Monthly Archives: November 2011

oh happy day…

…Had a very funny, yet quite moribund conversation today with a few folk at work about how some guy we know would be found dead at home after a night on the sauce, face down in a microwave lasagne. Got me to thinking how I would like to be found and how I’ll probably ‘be’ found.

I would like to be found after an incident involving a blow out on a bunch of properly dirty, anything for cash strippers, cheap sniff and a bucket of vodka in a dirty roach motel somewhere in the poorer part of Europe. The maid finding my bloated body sat in a faux-leather armchair, wearing a gimp mask, powder all over the place with the last of my blood still keeping my dick hard due to a brass cock ring. And all at the tender age of 90! I think that’s how many of us would like to check out. With a bang!

The reality is I’m probably just going to get something that they cant cure (or that I cant afford to cure) at a fairly youngish age and end up popping my clogs with one of them breathing masks on with a bag on my hip to piss in and a tube coming out of my chest. I’d like to think that there will be a few friends or relatives there but I’m such a miserable, hate filled bastard that it’ll just be a nurse or something. And then there’s the funeral to look forward to!

Again, I would like strippers to be involved, bundles of them, tits and arseholes everywhere! Strobes, neon and poles! And none of that black armband shit, go colourful, maybe a Hawaiian theme, all grass skirts and loud shirts. Cocktails in every hand, them bastards that have half a rain forest worth of fruit in them and a tonne of rum or vodka. Yes, yes! I’d want the music to be either really up beat, like happy hardcore or 80’s pop or, something really fucking depressing, maybe some Lenard Cohen! And drugs, lots and lots of drugs. I want everyone to get completely ruined. I’ll put a stipulation in my will for a shit-ton of cash to be used for massive chemical session for my mates. Smiles not tears!

Truth is I’m probably not going to know what’s up after I flake out so just stuff me in a bin bag, say a few words with a can of beer or two, then chuck me in the river. That will do me nice.


home James…

… Yippee… I managed to get out of work early today, good and early. And I even managed to get to hear and just afterward, smell a man violently shit himself on the train. Just after the Northfleet stop, so I got to smell that shit all the way home, fantastic. At first it sounded like he was being sick, so I turned down my mp3’s to listen in, then bam! The biggest,, most bubbly fart sound I have ever heard in my entire life. I can only imagine an elephant making that kind of sound out of its anus. Then the haunting reek of a blocked sewage drain. Nasty!

I have always wondered what it must be like to properly shit myself somewhere. Someplace nice and public, the more the merrier. Fuck, the embarrassment must be insane. I have also always wanted to use that as an excuse for a day off. What would you do if you got the call from one of your staff, ‘cant come in today, coz I’ve shit myself on the bus and have had to go home to clean up and then, kill myself from the shame of the whole event.’ I would love to be one in the room when the call came through, just to see the employers face, classic.

There was once a girl at our local that had drunk so much (and probably taken a few things) that she collapsed outside after vomiting everywhere. She then emptied herself from every hole and rolled around in it for a bit before passing squarely out. I remember shit all up her back and this dude Carl pouring beer over her head for a laugh. Someone called an ambulance and the pigs so the party got broken up pretty quickly. Carl and I then decided it was time to steal the ambulance and do all the gas and air and morphine in the back and drive down to Margate. This was halted by a slightly peeved paramedic pulling Carl from the drivers seat and telling us to fuck off. We continued drinking!

Never did find out that girls name!?

I’ve seen some pretty fucked up stuff on public transport. One time, I was on a night bus with a girl and this tramp looking guy got on and went upstairs. Some moments later there was some banging about upstairs and the guy appeared at the bottom of the stairs again, this time covered in blood with a busted nose. Turns out he said something to this Russian dude’s girlfriend and got fucked up. Funny as fuck. I also saw a full scale riot when to large groups of youths kicked off just outside Archway. Gang style!

But that’s the joy of the bus, or scum shovel as my man Leon would say. The sights, sounds and smells of public transport. its great for seeing and being around real people, the common clay, the working classes. Well I say working, I mean mostly unemployed single mums. (hubba-hubba!) From the humble bus, to the mighty Bullet train, I salute you. You have always been there for me and got me where I needed to go… even if you have been a little unreliable from time to time!


i would…

… Sometimes an orange jumpsuit really accentuates a person’s smile. Take, for example, Arizona’s Michelle Watson. As you can see in her mugshot, the 24-year-old is beaming despite having just been charged with aggravated assault on a police officer, resisting arrest, and driving under the influence.

Police detained Watson Thursday evening after witnesses reported that she drove her White Honda Civic on the sidewalk and ran over the curb numerous times, ABC News reports. A police report documenting the situation describes a struggle between officers and Watson, specifically pointing to one cheap shot from the suspect.

And a report obtained by The Smoking Gun explains: “Watson was wearing a purse which was draped over her shoulder. Officer Wing attempted to remove the purse. When doing so, Watson, using her right knee, struck Officer Wing in the crotch. Watson was then taken to the ground and placed in handcuffs. Watson refused to get up and had to be carried to Officer Wing’s patrol vehicle, #1317.” Watson also used profane language, at one point allegedly telling an approaching police officer, “I don’t have to walk f***ing anywhere,” according to The Smoking Gun.

Courtesy of huffingtonpost.com http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/11/22/smiling-mugshot-michelle-watson_n_1107926.html?ref=weird-news&ir=Weird%20News


passion…

… I do love a good curry. Its one of my main vices. I could eat the stuff buy the bucket load, three times a day, everyday for the rest of my life. I was raised on the stuff from a very young age. My parent got a ruby every Friday night after shopping. We’d get a take away and watch red dwarf on BBC2. Seriously, if your from Gravesend, you’ll love your curry. We have such a large Asian community here its hard not to. I spend about £30 a turn when I go to the local take away. I usually order the same starters, breads (onion bahji, shiek kebab, king prawn purii, mushroom rice and a stuffed peratha, with a generous bag of popadoms!) then make my way down the main course and veggie dishes on the menu till I get back to the start again.

You cant beat it with a few beers and a DVD, top night in. I often go for the spicier main dished. I like a jalfrazi, dansak or a fozli gost, I’d even stretch to a vindaloo when the mood takes me. ( bog roll in the fridge for that one though!) but you cant beat the classic Tikka Masala. The king of the Brits. If a new restaurant opens near us, I usually order it because, if they fuck up the industry standard then the place isn’t worth going to. I haven’t had many bad curries in my time, thankfully I have cast iron guts like that. But I remember one I had in Stratford at the ‘Bengal Tiger’ on a stag do, that made me feel like I had eaten a dead cat and caught dysentery. I spent most of that stag weekend on the bog or with my head down it.

I haven’t been to a curry house in a while though, usually get a takeout, but I do miss it. Most of the ‘old school’ restaurants have gone now, replaced by modern, fancy, neon lit places with a cutting edge menu. I miss the flock wall paper and classic Indian music being piped into the room by a really shit stereo on the poorly stocked bar. There’s always a bottle of Tia Maria and Cream de Month, horrid, green minty shit that it is. But the larger is usually quite good, kingfisher or cobra goes great with a ruby!

On the subject of traditional India music… I was once accused of racism by a former boss because I mentioned that every time I heard Indian music it made me hungry. He was Indian and didn’t get where I was coming from with my statement. I mealy meant to say that when I was a child the only time I had heard Indian music was when I was in a curry house with my parents, therefore I always connect it with food and dining. I wasn’t being rude. He was a bit of a wanker anyway and didn’t really like me because my little brother and his mates used to beat him and his mates up at school. My brother and his fellows not being the most PC kind of guys back in the day…

… anyway, that reminds me, where’s that Lasan menu?


…Jesus fucking Christ… there was a guy at work last night that had taken so many drugs, I swear you could smell his brain cooking. If you stood next to him you could hear it sizzle. Why the fuck would you turn up for work that fucked and expect to get paid, he did nothing for the whole night but talk crap and go into little trances wandering around like a mental patient.

Now I’m in no position to condemn the use of drugs, lord knows I’ve done my far share but, for fuck sake there is a time and a place man. At first is was a little funny, then annoying turning into just plain pathetic. And he just kept taking the speed. He had said that he hadn’t slept for a few days and I for one believed him.

I love drugs but there is such a thing in life as moderation, sometimes I do a little to many or to much, we all do and have. It’s the same as one drink to many, the one that turns you from happy go lucky to angry, depressed and puking. If your in a field in the middle of the night, loud electronic music in the air, loads of people on the same wave length and all on the same level of fucked, fine. But what possessed the guy to turn up for work during the day with a load of people all straight as a die (maybe having a joint or two) with that much speed in him and think that’s okay. Worst bit is, the fucker got away with it.

It was quite funny to see people fucking with him a little. Some of the bods pointing things out to him they just knew would set him off on a little mind bender. But it was also quite sad watching everyone laughing and shaking there heads, poor fucker, he looked like a proper twat.

But that’s the thing, some people just wont stop, they have no self control. Its sad. They will just keep going till they piss themselves in your lounge or are found unconscious, naked and covered in shit somewhere, possibly a field or front garden. I find that pathetic, but some see these types of people as ‘legends’, always equating themselves to the likes of Hunter S. Thompson. How very dare they, Hunter S did do a shit load of drugs on a daily basis, was a hopeless junkie/alcoholic and yes was quite mad but he still managed to write. What the fuck have you done except accidentally siring a few kids here and there and manage to float through life doing whatever the fuck you want and fucking people over to support your lifestyle without OD-ing… good effort! Oh, well done you!

Fuck sake… YOU MUG! SORT YOUR LIFE OUT!

How are you going to be when your older (if you ever make it that far) what are your kids going to say about you, nothing, probably don’t really know who you are. What will they say at your funeral, ‘ I didn’t really know my dad, but I’m proud that he was found with a dirty needle sticking out of his bellend by two social workers that had to break in to his sheltered accommodation due to my daddy breaking his parole,. The nice police man at the inquest said he died with his tongue hanging out and his pants around his ankles, sitting in a puddle of his own shit, just like he wanted to go!’.  Really pulls at those heart strings dont it!


fame…

… this is a formal complaint to those at the BBC. I was horrified last night while watching a re-run of never mind the Buzzcocks on the freeveiw channel ‘Dave’ to see those two nightmarishly annoying bog trotters Jedward gurning and twitching at me. I was glad to see that twot Simon Anthill ( or what ever the unfunny nonentity calls itself ) had been replaced by Jack Dee, but damn you for those two jibbering idiots.

Just when I had though I’d forgotten the little bastards and there fucking ridiculous iced gem style hair, there they are, with everybody taking the blatant piss out of them, and that are blissfully unaware of the fact. Often joining in with the japes, aimed at them without the slightest clue what’s going on. They just continued striking poses and twittering on at each other. I don’t think I can think, off the top of my head, of any one thicker than those two. Possibly Katy Price! ( Orange is not a natural skin tone Katy! )

Any form of light entertainment that features these two imbeciles is instantly ruined by their presence no matter what or how bad it is, it will just get embarrassing and hard to watch. I think if you televised Jedward’s public execution for crimes against reasonable thinking humanity, it would instantly be spoiled by them two twats coming out and being, well just Jedward!

The highlight of their career for me was when one of them broke its leg on live TV. Seriously, I couldn’t stop watching it on you tube, made my weekend, it really did!

Its quite clear to see to anyone with half a brain that these two things are clearly afflicted with ADHD, or some other attention disorder. And are clearly being exploited by that grinning, queer nonce Louis Walsh. Shame on you Louis, for making quick cash from mentally handicapped people. ( And that also includes anyone that bought the Jedward album! )

They are so socially backward they couldn’t cope without each other. I’d like to kill one of them just to see what the other would do. But which one to kill, just say ‘first one to speak dies!’ and the decision will be made for you pretty quickly. And I’m pretty sure they have fucked each other. You can see it on there faces, they know what each other tastes like. You mention knobs and they go all red and giggly and you know that pimp Walsh has had a go. Sweating over one of them. Into the back wheels, while the other cowers, a slight blood stain in the back of his Y-fronts, naked and sobbing in the corner of Louis’ office, while Simon Cowel watches, masturbating behind a two way mirror, Sharon Osboure feeding him grapes while fingering his mutated, fetid, pile ridden anus. Earn your fame you little Irish bitches!

But that’s the way it works isn’t it? Some scumbag takes advantage of a weaker person with a good idea and no direction. Or in this case a clever bastard takes talented spastics and promotes them so you hate the sight of them, but in turn get to see them on everything. Its that ‘ the face you love to hate’ thing. More for me, face I want to punch… x2!


snot rocket science…

… I hate being ill. I don’t often get a cold but when I do, it properly knocks me on my arse and usually for a good couple of weeks too. And I always get ill on the weekend, never at the start of the week so I can get a few days of work on the sick. Always when I have a busy, fun weekend planned.

The worst of all though is the snot. I have pretty bad sinuses anyhow but as soon as I get a cold the flood gate opens. Seriously, the amount of gear that comes out of my nose is astonishing. At the moment i’m going through the dark greyish green stage of discharge which, coincidentally is the same colour of the mucus that i’m coughing up. Might be connected. My head feels like a drain is blocked in there somewhere and its spilling out through the orifices in my face.

I hate snot, and spit. It makes me gag. I once pressed a traffic light button that some arsehole had flobbed on and was sick in the gutter. What dirty fucker does stuff like that. Some dude spat up my leg on a tube escalator and it stank like shit. I should have gone mental and gone for the guy but I was mortified by the incident. Again I was sick outside the tube station and everyone looked at me like I was some kind of junkie!

I have seen porn where a girl does a snot dragon* into another girls mouth… nice right? And some times you get the stud spit on the girls arse for a bit of lube, a real green meanie always does the trick. I don’t see the point of spitting into their ‘partners’ mouth though. I believe that’s called a flob job, but I might be wrong. Ha-ha!

Anyway, I digress… I don’t like being ill. I get real grouchy and snappy. I must be a nightmare to be around, constantly demanding tea and biscuits and the occasional plate of cheese on toast. Preferably with black wax, mature cheddar, red chilli flakes and Worcester sauce, three pieces, diagonal cut and I want it NOW! Fucking marvellous, the true cure for the common cold. And you can stick them lemsip fucking things… hot lemon and paracetamol is not what I call a remedy. Horrible I tell thee!

*a ‘snot dragon’ is also known as a builders hanky or snot rocket… a sharp discharge of mucus through ones nose as you push one nostril shut.


and so…

…My solo mission to London begins. High speed baby, no agenda. Going to see things and float around and through the good people of old Lundan Tarn! I find being in London therapeutic, a sort of release of energy and at the same time a recharge for my creative batteries. I also appreciate now the amount of people in this place. Makes me thankful my little hometown is almost empty of life by comparison. When I lived there I didn’t notice the hustle of city living but it eventual took its toll and I had to move, but how I long for that 24hr lifestyle again!

There is a guy on this high speed train, just in front of me that hasn’t got a valid ticket. Asian guy. He’s not arguing with the ticket inspector but begging him, doe eyed with his hands together pleading, almost praying for forgiveness as if the journey was a life or death situation. If its that important that the guy has to beg for forgiveness then he should have bought a ticket in the first place. I think the ticket guy is calling the police!?

I remember the first time I took the high speed. Gravesend to London in under half an hour. I hadn’t been up town in ages till the high speed came about, but now i’m up there every weekend (or at least when I can.) its like my kind of drug now. See I like to see people, and where better than one of the most diverse cities in the world. All forms of life are here, from up town city chicks to down town Soho crack heads. Its amazing. London I love you!

Just saw a builder fall off a digger at one of the building sites outside kings cross from the train. Laugh!

Here is a slight skip to the part where I go home.

So then… I finish my brief fractured wander into the naked streets of London by sitting in kings cross star bucks with a GRANDE Americano and a pastrami, cheese sandwich that has far to much stalk like salad in it, reflecting on my day. Well it goes a little something like this… I saw hari Krishna guys shuffle dancing to, what I can only discribe as ‘karmic’ hip-hop, I kid you not. I saw a group of out of town piss heads be thoroughly disgusted by two gay guys kissing. I got hold of the Warren Ellis hard back ‘jagged little vein.’ And I totally couldn’t find that takoyaki restaurant on brick lane. I probably walked straight past the place. Good effort!

I believe the stalky salad thing is called rocket. A rough looking fat woman just passed the fish bowl i’m sitting in and eyed my sandwich. I think there’s to much salad in this thing for you fatty… do one! I have also just notice that every other person in this poor excuse for a coffee shop has a laptop, all typing away. I wonder if any of them are typing about me, after all i’m writing about them right? For example, the woman just next to me with the biggest laptop I have ever seen has a very small skirt on, and it seems to be riding up the more coffee she drinks. Her legs are crossed and know doubt in a moment we will all be able to see her flange. I wonder if she is bloging that ‘a weird guy in a bobble hat, writing in a note book is looking at my legs… might flash him for a cheap thrill in a bit!’.

that’s another thing that gets me, hardly anyone uses a pen anymore. Pens and notebooks cost next to fuck all. And its not like a bag thief would eye up your biro and black and red pad now is it.

That fat woman is back… i’m going home!


JEZZA…

… everyone has had a pop a Jeremy Kyle. The world and his wife has taken the piss out of that pompous little Napoleon and his so called show, so now its my turn!

I’m going to start with the fact that I find the show sickening… it’s a modern form of bear baiting at its worst and the idea that this is even considered passable television makes me livid. And listening to the little twat compare his past gambling problems with someone who has had a ten year physical dependency to heroin makes me want to smash my telly up! I don’t think there is a danger of dying or going into a coma if you don’t get a scratch card hit for that day! What a wanker!

Now here is the problem… I cant stop watching this tripe. I find it so compelling and watchable, its unreal. I think its purely to massage my ego though, it makes me feel so normal when I see these mutants argue over their bastard multitude of kids or their granddads’ lost/stolen inheritance.

I like to look at it like this, it make me feel genetically gifted. It fills me with joy knowing these people are out there and that I am so much better than they are. The fact that I can actually use my brain and I haven’t got some fat pikey up the stick and then dress up in my best track suit to have my fifteen minuets of fame and accuse her of sleeping with the whole campsite.

If this make me come over as a bit of a cunt, I don’t care! Everyone needs that one-upmanship from time to time. Everyone need to feel a little superior to others every once in a while, its good for morale!

So here’s to you Jeremy Kyle… king of the gypsies, I salute you… you linear thinking, self-righteous , pompous, megalomaniac piece of television sputum… thank you!


hmmmmm…..

Jesus, my mind is starting to hurt recently. Im seriously getting more twisted as the days tumble. I have been thrown kicking and screaming into the wild world of fetish once again into the disturbing vice of clown porn.. That’s right, BoBo’s big top of cock and the like!

The funny thing is (no pun intended) I am petrified of clowns but, there is something about a fit young thing, bare arse and painted up with some kind of colourful wig on. If the john in the flick is the clown, its going off, but if the chick is or, better still, girl on girl clown action, im hooked!

I once was in a fight with a clown because I didn’t want one of his balloon animals, I belive it was a giraffe. I explaind to him I was Coulrophobic*, but the silly fucker would not let up. This resulted in me strangling the poor guy and the Anglsea center never having a clown for the kids summer holidays again. Wins all around!

During the fight I was in no way aroused, I think, it was a combo of blind fury and shocking fear with a side salad of panic. I think the clown I throttled did have a hard on come to think of it!?!

*Coulrophobia is the fear of clowns, but I havent found the name of the fetish version… yet. Anyone out there with info on this please get in touch!


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