pickles and have started my own home business of making soap and male grooming products for like beards and moustaches and dudes like me that shave.

I don’t give a fuck anymore, I’m just gonna keep doing what I’m doing and I’ll be happy with that for the rest of my life. I really couldn’t care what anyone thinks of me anymore, I guess I never really did but some events recently made me realise that I’m better off being just me.

Stuck up bitches think they’re too good for me, great, good for them. (A bit too personal perhaps?)

And here’s a little advice for all ya’ll to take with you into 2015…

If you really want to achieve your goals you will have to live a few years like most people won’t so you can live the rest of your life the way most people can’t. Think positive, don’t judge, work hard, be yourself and the rest will fall into place.

Have a happy new year and I’ll see you all on the other side… PEACE OR PIECES!

Make Way, Make Way!

Let’s have a little chat about personal space.

I know that there are far more people here than there was say fifteen years ago and most of the big towns are becoming what I consider cluttered.

But that doesn’t mean that when I’m queuing up at the checkout in Iceland you have to breathe down the back of my neck. This guy was so close to me earlier that I could smell what he had eaten for lunch on his breath.

It was a combination of fish, some kind of boiled sweets and dog turd.

And the person standing in front of me was so oblivious to the queue moving that she just stood there staring at the on offer cake at the till. To be fair the offer was very good, two ginger cakes for £1, that’s not bad.

So between the pair of them they managed to muscle me out of the queue and I’m standing there like a spare prick at a wedding. Something I have become very much used to.

It’s very much the same when walking through town. It’s almost like walking into a wall of unthinking, wailing meat every time I venture out of the house.  Wave after wave of people barging baby buggies and wheelie trollies and armfuls of shopping bags in my way without as much as a sorry.  I hold doors open for people and very rarely do I get a thank you.

Only yesterday I went to the shopping centre and this woman let a door shut in my face, just let it swing shut as I was walking through it and I know the bitch saw me coming but did she think of holding it open, did she fuck. I hope she gets mugged in the car park and it goes wrong and she gets stabbed when the mugger panics because he is startled by someone parking their car up.

The people that really get me though, I mean the folk that really step on my balls are the ones that aren’t aware that other people exist. They are so totally absorbed in their pathetic lives (and they are pathetic, I’ve seen what they are buying) that they lose all sense of manners and common decency.

They stand there as pointless as bollard in a swimming pool, breathing out of their mouths, staring off into the consumerist void when people try and get around them. They stare at you like you’re the arsehole when you say ‘excuse me’ when they are having a chat with their entire family in the entrance of the super market.  Yeah that’s it, just block the entrance up then look at people like shit because you’re in the fucking way.  I want to take a fuck off combat knife and stab them all in the liver then cut my own eyes out in protest.  Or just shit in my hand and smash the turn into their faces in great punched until I can see teeth ripping through their cheeks.

And their little cunting children piss me off the most.

They are terrorising everything and everyone but if you tell them to behave you will be attacked by the parent who sees these micro demons with some sort of golden glow coming off them. The parents don’t correct their behaviour because they are horrible cunts as well.

And as for the staff in some places, holy fucking shit.

ASDA is the worst; as soon as you see one of those fat fuck morons in green and black you just know you’re in for a rough ride. This doesn’t go for all the staff as I have found some people that work there quite friendly, approachable and helpful but there is a handful that really takes the ‘Walmart Family’ thing to heart like its some mafia crime family and they are untouchable.  They bowl around that store like they have forgotten that the customer is more important that the staff.

They will not stop when moving pallets around on a pump truck and will barge you out of the way and not even acknowledge that you exist. I mean I know these people have really fulfilled a life goal by becoming a shelf stacker in a supermarket but ‘let’s not let it go to our heads guys’.

You fucking pack of Fraggles, you aint shit, the only thing you have been able to achieve in your life is knowing where the baked beans are and I’m guessing, pumping out a gang of cunt children that are probably as horrible as you and will bully other children to the point of exclusion from school.

And the cycle of mong continues.

Generation after generation of shelf stackers in supermarkets that genuinely believe they are better than the people that are shopping in store and paying their wage.

Now it sounds like I’m having a dig at everyone that works in supermarkets, I am not. I know guys that work and have worked in super markets and for the most part they hate/hated it and can’t wait to leave.  It was a stop-gap before going on to other things.  Needs must as the devil drives and all that.

I mean let’s face it people that work in supermarkets are doing better than me, I’m not even working and I struggle from week to week to keep my head above water. I’m really just having a dig at the people that think that that sort of job is the most important thing in the world.  I kind of feel sorry for people like that.

I for one really can’t wait for the whole process to become fully automated and run by robots so that hopefully these fat women in their tabards that think microwave curry is good and spend a fortune voting on the X-Factor will die out.

They will walk into the cold and freeze like unwanted horses.

And by this point you may be asking yourself “how can this bloke take the moral high ground when he hasn’t got a job” and to a degree it does sound like I’m the most arrogant person in the world. This is a statement that I can’t argue with as it’s really for other people to formulate opinions on my character but I will defend myself thus.

I do not think that I am better than anyone else I just know that there is better for me out there. I will not just jump into some job that I will be stuck with for a year just to live comfortably.  I would rather remain poor, struggle every day and work towards a career than sell out just so I can afford to go out drinking or eat takeaways every other night.  I can live without luxuries, I have done it before and it really doesn’t bother me too much.

I am also self-aware.

I tend not to just stumble around bumping into people without acknowledging their existence. As I have said I hold doors open for people, I say excuse me, I say please and thank you, I am aware of people’s personal space and recognise the fact that the need space and some people regard me as a gentleman for doing so.

And if I come across as arrogant then fuck it, at least I’m not a cunt.

And I believe that a level of arrogance is what people need to get what they want in life but I am not an arsehole about it; my ego may be large and in need of constant petting but it’s not on the level of say that cunt off the X-Factor.

I think what I need at this point is a good holiday and I definitely need to move somewhere where the pavements are a little wider, the shops are a little bigger and the populace is a little sparser. Somewhere by the sea, somewhere where people say please, thank you and excuse me.

But I fear that I may need a time machine to find that place.

The struggle is real… peace, out!

Let’s Go Viral

So, if these people are working with ebola victims or disposing of the dead from the ebola virus why aren’t they being tested before they get on the planes.

If it was me I would want to take every precaution before I went anywhere especially home. And the people that are bringing it back ‘home’ are doctors and aid workers people that are meant to be reassuringly intelligent.

I smell a rat.

In my view it’s just another thing to keep dumb Americans scared and look at it this way more people will die from being shot by police today than from ebola in the western world.

I mean it would make sense.

You’ve just been exposed to loads of people carrying the virus; you’ve been up to your ankles in slurry and human waste that contains the virus and you’ve been burning/burying the dead from the virus so you’d want to be tested as soon as possible. You’re a doctor testing people for ebola, how hard would it be to test yourself before you went home to your friends and family?

I’m going to guarantee you that right now there are people in the US bulk buying bottles of hand sanitizer. To be fair these are probably the same people that buy sterilising wipes to clean their own office phone after every use.

I am also willing to bet there has been an influx of phone calls from concerned old aunties asking if their nieces and nephews living in New York are okay and getting enough vitamin-C or if they are keeping warm.

“Maybe you should go and see the doctor just to be sure, dear… and don’t forget to stock up on hand gel and chicken soup.”

The guy in question even went home to his fiancée and you know he threw his juice inside of her that night. He hasn’t seen her in months and she wasn’t waiting for him with a box of chocolates and a Renée Zellweger DVD now was she.  Anal, dude, anal!

What a fucking dick head.

YOU’RE A FUCKING DOCTOR FOR FUCK SAKE, BE A FUCKING DOCTOR… DON’T JUST BE ANOTHER STUPID FUCKING AMERICAN!!!

But if you thought you had it bad in the states I have just seen a woman on the morning news campaigning to the government to change the UK timeline so it’s the same as Spain so that children will be able to see when they are playing football.

This fucking tofu eating, hand sanitising hippy fuckwit is asking to change the base of the global standard of time so that children can benefit from an hour of extra daylight when playing 5-a-side.

One word here… floodlights… you stupid cunt.

What got me was that the interviewer didn’t ask is she had turned out all right growing up in the dark? She was banging on like every child that goes out to play at this time of year will grow up to be some form of mutated crippled troll.  We used to go out in the evening to play football all the time and it didn’t do us any harm.

Sure one of my mates got flashed by some fucking psycho while riding his bike home one night but other than that there were no long term detrimental effects. The funny part of the story was that because of the light on his bike all he could see was the perverts cock jiggling about.  How we laughed.

And don’t give me that shit about children getting snatched because the majority of children get taken in broad daylight. If anything there are probably less child abductions at this time of the year as parents don’t want their children going out in the dark.

So what this woman is proposing is that kid need more sunlight but at the cost of more of them being raped and killed by paedophiles.

But we in the collective western world have bigger things to worry about than some pesky virus that rots you from the inside out causing all the orifices of your body and pours of your skin to bleed out; or whether children need an extra hour of daylight so that they don’t turn into some kind of vampiric sociopath that is shit at football.

Low flying drones!

With camera drones becoming readily available for as cheap as £300 the government have been forced to leap into action to keep the people of London safe from the low flying remote controlled aircraft.

There are laws to stop people using them over or within 150 meters of a built up area which, I feel destroys the point of owning one. If you took your camera drone to some massive field all you will be able to film is the field.  That’s all it is, a fucking field. “Oh look there’s a cow”, how fucking exciting, that’s £300 I’m never getting back.

Saying that I would probably try and land it on the cows head just to see what sort of noise it would make.

I want to be able to spy on drug deals, police pushing prostitutes around and taking money of them.  I want to be able to catch people having sex in the park or annoy the hell out of old people.  I want to follow some old biddy with my drone.

I want to be able to fly my drone through the doors at ASDA and harass the security staff. And I reckon it’s big enough to set off the automatic doors too.

You can see it now, one of those ‘where there’s blame’ legal adverts with some dude in a suit asking you “have you been hit by a low flying drone, have you been followed by a quad-rotor?” Then you need to lighten up and fuck the fuck off.

But anyhow, that’s enough from me for one morning; I’m off to get tested for blood spunk disease and to order my attack drone from Argos.

And don’t forget that the clocks go back Sunday night.

Set your watch.

PEACE!!!

There’s literally nothing in the fridge.

I’ve always written stuff.

Even when I was a kid sat in English class and the teacher was droning on about his time as a child growing up in rural Wales and all his friends dying in a landslide. I was sat at the back with a few friends scribbling tales of sword and sorcery and maddening horror.

This later backfired as the teacher noticed it all and put me in the top stream English class the next year where I actually had to do some work.

Then as a teenager who was into Black/Death metal and Doom I penned verse after verse of dark, brooding poetry and lyrics to which never got put to music. I’m willing to bet that if I took a look back at that stuff that I wrote I would think I was a bit of a goth-douche-bag type. 

But none the less, I was still writing.

And later in life still when I was actually in death metal bands as a vocalist I penned all the lyrics myself so I guess it was natural progression that brings me to where I am today.

I can turn around and say that I am a writer… I guess.

At the beginning of the year I got laid off work (something that I have spoken about before) so I decided to take a little time away from working for other people that really couldn’t give a shit if you live or die and take up writing full time. The way I figured it was that if I didn’t just go balls deep into it I would never get around to doing it.  Getting made redundant from work was just the boot up the arse I needed to give it a shot.

So I dropped out.

I dropped out of everything, my life shifted dramatically. I had spent the last of my saved money, I had to start claiming benefits to pay the rent and keep me fed; something that I used to be totally against but I figured that over the last twelve years of paying tax it was my turn to get something back.

By this time I had already had some stuff published, a few website credits, and a couple of short story acceptances and a collection of flash stories published by Feverish Fiction. So I had the itch, I just had to scratch the fucker.

And to be fair the gamble of dropping out has really stated to pay off. I have many short stories published in several anthologies by several respected publishing houses, my first novella has been picked up and is in print and I’m working on many more shorts and novella length projects.

I have also started to write features and reviews for a horror website where I get published on a regular basis and have picked up quite the following.

So everything is starting to get where I want it to be. The dream I had at the start of this adventure is pretty much coming together.

But here are the pitfalls.

Over the last few months I have had to sell pretty much everything that I own.

Hundreds of my cherished DVD collection and I do mean hundreds for a huge cut in what I paid for them. All of my musical equipment went the way of Cash Converters including all of my home recording studio that I had spent a good two years putting together.  All my guitars went, three BC Rich’s, an SG, a Les Paul and my Flying V.  Three amp heads and two cabinets, I even sold all of my leads and stands.

And why? 

Because writing is a very secluded lifestyle, you are pretty much on your own for the majority of the time and when you immerse yourself in a lifestyle such as this it’s very easy to get caught up in it.

So I started to go a little bit mad, I guess you could call it cabin fever and every now and then I would feel the need to get out and about.

What’s wrong with that you may ask? Well here’s the snag.

I get my benefit money on a Monday and by the time the weekend comes around I have pretty much spent all of it on bills, food, tobacco, laundry, toiletries and the like leaving me pretty much penniless. So to keep up with a much needed social life because there have been times where I have gone a whole week without speaking to anyone I have had to cash in on some of my possessions to be able to get out of the house.

And you don’t get much bang for your buck at all. I can’t remember that last time I went to a gig that wasn’t local purely because I really can’t afford it.

It makes it really embarrassing when trying to date. Picture it, you meet a really cool girl at a party and you start chatting.  She’s nice, she thinks you’re nice and you think, “Way-hey, I’m in here.”  Then she invites you to a gig that her friend is putting on somewhere in the city and because you’ve had a few drinks you agree to meet up.

The next day you realise that you have no money that weekend because you spunked it all getting the pair of you pissed and can’t get there. So you gather up as many DVD’s as you can stuff into two carrier bags and flog them only to receive half the money you were expecting to get and can’t even afford the train to get to the fucking gig.

So you message her letting her know that you can’t make it, she says “it’s okay, maybe next time” knowing full well that there will be no next time.

Shame because she was fit. 

It really puts the block on one’s sex life living this way sometimes.

I was most embarrassed one afternoon when a mate of mine bumped into me in our local CEX where I was cashing in a shit load of DVD box sets so I could go to a friend’s birthday drinks that evening.

The guy whose birthday it was found out and said thanks for turning up and was really appreciative that I had made the effort. It meant a lot to the both of us I guess.

And that’s another thing; I don’t like being a let-down.

I need a social life to stop me from going stir crazy but on the other side of the coin I can’t get the funds together to be able to go out.

I have gone without food; I have gone without company, fucked up a long term relationship, gone weeks without going out and having a single beer. I’ve nearly lost my house, put myself into dept and had running battles with not only my landlord but the local council as well.

But you know what, when I saw that first copy of my book, something that I had sacrificed so much for I nearly cried (I didn’t coz you know, blokes), then I did a little dance and opened a bottle of scotch that I had been saving.

So maybe, just maybe it might be time to start considering getting a good job, not just the first thing that comes up. Get myself out there a bit, start reclaiming some of the stuff that I have flogged off over the last few months.  Claw back some of my social life.  Get amongst it so to speak (wink, wink, ladies!).

But I have made myself a little promise that if the royalties of my first book are okay then I’m going to spend a few days down in Hastings to get away for a while, just me and the sea. A few games of crazy golf and an afternoon in the arcades playing the 2p machines with a bag of chips.

You know, I might even take a bird to a gig or two.

Life is on the up and up and it has really been too long since I have been able to say that. 

Like a Clown’s Pocket!

I don’t know whether I’ve mentioned before that I don’t like living statues.

There’s something about a person that will literally stand in the street completely still until someone puts a coin in their pot before they move for a couple of seconds that I just can’t abide. And when some chump does part with their cash all they do is move slowly, blow a whistle, blow up a fucking balloon or wave to a slightly freaked out child.

Just fucking beg you talentless twat, sell the Big Issue or just mug people.

Even mimes (another of the street performers that I can’t stick) are higher up the ladder than the living statue.

One day I would like to set fire to one of these performers’ boxes, see how long the fucker can keep still then. Then when the blaze is sufficient I’ll drop in 50p so he can get his running and screaming because he’s on fire bit on the go then extinguish said blaze by beating him to death with a busker’s guitar.

And as for mimes, I sat and watched one once in Covent Garden and he was pretending to be stuck in some invisible box. You know the routine, hands up in the air padding at an imaginary wall then walking into it and bumping his nose then the box gets smaller and smaller, how we laughed… the fucking twat.

I found myself doing something that I have never done, or if I have I must have been very young but I was praying. I was praying for the invisible box to be real and that the oxygen supply in said box to just be running out so I could watch the fellow with the white face and stripy jumper suffocate.

I have said it many times, there is no god.

Not only had I wasted my breath but also a large amount of my time watching a dickhead in a beret pretend to pull on an invisible rope or lasso people.

Living statues are just another way to pointlessly congest our high streets with a clutter of thick people that can’t believe what they are seeing. It’s usually middle aged women with a few kids standing there in total awe that someone could paint themselves bronze and stand perfectly still.

Mind you these are the same middle aged women that think Susan Boyle was talented.

Don’t give these people money, wait until they stop with their leg up in the air or something then wait for the inevitable cramp to set in, then laugh at their antics as they roll around on the floor in pain.

Now I’m not totally anti-street performer, I have seen some absolutely great acts in the city that have not only been talented but entertaining as well. I just don’t see standing on a box dressed as a tramp that’s covered in metallic paint doing nothing is any kind of talent.

And they have that kazoo type thing in their mouths that makes a squeaking/whizzing noise like a duck getting fucked in the butthole. It’s not funny, it’s just annoying.

I have also mentioned that I am not a fan of hippies either so when there are groups of them juggling to some really bad I tend not to part with my cash. I hope they starve at their commune, or possibly freeze to death during a harsh winter.

The thing is I have developed a thing about some of these entertainers while doing research for a book that I’m writing.

Specifically clowns.

It was the case a while ago that I would have told you that I was petrified of clowns especially white faced clowns or Auguste clowns (you see, I have been doing research). This for the most part is still the case but I have developed a thing for clown porn.

Not only do I find the idea of a woman dressed as a clown alluring, just the idea of a girl in face paint gives me a bit of a stalk-on. I’m sure there was a quote about facing your fear then fucking it that I could use here.

But from doing research into the beauteous art form that is clown fucking I found a whole new world of depravity.

Some of it I had a vague idea about like Vore, the act of eating or being eaten, often whole people. I saw a video of Ludella Hahn (oh my god, the greatest ass in the world) eating some chicken off the bone then she gave birth to a skeleton.  She was also in a video where she was eaten by a demonic sleeping bag.

People masturbate to this.

Then I found a site that was dedicated to women drowning in quicksand, topless of course and often with a man/men standing over her as she gets sucked down into the mire. Nothing pornographic really other than the woman is usually topless and it is seen, from what I can gather as a kind of restraint.  The more you struggle the deeper and more restrained you become.

There was also some really fucked up plushie/furry porn that had a guy dressed as a giant teddy bear that came to life when the maid was doing some cleaning in little Jonny’s room. It was the first time I had witnessed a domestic servant get raped by a giant teddy bear if I’m honest but it wasn’t as (shocking might be a little strong) worrying as watching a man have sex with a modified stuffed panda.

This fat bloke had stitched a fleshlight into this big panda toy and was fucking it on web cam for the entire world to see. I’m guessing this is a predominantly homosexual form of erotica because it is in essence a man masturbating using a child’s stuffed animal.

It was when he was asking the toy if it wanted him to cum inside of it and insisted on calling the stuffed toy a slut all throughout the video.

But anyway, I have to get on with some work and I have quite a lot to do before I get to go out this evening. I’m paying a woman to dress as a clown, give me a blow job while I’m dresses as Paddington Bear. 

I’ve made marmalade sandwiches and everything.

COUGH-COUGH-SPLUTTER-SPLUTTER!

I am ill. 

There is stuff coming out of my head that can only be described as gunge and I have a temperature.  I would go out and get a box of lemsip but I can’t pluck up the energy to get out of bed. 

I have the shivers, the shakes, I can’t really keep any food down and just the thought of food turns my stomach.  My joints hurt, my muscles ache and I am really looking forward to the diarrhoea stage of this virus which I am told is not only sudden but explosive. 

This virus was given to me by a friend that hadn’t forewarned me of his illness when I got into his car.  I cannot complain too much as I got a free lift home and it saved me a half hour walk, but still.

So what I intend to do as a form of revenge is pass on the illness that was given to by in a manner of different ways. 

Already this morning I have sneezed in the bread isle in my local Tesco right by the open bread rolls and cheese twists.  I have been to McDonalds where I touched as many of the little paper cups they use for ketchup and BBQ sauce.  While in there I also grabbed a handful of straws then returned them just after I had wiped away some snot from my nose with the palm of my hand; I laughed while I did so.

I am also planning on getting the bus to Valley Drive and back in the morning when it is packed with children and old people.  

And at some point over the weekend I’m going to dose myself up with cold and flu remedies, go to Chatham for a night out and get off with as many slags in nightclubs as I can stomach.  After this I might have to throw up in a kebab.  And if I get arrested in the melee that will undoubtedly ensue then all the better; I’ll spend the entire journey to the cells coughing and sneezing over the arresting officers faces. 

But really, I hate being ill.

It’s just fucking gross and it always seem to last twice as long as everyone else’s when I get it.  I know for a fact that this bout of ill will knock me out for at least a week.  I can take all manner of lozenges and tinctures to try and fight the thing off but nothing seems to work.  All I can do is knock myself out with booze and try to sweat the bastard out. 

Once a year at least I get like this, all sweaty and gross like a toad covered with KY in a cloth sack.  In the gloom of my flat, feeling sorry for myself as I sweat through my duvet with fever.  Shaking out the last of the aspirin infused spiced tea through my over sensitive pours and trying to hold down some form of light sustenance.  In fear that that rumbling in my bowel may manifest into something much worse than just a little gastric unease. 

What I need it to check into one of those private hospitals that turns into some bizarre bunny ranch at night.  I am of course assuming that these places exist somewhere and if they don’t I hope that I have inspired some crazy millionaire to start one. 

A safe haven where no one will tell me to man up and ask if I want a weak lemon drink with half a ton of Anadin in it.  A place where on request a nurse will disrobe and perform relief with her ample, heavily baby oiled boobs. 

A place where taking your temperature ends up with the thermometer going up her arse… one of those big ones that resembles a massive rubber fist.  Once again I am presuming these exist. 

I always get in in time for the fucking weekend too.  It’s never on a Tuesday so I can ride it out for a few days they maybe have a day out at the weekend without feeling like death has taken a shit in me. 

I try never to book a holiday around this time of year as I know the day before I leave for warmer climes I will catch the lurgy. 

So I’m grounded at the moment.  It’s Friday fucking night and I’m stuck in doors with only a box of Kleenex for company.  I could call for a takeaway and cough into the face of the poor delivery boy when he arrives but that means I will have to get out of bed at some point.  That mixed with the fact that I could murder a curry but will probably throw it all back up the second I finish eating. 

I could leave the regurgitated chicken tikka masala in its original containers and leave it out by the benches on the corner and wait for a tramp to come and investigate. 

I might even leave an un-chewed onion bhaji or a bit of naan bread in there just to bait the trap a little more. 

So other than trying to infect every person I come in contact with like some uber-biological-terrorist with my strain of man-flu I will be hiding and making a mountain of snotty tissues on my floor.  I would like to say that I’d get some work done but it feels like someone has smashed a bee hive inside my skull and the only thing I can concentrate on is making tea and trying not to throw up again. 

And all because I was too lazy to walk home from the pub.