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. 

Big Throbbing Truth Nuggets!

Some people say that honesty is the best policy.

We all know this not to be the case. 

Take for example when you ask your lady friend for a blow job in a shopping mall bathroom because the girl in Topman had the most amazing arse (that you pointed out) and it made you horny. 

Or when someone asks you how you think they look and you reply with the less than adequate “pretty fucking rough actually” when they wanted to hear something complimentary.  If they wanted a compliment maybe they should have had a good night’s sleep and not wore clothes that made them look like a beat up old hooker.

Just like that dinner party when they served oysters and you said you don’t like them because they taste like warmed up snot with garlic and lemon juice.  You weren’t being rude, you just don’t like oysters.  But you should have seen their faces; it was like I took a shit on the trifle.

What?  I don’t fucking like oysters. 

Or that time your half blind auntie knitted you a jumper with what she thought was a reindeer on the front.  Telling her that it looked like a moose with Down’s syndrome and that you felt like a twat wearing it wasn’t what she wanted to hear, but it was the truth.  And she’s always going on about honesty being the best policy. 

And do you remember that time your friend put on that photography exhibition and it turned out to be just a load of blown up black and white pictures of tramps.  And do you remember how disappointed they were when you said you thought it was a failed attempt at gritty realism that did nothing but dumb down the subject matter; that it was only exploitation of the poor from the perspective of 1^st world bias. 

They wanted your opinion, why did they get put out of joint about it when you gave it to them?  If you hadn’t of said that they may have just kept taking crap photographs, they didn’t have to throw you out and drop you from their Facebook. 

It really was a crap exhibition… they work for a magazine now…. Not a good one but still, I like to think that my input may have helped.

Or perhaps that time you got punched in the face because you said that bloke’s girlfriend was a mouthy bitch that needed putting on a lead.  She was the one causing the trouble that night and threw a drink over you, you told her to sort her fucking life out and you get punched for it. 

The funny side to the story is that I later heard the guy ended up in prison for beating her up a few months later.  Guess he had enough of the troublesome cow too.

Maybe it was the time when you were a child and you say those bigger boys picking on that slow kid down by the lakes and you told your folks who then told you off for ‘telling tales’.  Well fuck you all, I hope next time they kill the stammering prick and I won’t say shit.

The blood will be on your fucking hands then.

Or that time you were stopped in the street while shopping by someone from the Christian youth church and asked if you believed in Jesus and all the good work he does.  Then they start to berate you quite aggressively in public because you pleasantly said that you were not interested because you didn’t believe in fairy tales.  She can damn you to hell because they probably have better music, booze and company down there… if you believed in such nonsense. 

Some Christian she was.

Or that time you got pulled over by the police on the way home from the pub and they asked you where you were going and you said “what’s it to you?”  You got searched 10 feet from your front door because the nosy fuckers had nothing better to do and you told them so.

They said I looked shifty, I said they looked like troublesome homosexuals and I get arrested.  I wasn’t the one rummaging around in my pants looking for a knife or drugs that just weren’t there.  I told them so but they said I was lying. 

I never got the apology I asked for. 

And do you remember the time you walked a girl home from the pub and it started going around that you had fucked he in the bushes.  And when you explained that nothing had happened and you were the perfect gentleman no one believed you.  If you had have fucked her and told people you did they probably wouldn’t believe you either. 

I guess what I’m driving at is that people get really offended by the truth.  And I hate to get all Jack Nicolson on you guys but “YOU CANT HANDLE THE TRUTH!”

It’s this ‘being nice’ attitude that gets Miranda Hart constant work.  If we just sat her down and explained to her that most people can’t connect with her because she is overtly posh and people find her creepy due to her odd body shape she might give up the ghost. 

I mean I find her very confusing, is she meant to be a woman? 

And is she meant to be funny?  I always thought the point of a comedic actor was to make people laugh.  I sat through an episode of her show and the only time I laughed was when I was daydreaming that a pack of homeless would turn up and turn the whole farce into a home invasion/rape scenario. 

That’s where I want my television licence fee to go.

LOOK AT ME, LOOK AT ME, LOOK AT ME!!!

I find it somewhat disturbing that I know people that are in every photograph that they take. 

I get the idea of a selfie and I have taken them myself but do they really need to take pictures of themselves constantly?   

“This is a pic of my cat, this is a pic of my car, this is a pic of my girlfriend, this is a pic of the Eifel Tower, and this is a pic of my dead grandmother.”  Well we can’t fucking see because your muggy fucking face is obscuring every fucking thing you self fucking obsessed attention whore. 

Pictures are a catalogue of the past, event captured forever for the use of remembrance and nostalgia.  They should not be a compilation of stop motion aging photos. 

And what makes it so much worse are the stupid fucking faces these people pull.  Do they spend all day perfecting their looks like some cat walk model? 

“This is my Blue Steel!”

This is my sense of a doomed humanity. 

For fuck sake, we the people on your social network friends list know what you look like, we do not need to be reminded every three to five minutes. 

I really think that some of these people masturbate to their selfies and take pics of their gurning faces while they wank.  Getting off on their own ego until they die in a shower of self-satisfaction and blood streaked jizum.  I would like to see the pics of their corpses on Instagram. 

FUCKING DIE AND DO THE WORLD A FAVOUR…  I WANT TO TAKE A SELFIE OVER YOUR OPEN CASKET!!!

I walked by the tanning salon on the row of shops I live above the other day; just popped out to get some supplies.  I always look through the window as the owner is the aunty of a guy I know and I always say hi.  This day though I didn’t see her in there, what I did see was a woman who (I’m guessing) had just had a spray tan standing bare arse in the middle of the room holding a white towel with brown ink stained handprints over it covering her tits and pussy.  She was taking a selfie with someone who looked like they worked there. 

This isn’t the shocking thing; I have seen stuff like this in there several times over the years.  It was the fact that there were children in there aged (I’m guessing) around five or six looking on.

Hey kids, your mum is a massive slag with (and I’m guessing again) a cunt like a yawning donkey’s gob. 

What possesses someone to do that sort of shit in front of their children?  It’s almost as bad as banging some junky prostitute and there’s a kid in a cot in the room.  What a role model.  I wish my mum had done stuff like that when I was a child so that I could grow up as a drama seeking, moronic, X-Factor watching, track suit wearing, spray tanned cock sucker too. 

And she did look like she could suck a cock.  You know when you see a girl like that, you can measure the amount of dick she’s had in kilometres. 

It’s a skill passed down in the lower classes from mother to daughter.  Old granny sitting there on a Sunday evening, popping out her false teeth to demonstrate how to put a rubber on a cucumber and how to circulate the breathing so they don’t choke when they deep throat. 

Sharing tips on how to do make up so you look like a proper slag and get drinks bought for you by Neanderthal men that couldn’t even spell Neanderthal.  Chatting in the hair dressers about what the best anal lube is, what the best way to initiate a gang fuck with footballers and how to deal with their first abortion.  They will even show the younger girls how to fill out the forms for ‘daddy dollars’ with the CSA.   

Life skills. 

But even these vacuous cunted breeders don’t piss me off half as much as the attention seeing twats that post selfie after selfie.  They are basic creatures that don’t really know any different and are product of their environment. 

And I’m sure that there is some kind of synaptic inhibiter in some of those dyes they use in spray tans.  I remember having a conversation with an orange girl in a night club in the East End and she was one of the top 5 stupidest people that I had ever men… but boy could she suck cock. 

Her false eyelash slipped away from her face and got stuck to my scrotum.  I screamed when I ripped it off on the night bus. 

Looking back I should have taken many selfies.

“This is me with a dumb girl with nice tits in Shoreditch, this is her blowing me around the back of the pub, this is me finger banging her in the doorway of Debenhams’s, this is a false eyelash stuck to my nutsack and this is me crying on the N53 because my nutsack is ripped open a bit.” 

That glue they use to stick those fuckers on is really sturdy stuff, I’m telling you man. 

Maybe I just don’t get it, maybe I should just relax and go with the trend.  Maybe I should even start taking selfie after selfie and post them online to see what it feels like to have an inflated sense of self.  I mean, I’m already a bit off a diva anyway so I might as well go the whole hog and become a full on, raging narcissist as well, right?  I mean one of those “If could fuck myself I probably would” kind of people.   Maybe I should lift more weights and tag the gym in my ‘busting it out at the gym’ posts too.  I mean go full douche-bag, just for the winter months. 

Never go full douche-bag.