Throw the Fuckers to the Sharks!

I have said many a time that you should enjoy the little things. 

This is a statement that I have stood by for many years and not just because I saw ‘Zombieland’ that one time and thought “that’s a good moto.”

It’s just a nice way to enjoy what little time we have on this planet.

But it’s also the little things that annoy me the most.  Simple little things, like the exact moment that I decide that it’s time for bed the crows start making a shit load of noise in the tree across the street. 

If I could get my hands on some detonator caps and a remote system I would wire the fuck out of that tree and the second they started up with their squawking and shagging and whatever they fuck crows do in trees at 3am… BOOM!

I’ll be watching from my front room window with a scotch in one hand and my stiff dick in the other as the tree gets blasted into matchwood.  Knowing my luck the widow will probably blow in and I’ll get cut to ribbons but at least the crows will be dead, the beady eyed fucks. 

I wonder if any hippies will have a go at me because I want to blow up “an innocent tree, man.”  Hang yourself from a tree you unwashed patchouli stinking bastards.  No one wants to see your fire poi routine around here… juggling is not a career. 

Another thing that does my head in is when people eat crisps right next to you and take their sweet time doing so. 

It’s not so bad when you’re eating them as well but when it’s just them every sound, chomp and rustle of the packet is almost amplified.  No one should line up their next hand full the way some people do, like they are looking for the perfect crisp before stuffing it into their gaping maws with an over enthusiastic smiling crunch. 

Or when the person in front of you at the checkout forgets how to super market and dithers about for a huge period of time.  First they split their bag, then they completely forget how to use their bank card, then at the last minute they have remembered that they have a load of coupons. 

It’s when they look at you and say “sorry.”  You’re not fucking sorry because if you were, you wouldn’t be wasting my life waiting for you to stop being a fucking retard.  You’ve had that bank card for years and today is the day you’re going to finally use it… wanker!

If you can’t remember four fucking single numbers then you need to be shot.

It does make me chuckle when you see old folk either totally avoid or get really confused by the self-service checkouts.  They look around blankly waiting for one of the checkout assistants while holding up a cucumber as if it’s faulty of something. 

I once heard an old lady say to her husband “it’s so technical isn’t it; those checkout girls must have to go on a course or something.” No, no it really isn’t, if anything the self-service checkout shows us just how easy it is to work on a check out. 

This isn’t to say that they don’t have a hard job.  I couldn’t do that all day.  A steady stream of dickheads with their baskets and trollies of crap pouring through the aisles.  Stupid questions abounding, often with a gang of misbehaving children that they cannot control grabbing at every item of brightly coloured packaging they can. 

“But mum, if you don’t buy me this huge multi pack of crisps you’re a cunt!”  

Children should be banned from supermarkets.  It would make the whole consumer experience better for people that actually carry money. 

There are 101 places and events that would be greatly improved by the absence of children.  Take for example the London Aquarium.  This is one of my favourite places to visit in London and I have been there several times over the years and every time there has been some brat that has spoilt it for me. 

One time I was really looking forward to see the giant red octopus that they have as I am a fan of the creatures in general.  I find them fascinating.  So I approach the massive dome tank that it’s in and wait for the beast to emerge from under this rock in the tank.  Just as it’s about to emerge from it hideout some fucking bastard child starts to pound on the glass scaring it back under the rock. 

Its parents (handlers) didn’t even bother to correct the child.  I wanted to beat the shit out of that kid and throw his battered, bloodied body into the shark tank.

There are signs all over the place telling you not to bang on the glass as it can not only startle the animals but hurt them in some cases.  I hope that one day that child is raped by a giant octopus-man and left for dead to be eaten by crab people, his carcass then used as a spawning ground for homeless hagfish.

That or he gets snatched my some Romanian gypsies in Leicester Square and sold into slavery… I live in hope.

Another place I think they should ban children is restaurants.  I was on this date thing a while back and being the sophisticated gentleman I took my lady friend to Pizza Hut.  We ordered a large spicy chicken and I pushed the boat out and got two side orders of garlic bread.  What can I say, I’m a romantic.

But it was while I was at the all you can eat, self-service salad bar where I saw a child away from her parents pouring some kind of dressing over all of the items on the salad bar.  Once again my mind switched into psycho mode and I could feel my blood boil over. 

I wanted to slam that kids head into that salad bar over and over again until her splattered brains became one of the salad items.  Just next to the potato salad and under the bacon bits. 

Again, the parents didn’t really correct the girl and said nothing to the staff.  The little fucker was then treated like some kind of princess and helped herself to the self-service ice cream. 

That fucking child is going to grow up wrong. 

I hope that family flipped their car on the motorway on the way home. 

Animals… You’re nothing but animals!

There are many wonders in this world.

The Great Pyramid of Giza, the Taj Mahal, Hagia Sophia, Machu Picchu or Stonehenge; these are all very impressive but for me it’s the little things that make me feel good to be alive.

For example, waking up really late on a Sunday and realising that I only have 15mins to get to the shops to buy bog roll.  Rushing around to get dressed in a sleepy haze and opening the front door to be greeted by a pigeon eating a puddle of sick left by a drunken reveller in the alleyway the night before. 

The pigeon in question looked at me as if I was the cunt.

I fucking hate pigeons.  They are flying rats and from their behaviour in my alley way they really don’t give a fuck what people think of them.  Sick eating, humping each other in the dirt, or just being found dead and half eaten by a fox; they’re like the crack-head of the bird world.

If you ever get to go to London take time out and sit in Soho square for a while.  If it’s a nice day, take a bottle of wine or a few beers and if you’re lucky you might see one of the rarest of the pigeon clan, what I like to call the Soho Tar-bird.

These dirty fuckers are the rankest of the species. 

At one time they may have been a normal pigeon buy years of carbon monoxide poisoning has mutated our feathered friend, turning it into a disgusting parody of its past form.  It’s guaranteed to have at least one withered claw, an eye missing and it will look like it has been dipped in oil.  A large proportion of its feathers will be missing and if you startle it, will probably explode showering your picnic with maggots.

I have had the pleasure of drinking in several parks around the world but London is the only place that I have ever seen these pathetic creatures. Maybe we should email Sir David Attenborough and see if he can’t pull a few strings to get a documentary made about the bastards. 

And speaking of dishevelled creatures, I bumped into a mate on the way back from the shops.  I won’t mention his name, but he looked like he had had a hard weekend.  

To be honest he looked like a ghost.

He had clearly been up for days; his mouth looked like the MDMA had got the better of him and he spoke in single syllables.  He was on his way to pick up some weed I’m guessing to make his Sunday a little more bearable.  If you’re going to be awake for another 24 hours with a comedown you might need a little something to take the edge off… am I right, internet?

I usually go for a few valium, some vodka, knock myself out for a day and come up smiling on the Monday morning. 

There was a cat out there the other day, I just caught a glimpse of it and I could swear that it only had one eye and a front paw missing.  The fucker scuttled under the bins around the back of the pub as I was heading out.  I was expecting the thing to come at me with a carpet knife with a bandana over its face demanding I hand over my phone and wallet otherwise I’d get cut. 

What is it with where I live and animals being tough looking?

There was a dog outside of the barbers down stairs and the bastard would not shut up barking at people.  I got fed up in the end and decided to go out but when I came out of the alley I was met by one of those gigantic bull mastiff fuckers with a head like a size 5 football. 

Its owner was in the shop having his hair cut while the hound was tethered to what I found was my gas main that ran up the side of my building.  The lead itself was the flimsiest strip of leather I had ever seen and I knew that if the dog took a dislike to me that lead would snap with little force. 

I crossed the road to avoid having the dog put my leg in its mouth.  I didn’t fancy being shaken around by that monster like a ragdoll. 

I’m not much of an animal lover.

I don’t mind cats but I am a little allergic to the hairy fuckers and I think that they know it.  There could be a cat sleeping in a mate’s house and as soon as I sit down the fucker will awaken and instantly make a beeline for me; the bastards just know. 

All I have to do is be brushed by one of the fury ball of histamines and my eyes start to water and my nose starts to run. 

Dogs are okay but I find them a little high maintenance and really rather stupid.  I had a dog when I lived in Tufnell Park, a Staffordshire bull terrier named Bruce.  We had a break in while we were at work and came home to find our TV, PlayStation, stereo and my laptop gone and the dog was spread out on the sofa with his tail wagging and tongue hanging out.

So much for being a guard dog; I could just imagine him helping get the stuff down the stairs.  I guess they didn’t steal the dog for the same reason, too fucking stupid to protect its own home. 

He was a good dog though and would often wake be up in the morning by trying to hump my head.  We had to give him up to a rescue centre in the end when we all had to move out and I couldn’t take him with me; shame really because he was a sweetheart. 

For the life of me I can’t remember whose dog it actually was? 

I hope he went to a good home.  

Up to the Back Wheels!

Okay, this is a little disclaimer (pre-emptive apology) for all the girls/women/ladies that will read this and think that I am a massive bastard with only one thing on my mind.  I am not, well, not as bad as I come across in this post.

Take that as you will but you have been warned.  I’m expecting a few drinks in the face for this one.  I’ll have to keep my mouth open next time I’m out drinking.

The other day I was sitting in a beer garden of a pub with a couple of mates.

It was a fine summer day down by the river.  There was a cooling breeze, the sun was shining and most of all the beer was cold and plentiful.

So, we’re chatting away and getting slightly drunk in the sun when the conversation turns to what we wanted to be as children when we grew up.

The girl we were with said that she wanted to be a vet.  She said that she had always loved animals and wanted to work in a zoo or something scrubbing elephants and cutting the poo from the fur around lemur’s buttholes.

One of the guys then said he wanted to be a fireman as one of his uncles was a fire fighter and he thought he was a proper hero when he was about 7.  He then explained that he had tried to apply to be a fire fighter years later but failed the medical due to his smoking and drug use.

He let the dream die and joined the air force instead.  Apparently their medical isn’t as stringent as the fire service.

I said that I had always wanted to be a marine biologist.  My step dad was well into scuba diving and had loads of books about sharks, coral reefs and the such.  As a young boy I was fascinated with the sea, especially the Great Barrier Reef and loved watching nature shows about the underwater world.

The dream quickly quashed by my parents that wouldn’t let me read the books because they thought I would mistreat or damage them in some way.

My folks were dicks like that.

Then our other friend piped up and said that he had always wanted to be a gynaecologist.  The banter soon took a down turn.

He thought that it would be cool to look at pussy all day and that it was every man’s dream job; a continuous stream of women coming through the door to have their holes checked and probed.  Then he mimed putting on a rubber glove, lubing his fist up and inserting it into a imagined vagina that I can only guess was vacuous.

It was at this point that I had to point out the pitfall in his logic.

Women only go to the gynaecologist department when they have a problem with their gash.

I didn’t want to burst his obvious porn-star filled make believe bubble of young, nubile 19 year old hard bodies filling some cheaply built porno set doctor’s office.  I didn’t want to shatter his dream of Dr Badtouch examining poor Ms Cumtwice with three fingers while a hairy fat bloke with a video camera shakily captures everything in close up on super-8.

I couldn’t think of a more depressing occupation.

Day after day a continuous stream of shaky old biddies with all manner of vaginal secretions flooding out of them.

Boils, warts, discharge and an array of stenches ranging from prawn cocktail crisps to beef and tomato pot noodle with a dog turd in it; fuck having to go through that every day.

And it would be like the chocolate factory theory.  If you worked in a chocolate factory for most of your life the last thing you would want to eat would be chocolate.  The sight and smell would be enough to turn your stomach.

That… but with pussy.

(edited for social networks… well, just Facebook because its full of petty fucking children!)

I think that even porn stars must get to a point where they get up in the morning and think “fuck, do I have to anal fuck another beautiful girl this afternoon?  Fuck my life!”  I often wonder if there is a high depression rate among the porn community.

Now I am a big fan of pussy; I am a user and enthusiast of women’s downstairs areas so the idea of having to stare at buttered up, manky fanny is a bit of a turn off.  It’s bad enough when you have a one nighter with a stunning bird and it’s, let’s say a bit sweaty down there.  The words ‘crab paste’ come to mind.

I believe they call it a ‘nine volter’…  Google it. 

Seriously though, I am absolutely fascinated by women’s bodies.  The shape of them, the feel of them, the warmth the give off, the taste, the smell; can most heterosexual men say any different?

And if we are honest a woman’s body is so much more attractive than a man’s.

Bloke’s bodies are weird, all hair and bits hanging down.  Even when a bloke has been working out for years and has the sculpted form of a Grecian god it still looks nasty.

Take the penis for example, not the best of designs is it; wrinkly and flabby when it’s on the flop and when its hard it just looks like an angry policeman with a really long, vascular neck.  And the nut sack; every time I see my ball bag in the bathroom mirror all I can think about is Cliff Richard’s neck skin.

I honestly don’t get what gay guys see in men!?

A woman’s genitals are so much more pleasant to look at, even if it has got the old frogs tongue (as my granddad used to call it) poking out.  Mind you I have seen a few that look like a poorly stuffed kebab in my time.

I once met a woman that told me she had a clitoris the size of a man’s thumb.  I didn’t believe her and my mate Ross ended up going home with her.  The very next day he verified her claims via a group text… that accidently included his poor old mum.

Speaking of Ross, he once introduced me to a this punk girl that I ended up sleeping with for a while.  She had possibly the biggest vagina I have ever had the privilege (misfortune) to encounter.  She was an absolutely stunning girl and really nice but unfortunately we were not sexually compatible as I am just a normal bloke and she had a fanny like a belching hippo.

Good night ya’ll x.

As my old Nan used to say… “Wah Gwan!”

I’m writing this post on a Sunday afternoon. 

I have no money, there is nothing on in town, my friends are all either recovering from the night before or on a beach or in a beer garden somewhere.  There wasn’t even a free exhibition down at the arts council place this weekend or at the pier gallery to keep me occupied for an hour or so.

Walked around town and through the park for about an hour then everything shut and I went home.

It is dirty hot in my flat today and there is nothing on the telly so I’m laying here in my PJ bottoms listening to depressive black metal after spending an hour having a tidy up.  My flat looks pristine at the moment.

But that’s not why I’m writing this blog, oh no. 

Where I live there is a pub on both corners and I am smack bang in the middle.  It’s only a small block so I can literally stick my head out of the window and shout for a beer and the bar maid in either will hear me.

And while I was out I passed both of them and noticed a sign in each of their windows.  Both of the posters read the same chilling message.  A message so dark it made my blood freeze in my veins and for a moment I went completely mad.

‘KARAOKE NIGHT, TONIGHT!!!’

Now it’s bad enough when one of the pubs has a karaoke jam on, if I leave the front room or kitchen window open all I can hear is some drunken cunt butchering an 80’s classic.  But both at the same time, fuck sake, it’s like the souls of hell with be screaming down my street.

Part of the problem is that the main road dies down after about 6pm on a Sunday due to everything in town being shut and everyone going home for their Sunday tea.  This means there is no traffic noise to cover the sound of fat people shouting songs you might know down a microphone for a free pint of beer.

I’ve only ever heard it once before and the only way I can describe it is like a really bad tribute act sound-clash involving people with special needs.

Now I don’t say that to sound horrible but bear in mind that the people participating have been drinking since midday in the summer sun and it’s now 7pm.  They are that drunk and sun burnt that they sound like they have Down’s syndrome.

Again, not trying to upset anyone but that’s what it sounds like, so imagine being stuck between two pubs with this going on with no chance of escape.  And these jams will be going on into the night.

It gets to a point where I actually want a scooter gang to turn up outside and sit there for a bit shouting and revving their engines as a respite from the cacophony on each corner.

I’m not one for the karaoke or the open mic even though I was a vocalist in a band for nearly 10 years.  Admittedly it was a death metal band and I can’t actually sing that great but it doesn’t mean I want to get up in an almost empty pub and sing (yell) along to a slice of forgotten pop nostalgia.

Every time I’m in a pub that has an open mic someone says “you were in a band, give us a song.”  To witch my reply is usually “suck my fat one”, or I just ignore them and order another drink.  Usually a shot, something to numb the pain.

Now, I don’t mind an open mic night because you usually get a few turns that are quite good and luckily I live in a place where the troubadour scene is thriving.  You get quite a few regular acts that go from pub to pub, night to night with their acoustic or banjo or ukulele.

Sometimes you might even be blow away by an act as I was at one of these night when this kid of about 16 started playing some Terry Reid… well!

But unfortunately it’s just a load of people that bought a cheap guitar from Cash Converters and a chord book online.

It’s when you get people covering generic metal tunes from bands like Papa Roach and Slipknot with the line “this song means a lot to me” as they go into a reworked version of ‘people = shit.’  It makes my skin crawl a little bit.

The worst bit is that I know for a fact that I’m going to get a few personal messages from people I know that do a bit of an acoustic turn asking me what my problem is.  I’ll tell you what my problem is right now.  Write your own material.

9 times out of 10 your cover version isn’t going to be anywhere near as good as the original especially when you’re covering what is essentially bad music.  Have a little imagination when you chose your cover versions.

Do a ska cover of a Dark Throne tune or a folk version of some NWA.  That would be a lot better than an acoustic guitar cover of a rock/metal guitar tune and I’d love to hear some guy with a folk beard strum along to ‘fuck tha police’.  It gets even worse when they play an acoustic cover of an artist that plays acoustic songs.  I fucking hate Ed Sheeran. 

There’s a guy that sits outside the shops in the town centre busking and as much as it sounds alright all the guy does is strum a few cords and makes up a tune as he goes along.  People give him money but I refuse too as I know for a fact that he can’t play the guitar.  All he has done is buy a guitar and watched a video on YouTube about how to blag at busking.  Penis, don’t give him your cash, he’s a cheat.

And as for the weird hippy bloke that plays the banjo by Marks and Spencer, that guy is properly fucked up; you can just see that he is on heroin, you can almost smell it on him.  When he plays it sounds like someone playing the banjo while falling down a flight of stairs; and his facial expressions are fucking hilarious.

Anyhoo…

The worst part of an open mic night for me is when some dude/girl turns up to play, does his/her turn, necks his/her free drink then fucks off without watching any of the other acts.  All his/her mates leave with them so the rest of the acts don’t have a crowd.

I like to call these people ‘cunts’ and they represent everything that is bad about the local amateur music scene.

Some jumped up little douche-bag got bought a top of the line guitar, got lessons paid for and turns up with a pack of college buddies in tow that have no interest in good music at all.   He then plays acoustic versions of current pop songs so all the girls there think he’s amazing then fucks off in a shitty little car to hang out in some car park with his friends without even buying so much as one drink.  Give it a year or two and that prick will have no interest in music and wont be playing anymore.

He’s literally only there to show off in front of girls.

Cock sucker! 

Splash, Gang, Jollop… What a Phonograph!

So I’m out shopping at this weird indoor market with a mate the other day and he’s a bit of a food snob.  I mean I’m pretty bad but this guy’s worse. 

It’s a really cool place with stalls of fruit and veg, great foreign oddities, a good butchers with a guy on a microphone that does bargain bags for a tenna and a little bit out the back where they have some really nice fresh fish.

Anyway, my mate and I are looking at some fresh hand churned butter on this little dairy stall.  There are testers on little crackers and we tuck in when my friend turns to me and says “everything is better with good butter.”

Before I even knew I had done it I scooped up a dollop of the fresh butter and slapped it right on his face and do you know what?  He was right, it was better because he shut the fuck up for a bit while he cleaned his face off.

The Greek bloke on the stall was not happy so I had to buy some of the butter and pay for the lump I had smashed into my mates face.  I had most of it that night on thick cut toast with sliced salami and this really nice soft goat’s cheese I bought from a woman that looked like a witch and smelt of cat food.

I’m almost convinced that woman put a curse on me. 

After a few beers (bought by me) my friend saw the funny side and after a few shots (bought by him) we nearly had a fight about it on the bus.  Then we went to this little club filled with jazz wankers still with our bags of stuff we had bought from the market.  A bouncer wanted some of my salami… not a metaphor. 

Where’s the strangest place you’ve ever taken produce?

I’ve always wanted to eat a bowl of Crunchy Nut Cornflakes in a Snow-Catt at the South Pole.  Don’t know why, I’ve just always wanted to go there and I like Crunchy Nut Cornflakes.

Anyhoo…

My mate is the same mate that got really stoked when he received his tickets to watch the synchronised diving and badminton at the Commonwealth Games.  See what I mean about him being a bit of a dick.

So he’s up in Scotland in some posh hotel eating his way through the gourmet menu which I can only imagine has chips, deep fried mars bars and Lorne slices dipped in cholesterol on; it is Scotland after all.  I wonder if he’s going to do the ‘I’m a tourist in Scotland’ thing and order haggis; which for the uninitiated is a bladder stuffed with the contender of a sheep’s skull and arse.

Then he’s off for an evening of pale men in really small shorts slapping each other’s bums and fist bumping after falling off of things into water at the same time as each other.

Synchronised diving; it really is the biggest waste of water that I can think of.  There are literally people out there that are dying of thirst and we come up with a way for anaemic ginger boys to have an activity at the youth centre.

If you let these boys out into the ‘wild’ they would be dead in a week of either exposer of from pure fright.  “Bigger boys came, mother… bigger boys!”

He also wanted tickets for the women’s field hockey finals but he missed out.  I don’t think he did as I’m guessing the lesbian factor in the crowd would have been quite high and if they were drinking in the heat we have been experiencing over the last couple of days he would be lucky to make it out alive.  At the very least with his bollocks still attached to his body.

There’s women’s hockey (or as I call it dyke stick fighting) on while I type this and from what I can make out they have taken two rival women’s prisons, cut down their day release uniforms and given them sticks to hit each other with.

Some of the women are rather attractive but I’m guessing they are the most ‘militant’.  Fuck, even the referee looks like she can throw a punch.

I’m waiting to see a ball bag accidently hanging out from out of one of the ‘ladies’ tight shorts.  Probably a bigger pair than any of those grape smuggling douchebags you’ll see in the synchronised diving.

The just showed a close up of the Australian captain and I thought my telly was going to blow up… (*shudders*) Ergh!  My blood runs cold.

No, but good for them.  When long term offenders come out of prison they need something to take their mind off of the years of systematic abuse and girl on girl forced sexual humiliation.  Even if they did bludgeon their abusive husband with an iron like Little Mo from Eastenders, they deserve a sport dedicated to their rehabilitation.  Help them rotate back into the world while also serving as a vent for their anger and frustrations so that they ‘don’t kill again’.

Well done semi-professional field sports for keeping our insanely violent, man hating lesbian offenders fit and active but most of all pacified and occupied.

All I can think about is watching the news later and seeing my mate involved in some made gay riot where a pack of steroid fuelled manic lesbians with hockey sticks are trying to rip him apart.

Huw Edwards sitting there mumbling in his trademark generic newsreader Welsh accent “terrible scenes at the games today” over the footage of my mate getting savaged, all filmed from a news helicopter.

I would be the first bastard to put that shit up on you tube in one of those shoddy videos that my mate can’t stand filmed on a phone direct from the telly.  Guaranteed it’ll get over a million hits.  I’d fucking watch it and it’ll probably be used in some feminist manifesto aimed at bringing down the chauvinistic testosterone fuelled world media.

I can’t stop laughing.  Sorry Ben!