Monthly Archives: December 2012

On the wagon!

So guess what?  I have official given up the art of drink.

That’s right, I am going pretty much tea total for the New Year (that assuming the Mayans got it wrong) and starting 2013 with a new spring in my step and a wedge in my wallet.

££££After a rather heavy session last weekend I managed to lose my shoe, my hoodie, my new gloves that I was already pissed off with due to paying the same price for a fingerless pair as the regular gloves; I also twisted my knee and cracked 2 ribs… the worst bit is that I cannot recall doing any of this past a certain time in the night; total blackout.

Also, when I got home I was rather abusive to my girlfriend who had done nothing but complain (quite fairly) that I was being noisy and she had to go to work that morning.

And the final kick in the bollocks, the real tipping point in all of this is that I managed to spend around £120 in the process; FUCK THAT SHIT!  £120 just so I can forget what the fuck I am doing, almost put myself in hospital and also so that I can feel like complete shit for a couple of days, not to mention the pain I am in having bust ribs.  I can’t sleep, can’t work, fuck I can barely breath properly; nah I think my drinking days are long behind me.

And I really don’t care what anybody thinks about this because I know a few of my mates will say ‘that’s gay’ or ‘it won’t last’ well so what if it is and so what if it doesn’t; it’s not fucking up to you.  I couldn’t give a flying monkey fuck if you drink yourselves into comas every weekend for the rest of your lives, all I’m saying is that it’s not for me anymore.  I don’t want to put myself into a situation where I end up getting stabbed or run over and have no idea how it even happened, or worst yet, ending up hurting somebody else because I have lost it in a fit of drunken cuntishness.

I don’t want to have to go through the process of listening to my girlfriend explain to me over the phone the reason she doesn’t want to come home after work because I said some horrible shit when I was pissed up, and I don’t want her getting a phone call from the hospital telling her that I have been found face down in the river.

So I think that I have explained why I feel the need to give up the drink and I think I have put across a good enough argument not to have the piss taken out of me for not wanting to fuck myself up every weekend.

I shall have a glass of wine with meals every now and then, I might even have a can of beer when the football is on from time to time; I might even have a glass of Bailey’s on Christmas eve night but I am defiantly putting the brakes on the binge drinking, especially the shots; oh lord, the fucking shots.

I have got to that age now where hangovers seem to last for ever; not just a morning and a fry up then back to the pub, these bastards seem to want to stay with me for a good couple of days, and the get progressively worse each time, for example: I got drunk on Friday night, it is now Tuesday morning and I still feel as rough as a badger’s arsehole.  Oh, to be 21 again.

dylanBut I think I have chosen the right age to give up the creature, a sensible age, not an age where I will be told to give up by a
doctor or an age where I will have missed out on some pretty epic parties and cracking life changing experiences.  I have had my moments of madness and fun times and that’s not to say that I won’t have any fun in the future, I’m just saying that I don’t have to do it with a shit load of booze inside of me anymore.  I would rather have a bottle of wine and a pizza on a Friday night and spend the rest of the weekend doing stuff than get smashed and spend a few days in bed because I am hung over and skint.  I would rather have money in my pocket now to be able to do stuff than have a cool story about vomiting that I really can’t recall anyhow.

I also fucking hate really drunk people, they piss me off, they piss everybody off and I don’t want to be that guy anymore.  I would rather indulge in some good conversation than be loud and shout complete bollocks at people; and it is complete bollocks.  No drunk ever talked anything other than complete shit when they were full steam fucked; and you can keep all that Dylan Thomas crap as well; for every witty thing he ever came out with I bet there were a hundred other rants that were pretty much just noises, gargled nonsense and the sound of him pissing himself in the public bar.

“My education was the liberty I had to read indiscriminately and all the time, with my eyes hanging out” he said as he violently shit his pants and fell over a table on to a screaming woman.

So yeah, I quit; I am a quitter, I have quit drinking… now all I need to do is kick the smokes and the drugs and I should live forever right?


So guess what?

I said that I wasn’t going to write a blog about it while it was being broadcast as I didn’t want to seem like I was jumping on the ‘social commentary’ band wagon but I have held my tongue for quite long enough now.

I take a look on the good old internet and what is the first thing I see on my social networking site (that will remain nameless as I can’t afford another lawsuit)?  A pack of you lot having a whinge about how you hate the X-Factor… but you’re still fucking watching it isn’t ya? RETARDS!

You’re still glued to the fucking thing forming an opinion over something that really doesn’t matter in the real world, or in the digital one for that1 matter.  ‘Well it’s a show you either love or hate’, is something that someone told me and as I pointed out at the time, I’m really quite indifferent to the whole thing but for some bizarre reason you think the rest of the world needs to know what you think about it, well we don’t, we’re not even watching the show, we are capable of rational thought so why would we want a commentary from somebody that isn’t even on it or part of its production.

So this really isn’t a pop at the show itself, which let’s face it is like shooting fish in a barrel.  Poor acts that are almost instantly forgettable singing other peoples cheesy songs to a bunch of overpaid, talentless mongs that haven’t had great careers other than a sex tape scandal or two to up their publicity or are just there to make money by pimping out some soulless little gimp or whore that will never write their own material simply because they cant.  No, this is more a pop at those fucking idiots that post constant updates on Facebook about what’s going on during the show.

Some of us have stayed away from this jumped up karaoke competition and have flocked together on the internet for the sanctuary of YouTube, blogs and Vice TV, we don’t need to be told who’s doing what or who’s crying during a deeply moving rendition of ‘Hello’!  So for the love of god, please stop, nobody cares, we don’t want to know.

Have a look around you right now, what are you up to?  If you are sitting there with your laptop on in front of you with a cat at your feet; if you are close to a bar of chocolate, a bottle of wine and a big bag of crisps all wrapped up snug in a blanket with Simon Cowell being a cunt to some nobody on the big screen, then I’m talking to you; and I’m going to guess that you’re on your own aren’t you, can’t think why that is… because you’re the type of person that watches the X-Factor!

There is so much stuff you could be doing rather than watch that trash; read a book, learn a language or instrument, cook that thing you saw on Jamie Oliver the other night because you though it look real tasty and pretty easy, because you don’t really cook enough good food because your snowed under at work and it’s a lot better than a take away right?  Well do that stuff then, stop sitting there numbing your brain with what is just a long running add campaign for the acts that are going to get signed whether they win or lose, because that is all it is; it’s a run up to a career.  You get so used to seeing them and hearing their voice that you want to buy the CD when it comes out because you feel you have some kind of emotional attachment with the little twat with the floppy hair that plays the guitar and knows your pain.  I’ll give that to Simon Cowell, he really knows how to manipulate stupid people.

tumblr_m2xvto1Gya1rutvxio1_500Look at that One Direction bunch, or whatever they are called; I find it very hard to contain myself when I hear about those little cunts.  That one that’s always in the paper for shagging old ladies, I want to cut his Achilles tendons, remove at least one of his hands and go to work on his face with a hammer and blowtorch; see how well he dose after that.  Don’t think he will get many top 5’s or catch much pussy, and I think that this is my point here, they really aren’t musicians, they just wanted to be famous, a head shot, batting their eyelashes in ‘Teen quim’ magazine to flog more auto tuned, mass marketed, manufactured shite to a pack of stupid kids and gay guys (no offence intended but some of you gay guys have very poor musical taste… come on, West Life!)

So I guess that this blog post has swung into a rant that I didn’t intend… yeah… okay…

So is it like you think that by posting about the show on the net your becoming part of the success of the show?  If you knock it by posting some kind of damning meme that you’re not promoting the show?  It’s all publicity, whether you’re sitting there in your pant ringing in voting or writing a rude joke about one of the judges on a pub bog wall in marker pen you’re still adding to the pocket of that fat flat topped twat’s bank balance.

What we need to do is kill everyone that watches it and then it will stop getting made and us wee smart folk can get on with our lives moaning about politics and religion on Facebook… because that’s what it’s there for!


With bells on!

Bloody hell I fucking hate this time of year.

If anybody tells you that ‘it’s only a couple of days a year’ really haven’t thought that statement through.  It’s not just a couple of days; it starts long before the 25th, a month before in-fact.  It’s now the 3rd of December and already I have been harassed for change by a guy dressed as Santa, seen a woman drop a shite ton of Christmas wrapping paper into a puddle, heard a series of carols and crimbo tunes in the shopping centre and on the telly and been offered a mince pie by a group of carollers and when I took it they asked me for a pound after wards.  I spat the pie back out; I forgot that good will isn’t free anymore.

FlashingSantaAnd we are constantly bombarded by advertising on everything, posters at the bus stop and the busses, radio being pumped out in the high street, on the television 24/7 all aimed at us to part with our cash.  And I hate it when they aim it directly at children; they don’t know the value of money then they see an ad for one of those baby dolls that wets itself and they go divvy over it, and if you don’t buy the thing you are the arsehole. How about the kid jumping up and down screaming ‘I WANT, I WANT!’?

It’s all about gluttony; stuffing their faces and lounging around holding their hands out for free stuff and turning up around people’s houses so they can bleed the drinks cabinet dry and fuck off until the next year.  And why, because apparently the son of god was born in Palestine in a barn from a woman that fucked a ghost a couple of thousand years ago… erm, no, that’s not going to fly.

Unfortunately we have moved on a little since then, we are a little less backward nowadays, well some of us are, there are still a staggering amount of people that still believe in that crap, the whole ‘making people out of a rib’ and talking with a ‘burning bush’ shite.  If someone starts holding a conversation about temptation with a snake nowadays then they are probably tripping or just mad.  We have a word for that too, schizophrenia.

Seriously, if someone claims to talk to god and gets answers, actually hears the voice of god then you could probably put it down to a tumour pushing on certain parts of the brain.  Maybe someone should check out that fucking psycho George W.

I don’t think we will be holding a day of celebration any time soon because the bag lady down by the canal has seen the ghosts of a thousand gods and spoken about the secrets of the universe with a rat the size of a man that was the spirit of a Mayan prophet that foresaw the end of the world.

end-of-the-world-is-it-real_jpg_crop_displayThat’s a point, isn’t the world ending this month, so why are people still rushing about buying present’s and food and shit when it won’t get a look in?  Let’s face it if you can believe that a bloke saved every animal 2 by 2 on a boat when god flooded the world then why can’t you all believe that a meteor will crash into us in the next few weeks foreseen by a religion that predates Christianity?

How many times have there been end of the world predictions, in my lifetime at least three that I can think of and there is always some excuse when everyone wakes up the next morning to find nothing has happened.

If some meteor was going to crash into the earth I don’t think we would be told about it in anyway, the governments will want us all to carry on like normal, ‘so there isn’t mass panic in the streets’ I hear you ask; no, because you know those money grabbing cunts will want to keep making profit right up to the last second of humanity.

The amount of lost religious holidays there must be, just have a look at the amount of lost civilisations; if you did a little research you could probably find one for every day then convert those said religions so you can have a day off pretty much once a week.

Is the world going to end, I think not.  Remember that cult in Korea that thought the world was going to end and they all committed suicide the night before, poor deluded bastards.  I wonder how many suicides there are going to be on the 21st, how many jumpers there will be because some ancient text has convinced them.  Yeah right.  I have a theory; the government has put some of these ‘prophecies’ into the public eye to make sensitive types jump off bridges to trim down the idiot population a little.  But this is merely an idea I had when I was drunk.

But saying that most of the stupid people were out doing their Christmas shopping today and will continue to do so for the next few weeks until the 21st fly’s by without incident and these arseholes start filling their lofts with overpriced junk for next year and the next doomsday prediction.

My prediction; I’ll see you in 2013!


What the fuck just happened?

When you hear a woman in Marks and Spencer say to her friend ‘I fancy something traditional for tea like Spag-bol’, it’s time to leave town.

How is an Italian dish, possibly one of the most famous like spaghetti bolognas considered a traditional British dish?  If it wasn’t illegal I could have puncher her in the head, very hard!  Of all the things she could have called ‘traditional’ she had to pick that; not toad in the hole or steak and kidney pie, what was wrong with her?  Maybe she was just a bit demented.

I need to get away from it all for a while because things are starting to get to me, little things that shouldn’t, people for one; I’m just so sick of people.  I need to go somewhere for a month or so that has a minimal population.

Old Town, HastingsI want to get back down to Hastings during the winter months, right off season when there is nobody about but locals and fishermen; drinking tea at the Mermaid as the snow falls on to the stretching pebble beach outside; steam from the boiling pots down in the fisheries whipping into the pale grey sky and the smell of battered delights and chips bubbling away in the many fryers along the seafront.

Wrapped up warm in a nice thick jumper and scarf as I wander down the parade watching other hardened winter folk brave the elements to take there Pugs and Bulldogs for a windy walk towards the old town where a glass of ale awaits us in a cosy pub by a crackling fire with a poor jukebox and a good dart board.

It’s hard to think that I would be a lot happier down on the cost than on some white sandy beach out in some tropical sea drinking rum from a coconut, but that’s just how it is.  I prefer the simple things and I dont dream too big, there’s no point, I am a realist.  I would love a beach house in Maui or an apartment in Manhattan but I still would rather a nice little house down in sleepy old Hastings.  I would trade in the glitz and glamour of LA for the crazy golf and air hockey of the British coast.  Swap caviar in Monaco for chips in St Leonard’s any day.

I guess it’s just a state of mind that I have reached.

Not that I’m knocking an escape to a tropical island but it does have its down points.  Hurricanes, earthquakes, tsunamis and highly venomous flora and fauna and not to mention a highly dangerous population that don’t hold life in the same regard as the more civilised parts of the world.  Call me old fashioned but I’m not really running all the way for a holiday where you have to have injections to stop you from dying and when you land you’re given a leaflet about the local pirate community and how to avoid being kidnapped.  Places where you can’t have a salad for fear of shitting yourself to death because it has been washed in local tap water are off the table when it comes to booking a getaway.

And the idea of having to tackle the on-going nightmare of air travel to far-flung destinations really is the deal breaker.  I hate having to get to the airport, check in, wait in the lounge, board, fly and do the whole thing in reverse the other side with the added luxury of foreign customs going through your luggage; that’s if your luggage actually gets to its correct location.  The amount of times you hear about baggage getting put on the wrong plan and ending up on the opposite side of the planet to where it’s meant to be is outstanding.

The government are actually in the process of planning some kind of futuristic metropolis down on the Themes estuary just down the 35n8g9road based around a four runway airport.  Of course the local hippie community are up in arms about is saying that it will destroy the local environment but I think it’s a great idea as it will generate so many jobs in the local area and sustain those jobs after the place is built.  But I guess employment isn’t the first priority for these work shy, penniless juggling types; get back in your ice-cream vans and go have a bath.  The reason that they are complaining is that most of them will never have the money to utilise an airport and its facility’s, more content to drive down to Salisbury plain and protest nuclear testing or bum around at some festival trying to convince themselves that if you take enough acid you can expand your consciousness; or as I like to call it, ‘go mad’.

Don’t get me wrong if I had enough cash I myself would drop out of the social rat race but at the moment I’m stuck with the daily grind and the constant longing for an escape route to the stony beaches of the East Sussex coastline.

I really should start playing the lottery!


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