Musings from the day’s events from Mr Felonious Bar-Towel

I sat in that fucking restaurant booth for forty five minutes after I ordered before they brought the food over. 

It was really good, the best I have had in a long while in all fairness, but why the wait?  I sat and watched people that ordered after me get their food way before me.  I was more disappointed than angered as I had been recommended by a friend.

Without being rude I pulled the waitress over during my meal and asked why such a delay.

She explained that human flesh was one of the speciality dished and not on the menu.  They had to kill one of the crack-heads from out back just to meet the order.  Next time I was to book ahead, just in case.

I didn’t get a discount for my wait and the gratuity was included in the bill, a big fat 18%, but I did get the waitresses number.  I’m having her for diner Thursday.

By the power of Ra, some people need a bat around the back of their head.

Spent a grand total of thirty minutes in town yesterday morning and had to go home before I ended up getting arrested.

Saying that I did see some drunken Russian shoplifter put up a fight with security outside the supermarket.

So I decided to plot up for a bit and get some work done to try and relax.  Turns out, I had a rather productive day and smashed my personal best word count.  Amazing what a little anger can do for the focus of the mind.

I guess it’s just my Zen state.

Seriously I can’t function unless I’m pissed off or a little depressed.  It just doesn’t sit right if I’m happy.  I don’t wear it well, like a really itchy pair of pants, I fidget.

So at some point I’m bound to do or say something to piss myself off.  Like go into town with all the mongs!

But while I was doing the hermit thing, I rekindled my love for Russ Meyer by watching ‘Faster Pussycat, Kill, Kill’ and ‘Up’.

What’s not to love with these movies?

Strippers and Nazis, flick knives and big tits, romps, rumbles and sinister plans all rolled into a frenzied ball of free love, cheap thrills and cigarette smoke.  Throw in the scent of expensive perfume and burning rubber and you are in my kind of Promised Land.

Beware; the cutest kittens have the sharpest claws.  Classic. 

If I could live my life in some dimension that was based on any directors films it would be the films of Russ Meyers.  (Possibly David Lynch, might have to toss a coin.)

Ladies and Gentleworms, put your hands together for the Pope of Trash!!!

This is the man that paved the way for the Pope of Trash himself, John Waters, and look at the films that man has produced over the years, everyone a master-class in sleaze.

I would love to have the shit beaten out of me and my car stolen by some motor cycle riding raven haired, big breasted Amazonian hell cat in an all in one leather jump suit with a zip up the front.  Dream come true time.  I wouldn’t even care if some beatnik dude that was her slave filmed it on his 16mm.

If you have never heard of either Russ Meyers or John Waters not only should you jump out of a high window, hopefully falling to your deaths, but you should also check the IMDB links below.

 Russ Meyer- http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000540/

John Waters- http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000691/?ref_=nv_sr_1

I have never wanted to take up Judo more in my entire life!

Sounds strange but I would love to get into a bar fight with a Meyer inspired style woman; I wouldn’t even get too pissed off if she smashed her 40oz over my head and took my wallet.

Imagine an old school style rumble with a female bike gang in tight cat suits, swinging chains about and throwing glasses like there was no tomorrow.  “The fight aint over until some gets thrown out a window!”  Just the idea of watching huge titted women snapping pool cues over cowboy’s heads and pulling guns in gas stations just gives me a semi.  Thank you Mr Meyer, thank you.

The only way I could submerge myself into this world is to start writing and making pulp trash books and films.  So I better get my thinking cap on.  If any buxom/feisty young lovely’s want to ‘get them out’ in the name of (sleaze) art then let me know.  Flick knives, knuckle dusters and leathers will be provided.  The looser the better… morally I mean.

I recon I could knock out a trash novel in a week with enough coffee and doughnuts to keep we awake.  And shit, if I can put together a cleaver script for a fifteen minute short film in a day then a pulp film should take me a brief afternoon.  I might have to invest in some cheap speed?!?

So it’s time for a shift in my life, onward and upward, bigger and better things and all that.

This is not to say that I will turn my back on the gory horror that I love, havens no, if anything it will be a huge part of the trash that I shall start creating.  The bloodshed will be the catalyst for the big knackered adventures that will spew forth onto the page through my fingertips.  And all you fucking twats that give me the hump will be slaughtered in a bloodbath of a bar fight that rumbles within the confines of my squalid little brain.

You are all fucked… but not as fucked as me.

 So as l prop up the sticky bar after several lines in the toilet of the Black Rose, I watch the scantily clad karaoke singer screech her way through Tina Turner’s ‘Private Dancer’. I can’t help but want to throw a glass.

She was attractive, but only in the way a middle aged dropout hooker can be.  Weathered but experienced, beaten but ballsy.  Something in her eyes that said she cries herself to sleep every night.

Then the air turned a different kind of blue as the girls from the roller derby slammed through the back door, spilling into the bar in a frenzy of giggling sexual aggression.

No one could help but stare as the busty tearaways stalked through the bar; all legs and tits spilling out of jump suits, high heels and tape wrapped fingers from back ally brawls.

The leader with the blond pig tails leaned over to some sap on his own; he tried to hide his erection but couldn’t his blushes as she held him by the throat and downed his pint of light and mild.

She unzipped her suit down to her naval, her large breasts just about holding the leather shut and scanned the bar.

I knew then that I would never love again.

See, how easy was that?  Not bad, eh? 

Indifferent boredom of the attention vampires that refuse to take up knitting

So I’m stuck indoors on a Friday night with fuck all to do.

I turn to the two reliable sources of entertainment that I have on offer to me; the television and the internet.

still want them last few crisps?

First up I don’t have to bitch and moan about the state of weekend television, especially at this time of year.  It just after Crimbo and all the descent telly specials have been and gone so you’re stuck with soaps and reality TV repeats.  That and the last of the festive Pringles.

We can take the piss out of these things until the cows come home but once again, far too easy.

It’s far too easy to slam Joey Essex for being orange and a bit thick.  It’s far too easy for me to rip into Danny Dyer for being in some of the worst films I have ever seen and trying to rekindle his career by staring in Eastenders.

Also, Eastenders producers, just a quick one… have things got that bad at the BBC that you have to draft in Mr Dyer to save your sinking flagship?  I get that he’s probably working on the show for next to fuck all so the economics of it I get, but really… Danny Dyer?

Is there a special needs policy within the executive positions pool at the Beeb now, have they employed someone with severer learning difficulties to find actors for their upcoming rolls?

What’s next, do we get Katie Price in for Sherlock Holmes’s next love interest?  Why?!

See what I mean, far too easy.

What I have got the gripe about tonight, all the people out there on social networks having a little moan about being stuck indoors on a Friday night with nothing to do.  Really, you have nothing to do?  That’s mad.

I have nothing to do but have entertained myself by rekindling my love for the comedy of Larry David by re-watching ‘Curb Your Enthusiasm’.

The man is a legend and wrote/writes some of the funniest, sharpest stuff on the television and has done for several years.  The man is a walking razor blade of modern observational comedy.

this man drinks/eats for free!

Genius!

Also tonight I have managed to get down a shit ton of work on my newest writing project.  Let’s face it if you are going to sit there and be bored you might as well do stuff that doesn’t just involve eating junk and/or scratching your arse.

Knit, read, draw, write; go do something other than fucking vegetating in your sweaty old armchair.  And the last thing you should do is start to have a bitch about it online… we don’t fucking care, we are stuck indoors too.

It’s just after Christmas and we have no fucking money, stop reminding us, we’re living it too, we know it’s shit.  Yes, I’m talking to you!!!

If your that bored then go shove a hairbrush handle up your arse and have a wank.

You’re just fishing for others that have nothing to do to agree with you, spark some kind of deranged conversation about your fucking cats or whatever so you can detract away from the fact that you are the one that is boring.

You get bored so easily when you have nothing to do with your time, believe me.  There were times between wanks where I was just stuck with fuck all to do.  My computer was fucked and I had given it to a mate to sort out but he was hanging it out and I couldn’t complain about him taking his time because he was a mate.

I was between jobs at the time and stressed with looking for a job so I couldn’t concentrate on working on writing stuff.  It was a real dire situation.

It took me ages to come up with a hobby that I could get into with my free time but this country looks poorly towards the killing and dismemberment of prostitutes.  So I drew a blank.

When I did get my computer back I downloaded a few movies and a few albums so that I wouldn’t be bored.

And that’s what you do, isn’t it?

I can’t really complain about people having a moan on the net as I do it all the time, look at this blog for fuck sake.  But I try not to air my dirty laundry on Facebook.

I have a thing for the people that just shove everything in their boring lives on the interweb.  But worse than these people are the one that post vague status’s to attract the attention of other melts to make them feel better about themselves.  If you have a problem and need to talk to a friend why don’t you just call or visit them rather than beg like some sympathy vampire on Facebook.

Posts like, “well that’s complete shit 😦 !!!”  To fool some other twat into saying “What’s wrong?”

Unless you’re getting beaten by your partner in some circle of heavy domestic violence and this is the only way you can get out an SOS, don’t waste our fucking time.

You are the worst kind of people. 

And I can’t do anything about it, I can’t post a reply telling them to man the fuck up or fuck off because that makes me the fucking bad guy.  All their pathetic little friends start to jump all over me and then I end up getting hate mail because I didn’t fall into their little narcissistic ego trap.

But I digress.

There may be many levels of boredom and you may experience several of these levels from taking up yoga to stabbing up tramps in alleyways at night.  You might find yourself joining some sort of cult or far right group as a knee jerk reaction to the mundane down time that modern living brings.

But whatever you do, please, please, please don’t start watching Celebrity Big Brother.

The feast continued with human skulls filled with Crème Anglaise

But the mayor was too full to guzzle down the last sliver of the cooked woman on his plate.  He was completely gorged on human flesh.

The gravy was so rich and by the pint full; the vegetables had been plentiful and the potatoes crisp.  But the meat; oh the meat was sweeter than anything he had ever experienced. 

Old man Cole certainly knew how to cook a human.  And it was good to know that the woman’s suffering had only added to the tenderization process and the quality of the meal. 

Bon apatite.

This is a bit of a continuation from the last post that I put up and even I thought that I was being a little negative.  So you know what?  I’m doing away with the negative stuff and just going for what I know… gore.

I always moan that I hate Christmas and I don’t celebrate it but I always end up having a good time and enjoying the festivities in my own way.

For example, this year I’m using my new found redundancy time off to get a real head start on writing as a full time career choice.

I’m also planning on cooking a really good meal for me and my lady friend this year.  Last year I had a pizza and a shit tonne of snack food.  This year I’m cooking a duck with all the trimmings.  Not because it’s Christmas, just because I can.  The butcher is putting it aside for me, top bloke.  And I’m cooking it on Christmas Eve, not on the day.

It’s not like I’ve put a tree up or anything.

To tell the truth, I can’t remember the last time I actually had a proper Christmas dinner with any of my family.  I had one round a friends place around five years ago, but other than that…

Strange. 

now that’s a marinade

Wouldn’t it be fun if we lived in a reality where the eating of human flesh was part of the Christmas tradition?  At the last supper Jesus did give the “this is my body, this is my blood” speech, so it would be fitting… if you believe in such nonsense.  A Middle Eastern guy with a Spanish name; yeah, right.

Human sacrifice was an all too common occurrence.  That could be a good way to deal with prison overcrowding after all.  All the life sentenced criminals get served up in butchers windows, sliced up and oven ready.  I wouldn’t mind having a go.

Apparently it is like a cross between turkey and pork.  I bet the skin turns into great crackling on a nice slow roast.  And the gravy you could make with the dripping in the roasting tin.  I bet it would be just superb.

Food and Drink would be a totally different show.  I really want to know which wine goes best with a 30 year old rapist casseroled with brambly apples and India pale ale.

Just what desert do you follow with after serving up a rich paedophile stroganoff?

I don’t really see much of a problem with cannibalism; and just where our vegetarian friends would sit on the subject?  Would they consider human flesh animal?  Would you get picky bastards like those twats that don’t eat any meat except chicken?

 

“No, I don’t eat humans unless they are Native American.”

I think I would get my butcher to prepare my human for roasting.  Get the bastard trussed up like one of those pre-boned turkey crowns.  Really easy roasting.

I’d go for a rich sausage meat and chestnut stuffing with asparagus and roasted winter vegetables; beats, potatoes, parsnips and carrots.  Probably chunky bits of butternut squash in there too, with some fresh thyme sprinkled on before it gets whacked in the oven.

Top hole. 

Just imagine some of the budget cuts of meat you’ll get.  Face.

I don’t fancy the idea of tinned bollocks either.  Mechanically reconstituted ‘bits’ in brine.  I mean Fray Bentos pies are bad enough, just think of how bad it would be if it was made with human arseholes and brain matter.  Human kidneys and shin meat.  Tasty.

In some parts of the world it’s almost traditional to eat human meat, during the winter months anyway.  Just look at Russia during the 1921 famine.  Cannibalism was fucking rife.  Sometimes they didn’t wait for you to keel over from old age or starvation either.  Smack, a bat around the back of the head then you’re bobbing about in the stew pot with an onion up your arse.

Fuck that. 

Some of the stuff we eat nowadays anyway; I reckon that human would be a bit of a step up from some of the processed trash we stuff down.  Just have a look at your local super markets frozen section next time you go shopping.  Some of the cheap shit in there is almost not even real food.  Burgers in chip shop batter for fuck sake.

Those horrid Scottish square sausage slices that are 75% pork fat and 15% sawdust.  30 budget ‘chicken’ nuggets for £1.  Yeah, like that isn’t just the birds skin mashed up with a tonne of salt and coated in breadcrumbs.

Does anyone actually still eat corned beef?  It’s not the first thing I think of when I think sandwich fillings nowadays.  Mind you I’m not thinking about putting in someone sliced up arse cheek either.

Mind you I saw a woman buying about 6 half litre tubs of egg mayonnaise sandwich filling the other day in Iceland.  No thank you.  I try not to eat anything that tastes like a wet fart.

I used to work with a bloke that had egg sandwiches pretty much every day and would stink the work van out every time he opened his lunch box.  What a cunt. Couldn’t have bought a block of cheese could he?

Give me a nice filet humaine any day.

We’ve resorted to cannibalism as we have run out of brandy butter!

 

Grandpa licked his lips as the roast was taken from the huge oven and placed on the table by the kitchen hands.  It was trussed up and filled with edible flowers and herbs from the manor grounds.  Grandma had gone upstairs to prepare the table for the guests. 

All he had to do now was to remove the woman’s now crispy skin and carve her onto the waiting silver serving platter.  Her torso had a tattoo down its ribs that made him smile.  It was a dragon.

The feast was soon to begin. 

Well, I fucking hate Christmas!

But there are many out there that fucking loves it and I wish these poor bewildered fucktards all the best.  You’re gonna need it.

If you need a special time of year to be nice to people, then you are the worst kind of people.  Just be nice to people all year, what’s the harm in that.

I personally don’t celebrate it, there’s no point.  I don’t have children and I’m not a Christian and the amount of family that actually want to see me or have any contact with me, you can pretty much count on one hand.  Partially my fault; I am a massive bastard and have grown almost unbearable to be around for more than an hour.

don’t buy in to this festive hippy utopia!

But I would like to talk about my favourite part of Christ-mass, the band ‘Wizzard’ and there ridiculous lyrics to the song ‘I wish it could be Christmas every day.’

I really don’t wish it was Christmas every day, it would be absolute rubbish.  Everything would be shut, you’d have to fork out for presents and a feast constantly but you wouldn’t be able to afford it as most people will be off work.  That and you’d never get a wage as the end of the month just wouldn’t come.  It’s like some horrid tinsel covered Groundhog Day.

The weather would be constantly shit and all you would see in the town centre would be tramps and Albanian kids looking for fag ends and 2p’s.

When these fucking rank hippy arseholes penned this tune they must have been going cold turkey from heroin.

I don’t think a chest freezer full of Christmas finger food and Stacey Solomon’s prawn ring will last an eternity of Christmas days.  Come to think of it the Muslim cash and carry down the way will be out of stock in a week.  I don’t think they have enough Pringles and dip to go around.

If this was also the only band that was playing during the perpetual yule I think the suicide rate would sky rocket.

Fucking hippy cunts, I hate Roy Wood.  I don’t know whether it’s possible to physically punch off a man’s beard but I would have a bloody good go.

If it was Christmas every day you’d all soon get sick of it.

Imagine being stuck in a dining room every afternoon for the rest of your life with just your family and nothing on the telly.  For fuck sake, you wouldn’t even be able to escape to the pub for a little ‘you’ time… or to get completely smashed to drown out your mother telling you that you’ve wasted your life, over and over and over again.

And what happens when an elderly relative dies in the comfy armchair with a paper crown on?

The undertaker isn’t open so you’ll have to take matters into your own hands.  Standing in the pissing rain, burying grandpa in a shallow grave while you can hear the next door neighbour’s celebrating a winning game of Pictionary.

It will start getting a bit feral when all the electricity goes down after a few weeks and man’s deep seated instinct to survive really kicks in.  Imagine Mad Max with Santa hats and fairy lights all over the vehicles.

Shit, I think I just came up with the idea for a bizarro novella…. Hmmm?

But at least it isn’t a fucking Cliff Richard song.  Thank fuck he has given up on the race for the Christmas number one.

If there is one thing worse than someone pretending to be kind, happy and full of the festive spirit then it’s actually being kind, jolly and full of the festive spirit.

That line in ‘mistletoe and wine’, ‘children singing Christian rhyme’, they fucking don’t around my way.  The last time they had kids doing anything Christian there was some dude dressed as Father Christmas breakdancing while kids begged for money for some charity.

They have set up a make shift manger in the town square for some nativity but I’m guessing that that might get side-lined as it is now water logged from the shit weather.  And even if they do pull it off, they will probably have really bad Christian youth leaders rapping the story and spoiling Christmas for all the old folk watching.

Christmas isn’t hip hop. 

One thing I did see from old Cliffy-babe was the advert for his new album on YouTube and all I can say is… ouch.

This actually made my skin crawl, so if you fancy watching a video where you are just waiting for an old bloke’s hip to give then google search Cliff’s Rock and Roll song book.  It really is quite dire.  It’s almost like watching the geezer die slowly.  He doesn’t want to go though, he still has a couple of numbers left in him and he’s going to gyrate right up to the bitter end.

hands up Mr Richards because I will shoot you in the neck if you move!

Cliff, please just let it go, we get it; you were about in the 50’s. 

There is one small mercy this year though; I haven’t heard that fucking ‘Slade’ tune… yet.

It’s the one that makes me want to smash up the jukebox more than any of the overplayed Christmas ditties.

Why can’t musicians write Christmas songs anymore?  Someone has got to do something or we will be stuck with the likes of Cliff for the rest of our lives.  If there was ever a reason to get rid of religion once and for all, that would be it.

Death to Christmas songs and death to Noddy Holder! 

Lunging at straws in the dark with girls

“So, have you ever called on of those late night phone sex things?”

The collective around the pub table fell silent.  Simone made eye contact with each person, ginning like a toad, looking for an inch of response.

Johan had half a fork full of the side salad hanging from his mouth whereas Leona just looked shocked and a little flush. 

Sara and her mother walked away in disgust and took their bowl of crisps with them as they made their way to the beer garden. 

Simon scanned around at the people sat on the faux cockney squat bar stools to see if anyone would respond to his question looking totally puzzled. 

No one did. 

What is it with people wearing denim on denim recently?

I have just spent the last hour of my life bumping elbows in the Christmas shopping crowds with a pack of Brian Adams impersonators.  I didn’t think the Strokes were popular again.

I always thought that people bopping about in ‘Canadian tuxedos’ were considered total douchbags and shunned from society.  Even in the 80’s it wasn’t cool and you could get away with anything fashion wise back then.  Leg-warmers dude, leg-warmers and head bands.

But that being said I did notice that the retro thing for the 70’s then 80’s started to speed up quite a bit and was killed off with the new rave thing from the 90 in around 2008 because it was shit.

It got to a point where retro had caught up so much it was last year’s stuff repackaged.

So, something had to be done, right? 

And what did the good people of Old London town turn to?

Yep we are going back to when everything was in black and white and rock and roll was just a thing kids had just started to listen to.  We are talking baby boom era, pre-rockabilly, short back and sides, braces on your trousers and proper shaving products late 1940’s.

And about time too! 

We are going through a retro movement that means grooming and sharp dress rather than some rehashing of some terrible, unwashed youth counter culture.  Look at the nineties, fucking grunge.  Who the fuck wants to walk about looking like that anymore?

Ripped jeans and skanky jumpers; looking like you’ve just been raped by tramps in an old oil barrel, then got dragged through some sort of prickle bush.  Fuck that shit, I aint ever going back.

And you can keep that mod crap, their suits might be sharp but have you seen the state of their skin.  All that cheap whizz has a price, people.  And let’s not forget that their music aint all that, unless you have a dig through the northern soul stuff, some of that is pretty tight.

Paul Weller smells of piss and don’t even get me started on The Who. 

Didn’t one of them get done for having child porn images on his computer then say it was for a book he was researching?  The one with the big nose and the busted ear drums, that cunt.  When did that book come out, I can’t recall?

Fucking nonce! 

Speaking of retro paedophile mishaps, I can guarantee that ‘Goldie Looking Chain’ are regretting basing their image on Jimmy Saville; all that jewellery and charity shop track suits, wankers.  Oi son, your hero is a paedo!

Whatever happened to the GLC?  Did everyone just stop finding poor quality hip hop and corner shop, hash smoking hooliganism just a little too much with that Welsh accent?  Yeah, I thought so; so what if one of their mate’s mum has a penis, she probably still has a career.

Speaking of career, I was happily informed about a month ago by my computer that I have been running my blog for over two years now and that it was a celebration.  At the time I was just waking up and still lying there in just my pants so wasn’t in the mood for partying.

To be honest I had totally forgotten about the notification until I was clearing out my email account junk mail from out of date porno subscriptions and loan reminders.

It did however give me a rundown of the last couple of years, stats and highlights and all that.  So I had a little look see to see what has gone down in my blog world.

There were a tonne of posts that had flashed up in a sort of ‘greatest hits’ and I had a bit of a read through and reminisced.  It was also a bit like therapy in a way, the way a doctor would go back through old case studies to identify the defects within a new patient to figure out what’s wrong.

As it turns out I have realised that I am a self-loathing yet narcissistic, bum fighting, celebrity hating, porno obsessed, blood fetishist that can’t hold a decent conversation with anyone without offending/making them cry.

I made a girl cry down the pub a few weeks back when I explained to her my feelings towards mortality.  She did ask.  Fake arse goth chicks.  They play all dark but when it gets real, they run home to the burbs and hide in their on-suite bathroom.

But really, it hasn’t seemed that long since I started this thing and the support that I have had for it over the last year is overwhelming.  It’s a conversation starter now too, “I saw that post you put up the other day and…”  It either ends in a hug and a fist bump or someone wanting to kick my head in.

The amount of hits that I get now is absolutely mental and aside from the occasional death threat (for those people, don’t get hit by a bus, that would break my fucking heart) the feedback has always been really positive.  So well done you lot.  What started out as a bit of a laugh for a college project turned into this seething mass of sweaty, pounding flesh and bile flavoured vitriol.

Let’s hope that the decision to go full time with writing in 2014 pays off;  it will be you lot that I come for when I lose everything because you got my hopes up.  I kid; I’ll make it work or die trying.

You are all my psychotherapists, thanks for listening. 

I need a new hobby

It has taken many years but I have turned a corner in my life and it is quite the milestone.

I am now totally desensitised to pornography.

Really, I think I have seen it all now, with some obvious exceptions.  I am not that cunt from the Lost Prophets.

When you are eating a bowl of Wheeto’s while watching a woman in a full gimp suit being fucked by a mechanical dildo/go-kart, life probably doesn’t have that many surprises left.  It’s just all one big fleshy blur now, one giant ball of lubed up, sweaty penetration.

Seriously, it’s just a sea of never ending female ejaculate and moaning whores flopping about all over the place.  I never thought I would say this in my lifetime but not even the hardest of lesbian ‘insertion’ clips even raises an eyebrow nowadays.  I think there might be a problem.

I’m not even joking when I say that I have searched for some of the most obscure porno that can be found.  I once put ‘girl from Sunderland gets fucked in a nightclub cloakroom’ into a google search, but it didn’t bare fruit.

A girl was being fucked in a cloakroom, but she wasn’t from Sunderland.  I felt let down.

Don’t get me wrong it’s not like I don’t enjoy a good porno, it’s just that there isn’t much out there that I haven’t seen.  Car park gang bangs, gimps getting kicked in the bollocks, lesbian wrestle rape, I have googled them all.  It must be like working at a chocolatiers, after a time you must just get sick of chocolate.

Have you ever met a porn star, they are just like real people but with the capacity to take a 2 litre coke bottle up them.  You will be more than surprised to find that they don’t spend the entire time fucking people/stuff while you are with them.

I knew this girl from years ago, back in the old club days that started doing magazine work, nothing too hardcore just tits and gash stuff but she wanted to go into videos.  I remember she was working for a magazine that she had never seen and asked me what it was like and what sort of stuff they did.  I didn’t know the magazine so we scoured North London until we found an issue in a Euro-store and we had a look.

She was more than happy to take the job after she saw that there was some lesbian stuff in there and a lot of dildo play.  Bless her.  She later showed me her dildo collection.  It was extensive.

I remember there was one that had a hilt like a boot knife.  What a girl.

It’s always awkward when you get spotted leaving a sex shop by someone you know.  Once me and
this girl were leaving one of the London sex super stores on Charing Cross road and there was a girl that I used to date waiting for her mate outside.  She just found it funny but I think the girl that I was with was a little embarrassed.

A good mate of mine back in the day got a job in a late night sex shop that just did DVD’s and tape.  He loved it because the boss would leave him to the place pretty much all night and we used to smoke weed and go through the Japanese girl on girl section.  It was a cool place to hang out and we would often take the piss out of the seedy little blokes that would frequent the place after dark.

We would spend the night jotting down notes for scripts and giggle at the hardcore S&M we would put on then go flyering for some shitty indie clubs.  Good times.

I think I could handle being a smut peddler, I could handle working in one of those places but I wouldn’t want to work in a peepshow.  All that spunk up the walls that would have to be cleaned and I can only imagine what you would find in the bogs.  Having to spend all-day sitting there listening to blokes wanking through paper thin walls; might have to give that a miss, ta.

Have you ever been in one?  You pay £1 for about thirty seconds of some boss-eyed Ukrainian bird shoving a plastic corn on the cob up herself.  The floors in these places have this weird chalky film over the lino from all the disinfectant they have to tosh onto the floor.  Nice.

Some places have glory holes out back where you pop your dick through and some tart will ‘do stuff’ for a minimal fee.  I wouldn’t trust the place personally because you never know who’s on the other side.

Just after you chuck your muck you hear a bloke say “You’re welcome” on the other side of the partition.  The blood runs cold.

I did hear that there was one of those places close to where I live but I think it was just a place where old dudes went ‘cottaging’.  I also heard that someone got shot in a ‘cottage’ recently after performing an act and not getting any money or something.  Whatever, someone got blown then shot, life goes on.

I remember using one of the under street toilets in Kentish Town and when I came out of the cubicle there was this bloke just standing there even though there were free stalls.  He nodded at me; I left saying nothing and was not raped.

Happy days.

There’s a couple of peep shows at the bottom of Berwick street in the west-end an once I saw a bunch of kids hanging about outside  waiting for men to come out so they could point and shout at them for a laugh.  They were not laughing however when the gigantic Moroccan security guard beat the shit into two of them.

The amount of blood that poured from that kid’s nose was almost disturbing.

How we laughed.

Fight over those shoes, bitches!

Barry was a mall Santa, Barry found life tough.

Barry could stand no more, Barry had had enough.

Barry went to Hunter’s World, Barry bought a gun.

Barry started shooting kids, Barry found it fun.

Barry got aroused by death, Barry found it tops.

Barry washed his face with blood, Barry got shot by cops.

Some of you I am totally indifferent towards; some of you I consider tolerable, friends even; the majority of you I would like to see on fire.  That’s right I’m talking to you internet.

I have been out an amongst you all over the last week or so to see what this year’s Christmas hubbub is like and the only conclusion that I can surmise is… that it’s worse than last year.

I didn’t think the wave of junk food consuming arseholes could have been topped from last year but people I am here to tell you that you have out done yourself.

I don’t think that I have seen the fast food places around here so jam packed as I did the Black Friday weekend.

Black Friday; who the fuck fell for that shit?

it’s on!

Who do you think gave that day that title?  The people that wanted you to buy loads of their shit so they made up a day to get you spending more of your hard earned cash than you really should have.  Shame on you, you walked right into it didn’t you.  You wandered into the stores like cud chewing cattle with clumps of money in your grease stained mitts because some slimy ad-man put a sexy spin on a normal Friday afternoon.

You fought each other over the last of the bargains and stampeded through shops on their special BF midnight openings.  People were actually hurt and hospitalised in crushes and riots over products.  Humanity, you fucking sicken me.

And then followed cyber Monday, the day the fucking internet caught fire because of all the online shopping.  It was chaos.  According to the media who wanted us to believe it was Columbine massacre lever news worthy.  It was front page shit, along with Nigella Lawson doing loads of coke.

Does that make her more of a milf or less?

UBERMILF!

Imagine after one of her killer sticky toffee puddings, she leans over with a huge glass of Pinot Noir sloshing over your lap and whispers into your ear with that sultry, posh filth tone “I want to do blow off the tip of your penis.”  Just think about that for a moment lads… just a moment… and just a little bit longer.

Sploosh!

The majority of Daily Mail readers were probably appalled with her behaviour whereas the rest of us just shrugged and said “So?”

So what, the girl likes a bit of bugle, she’s not hurting anyone.  If anything she did it to take the edge off of her turbulent relationship with that Saatchi scumbag.  If we remember he did strangle her in public then lied about it.  The man is a complete wanker and we’re having a go at her for a little bat food.  Come on people, let’s show a little decorum.

Amy Winehouse does a shit tone of heroin and puts the videos of her bumbling about on you tube and she gets a state fucking funeral when she dies; Poor old Nigella turned to the old dusty showbiz as a form of escape from a violent husband and the press vilify her like some war criminal.

Speaking of war crimes have you seen the drivel pouring out of Channel 5 this Christmas?  They really have strung together the worst schedule of made for TV festive movies.  For example 2005’s ‘Meet The Santa’s’.  This is a sequel to the classic ‘Single Santa Seeks Mrs Claus’ staring possibly my favourite actor of all time Steve Guttenberg.

These really are the worst films that have ever been made and really seal the deal when it comes to America taking European customs and sticking their huge red white and blue cock into them.

America, could you please stop taking our stuff and fucking it for us, you are a bastard race with no history and nobody likes you.  you do not rule us so fuck off and get your own stuff, you morons.  Thanks and kind regards the rest of the world.

America

And before any American friends get fired up and ‘wanna go’ over the history thing, remember that I come from a town that is mentioned in the Doomsday Book.

Only in America could they take a magical, quaint family orientated holiday period like Christmas and make it all about advertising and shopping.  They have sugar coated the whole thing so that even in more traditional parts of Europe they have pretty much lost the meaning of it.  Most people only consider it Christmas when they see the Coke Cola advert with the big Santa truck.  When the fuck did this become a British tradition?  Thanks America for giving the world corporate diabetes.

But I have strayed from the path a little here, I’m sure my beef was with shopping rather than slamming the Americans for their blatant rebranding of tradition.

In town today there were a lot of people giving out flyers for various goods and services.  Like a fool I thought that they would be for quaint things like carol recitals or mince pie and tea evenings at the local salvation army.  How wrong was I?

The first that was thrust into my hand by an over enthusiastic woman was for a 50 % discount at a tanning salon.  That’s what I think of when I think Christmas.

Standing in a booth wearing swimming goggles getting sprayed orange with a dye that is sure to give me breathing problems in later life.

The second I was given was for Cash Converters.  I can only imagine loads of people queuing up to sell their stuff so that they can buy their greedy children stuff that they don’t need because they won’t stop screaming in toy shops.

I have never seen the point in putting yourself in dep’t for Christmas.  Why spend money you don’t have just so you can give a load of people a load of shit that they probably don’t want?

But anyway… I hope you all have a wonderful time and stuff yourself with treats and drink yourselves into a stupor.

I however will be worrying about my redundancy and how I’m going to pay my bills in the new year.

One last thing… avoid Bluewater, it’s like a riot.

Synchronised jumping that gives 20 something women the gush!

I have just seen something that has made me want to buy plastic explosives.

While watching television and chowing down on some of the best nachos I’ve had since my mate Jewish Barry’s wedding, I saw it.

At first I didn’t know what was going on.  I think I must have been in shock.  I know that my mouth fell open in horror at what I was seeing and something in my head just snapped.  I must have looked like a Japanese horror film ghost.  I could feel a breeze on my tonsils, my maw was open that wide.

The atrocity that I was witnessing was the merging of two lumps of festering dung to make a giant pile of what can only be described as complete shit.  McBusted!

The entirety of humanity had just failed for me at that moment.

Stillness… followed by the feeling of fire inside me somewhere but to my surprise wasn’t a deep, primal anger burning at my very soul.  I was just sick in my mouth a little bit.

just one grenade and its done!

For fuck sake, I had just forgotten about those two abominations and then some money grabbing prick went and merged the two together.  If any of you reading this that I know personally that considers themselves a grown up buys a ticket and goes to this atrocity then please, consider yourself dead to me.  Seriously!

I remember the joy I felt when both of those bands fell to the wayside, but I shuddered the day I heard that Take That were reforming because I knew that soon the floodgates would open.  And they did.

The influx of shit boy bands reforming was almost head numbing.  But I never saw this cluster fuck coming.  Who could have?

Someone out there; and I can only imagine a cross between Nosferatu, Margaret Thatcher and Simon Cowell, put this thing together.  They sat there, in some kind of typhus riddled castle up on a mountain in the dead of night and they said to their minions ‘we need to merge the worst two bands in the world.”

Some kind of demon deal was done over this.  I can only imagine some infant children were sacrificed in some kind of blood orgy to a beast like god long forgotten.  The slime god Pete Waterman.

At first I thought it was a duel headlining thing but after the advert had finished I realised that I had heard the voiceover use the term ‘super group’.  The world’s greatest super group no less.

Please, for the love of the sea please tell me what is going to be so super about the whole thing.

A shit load of women in their mid-twenties reminiscing about when they were teenagers and pissing off the entire pub by putting on every song by these cunt bands on the jukebox.  All those walking wide-on’s in the o2 arena.  Can you imagine the amount of Impulse deodorant that will be sold just to cover up the cooch-musk?  The owners of Boot’s must be rubbing their hands together.

this was my reaction to the news the two bands had merged!

Think of all those teenage girls out there that lost their virginity to the sound of ‘Year 3000’.  They’ll be able to take their illegitimate one night stand children along to have a groove around too.

I hated those bands when they were at their peak.  It was horrible saccharine coated money laundering drivel aimed to get young girls (and gay men) wet so they can charge £70 a fucking ticket.

I have never got that, I thought the price of the tick would go down the more people that you go into a venue.  A small place charges between £5 and £10 for entry and you can see the band up close and personal.  If the place is really small you’ll probably meet the band at the bar or selling their stuff on their own merch table.

But a band like McFly or Busted you pay £50+ to sit in row Z where you need binoculars to be able to see the fucking stage.  As for meeting the band, you have to have cancer or something to be able to get back stage to ‘meet they guys’ for the grand total of 2 seconds.

Unless you’ve got a bald head and drip hanging out of your arm on children in need you have more chance of getting a posh wank from the pope.

Who would want to meet a pack of soulless cretins anyway?

If I were close to the end the last thing I would want to see coming at me is that bass player prick from busted.  Hasn’t he got the mind to know that dressing like a teenage girl doesn’t make you look young?  It makes you look like the nonce at the skate park.  No one likes the nonce at the skate park.

Look at the state of these jumped up wankers.  Who are they trying to kid?  When Take That came back they did it properly calling themselves a ‘man-band’ and dressed accordingly.   They had grown up and their image reflected that.  Fuck, I sound like a fan or something.

But with ‘McFuckingBusted’ they are turning out pretty much the same as when they started.

calm down love, where’s ya mate with the tits?

And where the fuck is the one with the massive eyebrows?  You know the one, the one that looks like a fucking Thunderbird’s puppet, the one Fern Cotton let hump all over her.  Silly cow.  Lesson learned, yeah, love?

That’s why her nostrils are so flared, she still can’t believe she let that douche anywhere near her… let alone drop spongle all over her arse cheeks.  I was always more of a fan of her mate, that Holly Willoughby tart.  Talk about boobage!

I believe his name was Charlie.  Fitting.

Dunno about you but I still prefer to call him ‘That Cunt’ from Busted.  It narrows the list down to three people that way but you get what I mean.

Please, please, please, can someone out there bomb the fucking stage right at the moment they pull one of their overly choreographed punk jumps.  You’ll hear the collective squelch of a mass wide-on and the O2 arena will be engulfed in flames.

We live in hope.

I paid her; I get to carry her corpse

Never meet your heroes, that’s what they say isn’t it? 

Looking back, I guess I have met a few people that could be considered ‘heroes’ in a broad sense as most of mine are pretty far from the mainstream.  The majority of my idols are dead to be fair.

I would like to think that if I met William Burroughs he would be a fairly nice guy, as long as he wasn’t on a massive comedown.  We can all get a bit crabby when we’re Jonesing and that man did take a lot of skag in his day.

I did meet Lemmy; I gave him change for the fruit machine back when the London Astoria 2 was still there; that was pretty cool.  The LA2’s been knocked down now and is getting replaced with executive living quarters of some shitty office building.

I used to love that place, so much better than its bigger brother and I have been to so many legendary gigs in there.  I have seen so many killer bands in that place, Cannibal Corpse, Morbid Angel, Death, At the Gates, Dissection, shit even a band that I was in played that place.

The times I have spent just queuing up outside there.  Standing in the rain and the cold clutching my ‘first 50 on the door’ goodie bag coupon cut out of Metal Hammer magazine.  Remember them?

But anyway… heroes and all that.

I know a guy that was working at Reading this year and purposely avoided Mike Patton on the off chance that he turned out to be a bit of a prick.  I’m sure he’s a nice guy but you just don’t know do you.

Take for example the peoples favourite (well in the 90’s anyway) Michael Barrymore.

The guy goes from being the host of one of the most popular game shows on prime time television to a depressive coke head with a dead homosexual boy in his swimming pool.  Class.  Apparently he works part time in a garden centre in Brentwood.

But it doesn’t stop there; look at the Operation Yew tree arrests.  My entire youth has been destroyed.  It seems like every bloke that was on the telly/radio has been arrested for paedophilia or rape.

Only the other day I was watching some old public information films from the 70’s and 80’s on You Tube.  It brought back so many memories.  The kid getting blown up trying to retrieve his Frisbee from the pylon.  The creepy voice of Donald Pleasance laughing away as a child floats face down in a foot of stagnant water.   http://youtu.be/m0xmSV6aq0g  Check it out!

But then things took a sinister turn. 

Jimmy Savile popped up with the ‘clunk, click, every trip’ tagline and my blood ran cold.  Of course he want kids to put their seat belts on, if they don’t die there are more for him to fuck.

Then a clip of Rolf Harris came on with him surrounded by kids at a swimming pool.  It was for teaching children to swim.  A few years ago everyone that watched it would be saying “Nice one, Rolf, cheers for keeping our children safe, well in!”  Now everyone that sees it would just call him a fucking nonce.

And he painted the queen.

I wonder what she makes of it all.  Loads of people that she has met and endorsed for their charity work turn out to be kiddie fiddlers.  She’s probably down with it; after all they only really targeted working class kids and she did knight the majority of the monsters.  That’s why they all work for children’s charities, get and old list going, easy to source addresses and what not.

It’s funny how no modern day celebrities have been exposed as predators.  I reckon that Ant and Dec have a very dark past.  When the cameras are off in the jungle it all goes a bit ‘Cannibal Holocaust’.  I wonder if they raped that Cat Deeley, I wonder if that’s why she’s not on the telly anymore.  I was really wanting her to be hit by a car.  I didn’t much like her anyway… too many teeth.

I can’t wait for some more celebrity scandals to come out, really juicy ones like Mr clean cut Phillip Schofield is found having his nuts whipped in a Soho dungeon by an inexpensive dominatrix.

Maybe some kind of drug induced breakdown involving Dale Winton going on a bumming rampage on Hampstead Heath.  He would be found by a ‘Sun’ reporter asleep in a bush, naked as the day he was born covered in the seamen of seventy men.  It would take an operation to remove the traffic cone from poor old Dale.  The media attention will eventually drive him to suicide.

We were playing guess the next celebrity paedophile at work and someone had Rolf Harris before it transpired that he was a nonce.  I had Jim Davidson but he turned out just to be a rapist.

I still have Dave Benson Phillips in the paedo sweep stake.

Simon Cowell looks like the sort of bloke that doesn’t like hearing the word no.  It’s that fucking haircut; it makes him look like a sex pest.  But having a pop at poor old Simon is a little too easy; the material writes itself with that cunt.

I’d like to see some Hollywood A-listed get caught trying to dispose of the corpse of a cheap hooker.  Christian Bale out in the desert burying a whore rolled up in a rug or dissolving her in acid in a back road motel/meth lab.  That would be brilliant.  Maybe even someone like Adam Sandler gets caught fucking a corpse in a morgue; that would be killer.

And I don’t think we have had a serial killer celebrity yet.  Or a killer that just targets A-list actors and personalities.  They could call them the Golden Globe killer or something.  The Oscar night strangler.  Awesome.

I can feel a novella coming on.

We have been spoilt over the last few years with celebrities taking just a little too much of this that and the other and say, slip under in the bath and drown.  So don’t take too many painkillers or drink till you choke on your own vomit.

How much do you have to do to get to that point?  Now, I have drunk to excess on several occasions but I have always managed to wake up the next day.  I might have been late for work but I have managed not to die in my sleep.

There was that time I thought I was having a heart attack in the night but it turned out that I was just laying on my arm and it had a bit of a spaz out.

It did freak me out a bit. 

You say Arsenal one more time and I’ll volley you off that stool!

So, let’s talk about football

And we could wax lyrical about the old rivalries support and why your team is a pile of shit whether they have been more successful over the years or not.

We could talk for days about the mind blowing amounts of money the players are paid and how it has detracted away from the old working class ballet modicum that it has held for so long.

We could poke holes in the theory that the influx of high paid foreign players has stunted the growth of home-grown players and damaged the national team, even though it hasn’t seemed to affected foreign leagues.

We could also chat about our favourite goals that we have seen scored over the years and talk about what makes a player a footballing genius.  For me, Paul Gascoigne scoring that epic 40 yard out free kick against the Gooner scum being right up with the best.  http://youtu.be/n0LZbyccHow Pick that out the net, mate.

We could talk about who we thought was the best player on the planet right now, Messi, Ibrahimovic, Bale, Ronaldo, the list goes on and on.  I’m not taking anything from Messi but I am a bit of an Ibrahimovic fan and I have a soft spot for Bale and can’t blame him for going to Madrid.  Ronaldo however is a cheating fucking wanker that looks like a lesbian.  Diving bastard.

We could talk about how it was a tougher sport back in the day and how easy the players hit the ground off of the slightest of touches.  I think we can agree that the days of the gladiatorial midfield hard men are pretty much over baring a few ‘special’ players.  Joey Barton for England, he mumbled under his breath.

And let’s leave alone what we think of the pundits.  Andy Townsend, I didn’t rate you as a player so why would I want to hear your thoughts at half time, fuck off.

Ave that, you cunt!

And some of the footballer melt downs are absolutely classic.  Big Ron’s racist outburst on live telly, Didier Drogba swearing and generally going mental at the end of a champions league defeat.  And who can forget the afore mentioned Joey Barton fighting pretty much the whole of the Manchester City eleven.  He even went for Mario Balotelli… who was on the bench.

Now I don’t profess to having an encyclopaedic knowledge of the game but I know people that do and I don’t want them pulling me up because I got a name or a stat wrong, so…

I would like to talk about how I see football as a curse.

It is, it’s passed down from generation to generation and in my case it was forced upon me.  I didn’t buy that first pair of boots.  I didn’t hand myself that ball and pushed myself out into the garden on a rainy day.  I didn’t buy those sticker albums or have the wait to choose what we watched on the telly in the evening.  I didn’t force myself to play football at school whether I wanted to or not.

It was pushed into my face from a young age.

I remember wanting to be a Norwich city supporter when I was about five because I liked the colours green and yellow but because my step father supported Spurs, I had to be a spurs fan.

My brother is a spurs fan, as is my cousins and aunty… it’s a family curse.

And I don’t mean it in ‘well, we haven’t won anything in ages’ sort of a way, no.  Even if you support the most successful teams it’s still a curse.  Season after season you sit/stand glued to see the outcome of each match with bated breath.  Coming away from matches disappointed when on paper you should have hammered them.  Taking the scalp of the top teams only to be relegated for your trouble.

Yet we sit there don’t we.  Every weekend we sit there with a pint in our hand staring up at the big screen or down at the pitch screaming at the linesman and for what?

When you win the league you are only the champions for the duration of the summer break and then it starts all over again.  A never ending cycle of athleticism and bad refereeing decisions.  Did the ball cross the line was it offside, did he dive or was he pushed?

“Is the ref fucking blind or what?”

But yet we love it don’t we.  I know I do, I love Tottenham through thick and thin, through the good times and the bad, and believe me there have been plenty of bad times of us over the years.

I have a soft spot for QPR though, due to the TV show ‘Bottom’.  When the ‘Gers’ came up to the premier league I didn’t watch the matched between them and Spurs.  Funny how people have little superstitions like that over sport isn’t it.

I wonder how many players have lucky pants or have little voodoo dolls of other players that they don’t like.  You see players praying all the time.  Especially at Spurs, they are praying to keep their jobs the way some of them have been playing recently and taking into consideration the amount of money they spent.

But that’s another gripe that’s far too easy to get involved with.

I guess one day I will pass the curse onto my children, force them to watch Spurs win/loose week in week out.  I’ll probably sent them to a school that will make them play football out in the wind and rain whether they like it or not.  And one day I’ll stand on the touchline fist fighting with another parent over a dodgy challenge from a rival school player at an under 16’s match.

In a way it’s almost like religion.  At least I know that Gareth Bale is real, I’ve seen the man play.

I for one can’t pass this family curse on to my kids, but if they say to me that they are going to support Arsenal, I’ll drown the fuckers in the canal.

Speaking of football, I’m off to check final score and see if I’m picking up from the bookies.  Might stop off for a hot Bovril on the way back.

Peace.