Yeah, I’m here to fix the sink

Do you remember your first porno?

I don’t mean the porno you were in, (have you ever been in a porno?)  I mean the first time you saw your first pornographic movie.  I certainly do almost like it was yesterday.  Ah, memories.

My little brother and his mate had found my step dad’s porn stash in the hold-all in the cupboard under the stairs.  I had found it long before they had but at that time it was just magazines.  When they found it there were a few tapes in there.

I had come home from playing football over the park with my mate to find my brother and his mate sitting in the lounge looking rather sheepish and a little flustered.  I asked them what they were up too but their lips were sealed.

With the application of a headlock and a couple of quite solid punched to the top of the head I managed to extract their dirty little secret.

They had been watching one of the old man’s grumble flicks!

Once again I had seen grot in magazine form but never on the screen and it was a moment that changed my life forever.

If I remember rightly there was a bimbo waiting for the pizza dude to arrive when Peter North and his mate turn up with some ‘extra pepperoni’.  I found it a little strange that this woman was so enthusiastic to greet these complete strangers into her home.  She was very hospitable.  Neither of the men were the pizza guy.

I’d like to think that when the pizza did show up she got it for free as the scene went on for a good half hour.

Not only was it the first porno movie I had seen it was also my first glimpse of a DP scene.  That woman really did like those two men indeed.  Talk about getting dropped into the deep end.  I think I was around the age of 13.

It was also the first time that I had really seen a porn-star’s dick and to be honest I was a little scared.  That thing looked like a 2litre Pepsi bottle.  Being a thirteen year old boy that gets the giggles on the mere mention of the word ‘pubes’, seeing something of that scale was awkwardly hilarious.  I still giggle when I hear the word sausage to this day.

The first few porno mags that I had seen were in the 80’s and were a little old then so you couldn’t really see anything past the massive thatches of pubic hair.  There was pussy in there somewhere but you needed a hedge trimmer to get to it.  I remember in my golden age of porno that leg warmers and neon sweat bands were a big thing.  The amount of women I have seen getting fucked looking like they are about to hit a fancy dress party as John McEnroe is almost countless.

The dudes all had moustaches like boomerangs and dicks like scaffold poles and all did menial labour jobs like plumbing or white goods repair.  Watching some big titted cougar bimbo go to town on a pool man was part of my growing up process.

Ah, the exuberance of youth; this was back when I could wank ten times in an afternoon and not suffer a mild heart attack.

Did you read about that kid that yanked it until he died?  He had something stupid like 43 tugs in one day and dropped dead from heart failure.  His dick must have looked like a burnt match by the end of it.  I would have been more worried about it starting a fire.

But that the thing with modern day eroticism, it’s all about extremity.

What was considered hardcore when I was a kid is nothing by today’s standards.

Take for example the fuck machine websites.  If you haven’t seen them then you need to check them out, amazing stuff.

They take a consenting young lady, strip her and tie her up like a human pretzel, often suspended from the ground and subject her to a series of humiliation practices.  Then as she is about to break the take what I can only describe as a diamond drill (http://www.alibaba.com/product-gs/1319568905/CAYKEN_405MM_diamond_core_drilling_rig.html?s=p ) with a big rubber cock on the end.  They jam that into one of her holes that doesn’t already have something stuffed into it then let loose some dude on the controls; he’s usually dressed like an SS officer.  This shit is bizarre hardcore bondage at its very best and trust me when I say you need to check it out.

If I had seen this shit when I was thirteen, I probably would have stayed celibate for a lot longer than I did.

http://www.infernalrestraints.com/device/bondage/

This isn’t to say that all porn is like this nowadays but, don’t be surprised if you haven’t watched any bongo for a few years to see three dudes with their dicks jammed into one girls anus at the same time.

I have seen some porn from the 1020’s and those cats were fucked up.

Some young girl getting beasted by some sixty year old dude with a flaccid cock and a walrus moustache that is quite happy to eat his own cum out of the girls butt when he is done.  Vintage.

But my absolute favourite thing about porn is the dialogue.

I had a DVD that was set in a holiday villa with these two families getting away from it all and getting up to all sorts of mischief.  It had some of the funniest dialogue I have ever heard ion a porno.  Including such lines as ‘that’s not where you meant to keep your racket’, ‘you blowing on it haven’t helped the swelling at all’ and ‘a proctologist, what’s that?’  Fucking classic.

You know you have seen a lot of porn when you have a top five male porn-star list.

Herschel Savage, Jamie Gillis, Rocco Siffredi, John Holmes and Randy West.  That’s pretty weird looking at it actually.  Fuck it, it’s staying in, I’m not deleting anything.

Don’t even get me started on the list of girls, we could be hear a while.

A black cat tried to cross my path this morning… I put it in a bin.

Seriously though, that woman that chucked that cat in the bin needed a good hard slap across the face… with a cricket bat.

I believe the punishment given was for the cat owner to stuff the fat cow into a wheelie bin and push it off a cliff.  I don’t do cats but even I thought that was a little out of order; turned out to be rather bad luck for her.  Silly bitch.

But I’ve veered from my original train of thought.

Bastard thing!

What is the deal with black cats and bad luck, where does that little old wives tale come from?  Well according to the fount of knowledge that is Wikipedia in the UK black cats are seen as lucky and are often given as gifts to young brides.

Since when?

I have never heard that.  I was always told that if a black cat crosses your path you will have bad luck.  Wikibollocks does say that that myth is prevalent to gamblers but nothing more.

A lady friend of mine once told me that you have to open crisp packets ‘the right way up’ or I would have bad luck.  I get that, from the point of if you put the packet down and its opened with the lettering upside down, when you pick them up your crisps might end up all over the pub carpet.  I tend to open them right side up because of OCD’s.

That also goes for walking under ladders and over three drains.  I have made an effort not to walk over three drains ever since I was a child and for the life of me I don’t know why.  Just because my mate Ben told me that it was bad luck when I was eleven.

Apparently it had something to do with sewerage workers only opening one drain hatch to enter the sewer and piss heads falling down them on the way home.  But when I was at school it was just a bad luck thing.

There was also ‘walking under the queers legs’.  Those signs in the middle of the path that run over head with a pole either side; can’t walk under those.  Still can’t to this day for the same reasons as the three drain thing.  Looking back, my mate Ben was really superstitious for a kid.  I don’t think he was a gypsy?

I still tip my cap when I see a magpie, can’t help it.  That’s down to my granddad and that poxy poem.  You know it, one for sorrow two for joy and all that.  For the life of me I don’t know where I got the superstitious twitch of saying ‘hello Mr Magpie how are you today’ from?

Never mind the superstition; I’m getting under that ladder!

Fuck, I never really realised how superstitious I was until I started to write it down.  I do the thing with spilt salt and that counting thing when skipping stones.

If I see a penny I pick it up; not because I think it’s lucky, I just throw it in the jar at home with my loose change and at the end of the month cash it all up.  Most times it’s enough for a rather substantial Chinese feast.

And how many of us have done that thing with the wishbone on the chicken?  All of us.

But just what are the advantages of snapping a bird’s furcula bone over its still steaming carcass during a Sunday roast?  Nothing, other than instilling the morbid fascination of breaking neck bones from a young age.

A mate of mine told me that it is very bad luck to make eye contact with a fish.  I asked him why that was and he didn’t really furnish me with an answer other than he has a lifetime ban from the London aquarium.  We later found out it was because he was found doing naked star jumps in the shark tunnel.

Odd bloke.

This is the same bloke that wants his penis tattooed as a pepper grinder like the ones the waiter brings to your table in Italian restaurants.

As for opening an umbrella inside, well the only way it’s really unlucky is if it clips someone in the eye and blinds them.

Some bloke came into the train station while I was buying my ticket and used the machine next to me.  This prick was holding the most obnoxiously sized golf umbrella I had ever seen.  The thing was that big I had to shuffle over a little to finish my transaction.  He had already bumped it into an old lady and the entrance door frame, the tit.

It was really pissing down outside so the thing was soaked and the guy didn’t even apologise when the water from the brolly poured down on to my work bag.  I wanted to punch the fuck out of him but there are far too many CCTV cameras in the station.

It was quite funny watching him getting it hooked on the ticket barriers and ripping the massive green and white fucker to bits.

I remember as a kid avoiding cracks in the pavement because of the old adage ‘step on a crack, break your mothers back.  Now I just stamp on them.  She remains free from paralysis.

Did you know that the fear of Friday the 13^th is called friggatriskaidekaphobia?  Now that is a fucking mouthful.  Try remembering that for a pub quiz.

I would love to use that as an excuse for an extra day on the piss next time it swings around.  I can imagine sitting in my disciplinary for repeat absence trying to explain that one away.  I wonder if I can get a letter from the doctor.

There are actually people that are scared of a date on the calendar, these people I like to call the slightly brain damaged.  I can see them now ripping away a sheet of their day by day calendar with a shaking hand and a brow beaded with sweat.  Then that fateful day when they tare that last one off, violently shit out and slump quietly into a fear induced coma.

http://pendencrystals.blogspot.co.uk/2011/07/bad-luck-omens-and-superstitions.html

It does worry me so some of the things people hold faith in and take deadly serious that are just a pile of nonsense… like Christianity Judaism or Islam.

Peace!  Out!

Be a man, fake tan!

There has been a thing around now for a while; well when I say thing I mean group of people that I haven’t really had much to do with.

Until now.

It all started a few years ago with the influx of American reality television and the bombardment of stupid people on our screens.

At first I didn’t notice, nothing was wrong, just a bunch of stupid men talking shit to a bunch of stupid women for a stupid fucking audience.  Then I noticed them more; popping up in unexpected places like in music videos or films.

Then it happened.

I was reading a book one night when the name of these collective fuckwits came crashing out from the pages.  I couldn’t believe it, then a little part of my heart died when I realised that these fuckers will never go away.

GUIDOS!

check out these pricks!

And I don’t mean the terminology for Italians that live in America, no.  I don’t mean it as an ethnic slur whatsoever.

I’m talking about those fucking dickheads with the ‘blowout’ haircuts and spend all their free time either at the club or in the gym.  I think the reason they call it a blowout hair cut is because it looks like a truck tyre burst in their face.

Have you seen these people, they look fucking ridiculous.  I saw a picture of one dude wearing a t-shirt that was ripped from the neck to his belly button.  I also saw a picture of some douche wearing a shit that said ‘be a man – fake tan!’  What a cunt.

These are the kind of people that will physically assault people for reading when they were in high school.  The kind of people that probably think the world is flat because that’s how it looks on a map.

These dudes hang around in these massive balls of homoerotic retardation and have a morbid fear of anyone that shows any sign of intelligence.  When this spastic ‘Guido’ party ball gets rolling there is no stopping it.  The destruction it leaves is unlike anything I have ever witnessed in my entire life.

Within minutes everyone is drunk and all the women within a half mile radius have been sexually harassed.  These dudes drip with testosterone and hair gel to the point it just becomes an orgy of rippling muscles, sweat and bad language.  And they dress like mentally challenged people getting dressed in a charity shop in the dark.

But no Guido party would be complete without a pack of Guidettes.

Holy fucking shit, if you thought the dudes were a bunch of dribbling mongs then you are in for a treat/shock.

These… things are what pass for women in some parts of the Americas and I can honestly say that no sir, I don’t like it.

It’s very hard to work out where these little darlings are from because their skin tome is unlike anything that I have seen on ‘The Only Way Is Essex.’ I mean we are talking net level fake tan.  It’s applied that heavily that it can no longer be considered fake.  The stuff they must use to get them that colour I can only imagine is far more harmful to the human body than the sun.

the dude is thinking ‘Well in!’

I have seen a picture of a woman that has that much makeup on, she is the same colour as shit.  If you were to hold out a colour chart and ask me to point out shit, I would be pointing at that.  Check the picture out; how the fuck is that woman smiling?

Is there something wrong with her?

And the fact that that photograph was taken at some kind of social gathering make me really worried for the fate of humanity.  Has no one pointed out that she looks a fucking state?  This is why you should never listen to your friends when you ask advice because they will only try to make you feel better about yourself.  That stupid bitch was better off asking a complete stranger if she looked hot or not.

No love, you look like a turd with a wig on.

We have them over here in good old Blighty but no in such numbers or in such high concentrations.  Some parts of New Jersey and New York are over run by this ‘whole bottle of cologne’ wearing nightmare.  If you think the clubs of London stank of CK1 or Hugo Boss, fuck you have smelt nothing till you have been to a Guido bash.  They must marinade themselves in the shit before the go out.

And then it all kicks off.

And let’s not fuck about here, it isn’t just a couple that start fighting, we are talking a full on, bar clearing brawl.  They fucking go for it, and it’s usually the women that start throwing the first fists.  These bitches are just that… bitches!

I am so glad that we are a little more desensitised to the douchbag menace over here but unfortunately it is spreading.  It’s the new wave of popular culture. We had the mods then the glam movement then the punks followed by the rave and indie scenes.  Now we have a bunch of dicks.  I wonder if that’s how they will refer to them in a future edition of NME.

But I would take all of them; every last spiked haired, eyebrow plucking, fist bumping man jack of them in swap for someone that we have that is far lower than any Guido.

John Terry.

You will never know the amount of hate that I have for that man.  A man that would call himself captain all the while fucking his mate’s wife and let’s not ask him what he really thinks of some of the ethnic players in the premier league.

I really don’t like his eyes, he looks like every bully that has ever walked the earth and once I saw him wearing a pair of sandals.  I want him to die.  I’m not going to take away that he is a good footballer, not at all, he’s just a cunt.

Yeah, I’m not a fan.

Luckily his career has pretty much died now and I don’t think even channel 5 would pay him for his punditry skills just in case he does a ‘Big Ron Atkinson’ on live TV.

Good luck with the future Mr Terry; I wish you all the best.

You massive racist!!!

I put my root beer into a square cup… now it’s just beer!

Does anyone near me actually write stuff?

It would be nice if there were a few more people about locally that I could actually interact with on a social level to compare projects and ideas.

Maybe there are and I just haven’t found/met them yet.

And I mean writers, people that are actually doing stuff and getting out there not just the bloke in the pub with the line ‘I have a good idea for a book.”

Then please feel free to write the bastard and fuck off while you’re doing it so I can smash this jaeger-bomb down.

I once got a lift home from work from one of the drivers and had him pitch me this ‘novel’ that he started.  It was about a disabled boy and his coming of age.  It was by, far the longest half hour of my life.

The other bloke that was with us was trying his best not to burst into hysterical laughter.  In doing so, he was setting me off; I had to bite my fist for most of the journey.

Sounds really sad but it’s quite lonely trying to forge out a career in writing.  I spend most of my free time on my own typing away and the only interaction I have with other writers is online.  Having a bit of face time with someone that is getting stuff published or publishing stuff themselves would be more than beneficial.

But anyway…

As some of you may know I use quite a few social networks.  Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, vine and of course the mighty WordPress for my blogging needs.  This apparently has given the modicum of ‘hipster’ with a few of my closer associates (or wankers as I like to call them.)

So I started to think about what would make me a hipster.

my name is John, but you can call me Fraggle!

Well for a start I do like the feel of a good thick woolly jumper and I was into the zombie thing before it was cool.

The majority of the music I listen too isn’t quite in the mainstream. I don’t like going clubbing but will go to parties in basements that are pretty much just clubs but with less fake tan covered douchebags and no doormen.

Sometimes I am known to buy vinyl.  I collect hard to find VHS tapes of horror movies in original ex-rental boxes.  I have expensive tastes when it comes to food and grooming products but spend little on pants and socks.  I have two pairs of glasses, both wayfarers.  I have more than once organised film screenings of obscure Italian slasher movies.  I do like a farmers/artisan market.  I know what artisan means.  I want to write for a living.  I make my own pickles.  And yes, I can cook… well.  I only like the original Star Wars movies.  I own more than one snapback hat.  I have collectables still in their packaging.

I also take photographs of my meals sometimes and post them online.  I do this because I know that it pisses some people off.  This pleases me.

Then I started to weigh what ways I’m not a hipster.

I don’t have a bike with skinny wheels and no breaks.  I don’t have a beard.  I don’t work in a mainstream clothing store but buy all my clothes from retro/charity shops.  I don’t work in HMV.  When I’m out I don’t sit on the pavement outside the pub smoking rollies.  I don’t think that German hip hop will be the next big underground thing.  I have a backpack and not a satchel.  I don’t like everything smothered in some kind of infused nut oil.  I am not a vegan.

So it looks like that the pros outweigh the cons… fuck.

But on another note.

I just read a mate’s status on Facebook about watching a family go through the recycling by his house and how it made him feel better about his bad day.  That wouldn’t make me feel better.  If anything I would be a little bit more peeved.

A pack of tramps have moved into the area and are going through people’s rubbish.  What would be next, finding your dog’s been eaten; someone has taken a shit in your pond and fucked one of your cats?

There was a bloke going through our bins last winter and I got stick because I threw a bucket of water over him.  Fuck it, if he died of hypothermia there would be one less bum on the planet.  He wasn’t a real homeless bloke anyway, he live in sheltered housing all snug and warm off the tax payers pound and just goes begging because he’s a scumbag.

I once watched that very man get punched by a gypsy outside Tesco.  No one helped.

Why do people think they have a right to life?  You die, that’s what people do.

If these do-gooders actually gave a fuck, why don’t they have hordes of homeless wankers living in their homes?

Because it would be a fucking nightmare.

You go to take a shower in the morning to find one of your pet homeless has overdosed in the night and its corpse has evacuated all its bodily fluids over your bathroom.  Or one day you come home to find all your electrical goods have been sold for cheap vodka by the alcoholics squatting in your kitchen.

A group of out of town tramps have got in contact with the ones in your house and had a party while you were at work.

“Just look what they’ve done to the drawing room Phillip!”

There’s now police wrestling a crack pipe from a naked man in your front garden, UB40 blasting out of your now broken windows and some smack whore has had a baby in the garage.  Where will you park your Prius with all that police cordon tape up now?

Some people are just scum bags and don’t give a fuck; we should not bother with them.  If we are lucky they will drink themselves into a stupor, fall asleep in the park and die from the cold weather like wasps.

When I was living in bedsit-land there were plenty of these scum-fucks to go around.  Every other night there was an argument or a fight.  I have seen stabbings, people getting bottled, and people getting arrested in the middle of the night.  All fun and games.

One bloke set fire to one of the rooms in a place I was staying in because the bloke that had just moved out had fucked his girlfriend while he was in prison.

There were two other blokes that were trying to steal a car by stopping a driver and dragging the poor guy out in the street and smashing him up with a hammer.  They were arrested at 3am while the rest of the house slept.  They did not go quietly.  Top night.

I stayed in a hostel once and, not only did a creepy Scottish crack head try to get into bed with me (which, in return he received a broken orbital bone for his trouble) but I found a man masturbating in the shared bathroom.  He was mental and told people that he was a direct descendant of the prophet Moses.  He was fully clothed and the water cold when I found him.  He had been in there for 24 hours just jacking it.

Someone also committed suicide while I was in that place, fucking amazing.

It was a bloke that used to eat out of bins and he had had a bit of a bad night on the brown and topped himself with a length of rope on the back of a door in the communal eating area.

It really put a bit of a downer on the bacon and eggs breakfast that morning.  For fuck sake, we always had bacon and eggs on Fridays.  I had cereal in the end.

So what I’m trying to say is that hipsters dress like tramps but they smell a little better and have neater beards.  But, I have never seen a tramp on a ten speed bike.

There now, I hope I have made your bad day seem that little bit better.

You sicken me.

Rough sex with a zombie around the back of the chippy!

So Halloween has been and gone.

The streets are littered with afro wigs and ripped neon fishnet stockings.  Stocks of apple sours and test tube shots are at a record low so it’s time to return to normality.

But how can we?

With the amount of zombies I have seen over the past week it’s hard to imagine that these are real people.  I was glad that I haven’t taken any acid over the festivities because someone would have got scrubbed out Walking Dead style.

It’s starting to piss me off though the amount of people that are getting into the zombie thing.  It’s a hipster trend that I was hoping to be killed off by the release of World War Z.

But no.

It would seem that it has only gotten more trendy and that you lot really can’t be fucked when it comes to fancy dress anymore.  Don’t get me wrong I have seen some pictures online of some great attempts.  Patrick Stuart in a bath (I’m guessing drunk) dressed as a lobster being a stand out, and I have seen some killer Miley Cyrus efforts but on the whole you are a disappointing bunch.

Dressing up like a slut and whiting your face out doesn’t make for a good costume, some of them must have to trowel on the white foundation to cover all that fake tan.

I went out last night to a party and all I could make out was that people had dressed as a dead version of something.  A dead version of Jay Gatsby, an undead Jimmy Savile (which I found hilarious) a walking corpse version of Jeremy Kyle complete with cue cards.  Great stuff.

Some however, had dressed as dead versions of things that I just couldn’t get my head around.

There was a girl dressed like a prostitute (maybe she had just come from work) with cat ears and whiskers on with her throat ripped out.  Sorry, don’t get?!

The prosthetic on the neck wasn’t half bad but I just didn’t get what she was meant to be.  There were also just people with blood on them, good effort people, really well done.  The joke being, and it cracked me up every time they did it, and I mean all night, was to say “You’ve got red on you” when they saw someone else with blood on them.  How we laughed.

Wankers!

I wonder how many girls have been accidentally impregnated this weekend done up as a zombie whore in some one night stand?

I’m now wondering, how many girls had their tampon fucked into their body by having a drunken scuttle fuck around the back of their local pub while ‘on’?  Toxic shock syndrome, happy Halloween bitch.

How many of them dropped their chips?

There was a party that sounded quite interesting but was being held at a club that’s lighting rig is supplied mainly by police cars after 10.30pm; it was a U.V zombie outbreak party.  Sounds good right?

I’m guessing from what I have heard the bar staff and DJ were done up and a few people turned up in fancy dress without knowing it was a zombie themed night.  I also heard that it kicked off because someone got U.V paint splashed up their new Fred Perry.

Someone pulled a knife.  There was the smash of glass.  A fat girl screamed.  No one died.  Party time!

I remember throwing one hell of a Halloween party when I was left in charge of a sixteen bedroom house by the river.  There was a buffet and a four gallon bowl of punch.  We made cocktails that looked like paint and the back garden nearly burnt down.  There were carved pumpkins and cocaine and ecstasy and all sorts.

A bloke got the raging hump because everyone was throwing mini scotch eggs dipped in mayonnaise up the back of his full length leather trench coat.  Nob-end.

There was even a fight, I’m sorry to say involving me and a skinhead and someone called an ambulance because one of the party goers took one too many pills, cooking their brain.

Oh, what a night.

When I was about six, I had the living shit scared out of me.  It was our first Halloween in our new house and my first year at school so I was all fired up for the festivities and learning about Halloween.  We had done stuff in out topic books and carved pumpkins with my folks and were watching scary stuff on the TV, the usual.  We were now just waiting for the trick or treaters to come around.

We had a big bowl of sweets by the front door and my dad had dug out his cricket bat for any teenage kids that threw eggs at the house or his car.

Then there was a knock at the door.

this is what I will look like when the booze wares off on Monday at work!

Now, me being six and full of beans, I bolted for that door but when I opened it I was confronted by Frankenstein’s monster.  I screamed the fucking house down.

Of course it wasn’t a real monster just some local kid in a good mask that couldn’t apologise enough to my laughing parents.  The scars have taken time to heal.

But now it’s over we have the awesomeness of firework night.

Standing around in a field putting a crick in your neck saying ‘ooooh’ and ‘aaaah’ with a few hundred other dickheads while Romanian gypsies go through your backpacks.

Every year one bonfire night gathering gets struck with an outbreak of food poisoning from some pikey hog roast van.  A whole group of people simultaneously shitting themselves on the explosion of a show-stopping Spanish bomb.  Timeless.

At least two pensioners have heart attacks where local bastard kids have stuffed their letter boxes with bangers.  You’d think by now old people would be used to shit like that and just duct tape their letter boxes shut for the night.  Some of them deserve it because they are football bursting old wankers that like to fuck with other people’s cats.  Sorry, just had a small flashback there.

And I just love the public information clips on the TV where some cute little girl grabs a handful of burnt-out sparkles and starts screaming.  Oh the panic.  I also like the one where the old dude gets his head pretty much blown off going back to a knackered firework.  Classic.

At some point over the next few days I’m sure I will be going to ‘Beddie’s’ off licence to by a shit load of ‘Thunder Kings’ and a bottle of tequila.  I will then spend my time blowing up the dog shit bins at the promenade, mostly at night… mostly.  They also work under water so koi carp owners beware.  It’s very similar to dynamite fishing, but funnier.

They never tell you not to put a Catherin wheel next to a shed that has a petrol can in it do they.  Fuckers.  Mind you the bastard did go up a treat and it made the paper.  Luckily it was the next door neighbour’s shed.

Once again, that’s what you get for fucking with my cat you withered old fucker, and it was me that bricked your window.  Fuck you!

Check out this old PSA and see if you remember laughing too!  http://youtu.be/KAB37o44aec

The old ‘dick in the popcorn box’ trick

So I’m sitting here trying to get this zombie novel together (which is taking ages due to having to work for a living) and I start day dreaming about the zombie apocalypse.

I start to think about how I would rate my chances is it all kicked off.  With all the zombie films and literature I have waded through I’d like to think that I have a bit of an advantage than your average Joe.  But chances are I will be dead within a week as I am a bit of a lazy bastard.

Imagine that being eaten to death.  I used to go out with this girl years ago that was all tits and teeth so I kind of know what being eaten alive is like.  She wasn’t very bright either so it was very much like fucking a zombie.  She didn’t smell dead though.  That was a good thing.

But, back to me slaving over my book; well, when I say book I am halfway through about 3 at the moment.

Its certainly taking its toll and the learning curve of writing a novel is so much steeper compared to writing short stories.  And to be fair I haven’t stopped writing shorts and slowed down with my zombie novel’s chapter development.  That and having to juggle a full time job makes my spare time very precious.

But then I got to thinking of all the pulp trash that’s floating around out there in print and thought, ‘I can write better than that’.  But can I?

Let’s take a look at one of my favourite genres at the moment, dinosaur erotica.  Yep you heard correct people.

There are currently in print book where women are being stalked then fucked by… wait for it… dinosaurs.  Sometimes there is a love story where the female heroin falls for the reptilian antagonist but I prefer the more dino-jump-fuck tales.  Is it rape when the aggressor is an extinct giant reptile?

And there are loads of these out there, there’s a whole erotic sub-genre involving cold blooded intercourse action.  One name that stands out in the field is the elusive Christie Sims.  I say elusive as she doesn’t really exist on any form of social network from what I can gather which leads me to believe that Christie Sims is defiantly a pen name.  There’s some blurb online about her writing while based at Texas U but I find it all a little spurious.

Somewhere out there is a boring old geography teacher called Brian or Clive that is knocking out these literary triumphs at weekends.  I salute you sir.

My favourite and may I add, a title that I have actually read twice just to be sure that I had really read what I had read is ‘T-Rex Troubles’.  Not only is the bimbo in the story stalked by the king of the dinosaurs, but the beast is telepathic.  It knows your deepest, wettest desires and knows when you are horny.  Classic.

This stuff makes ‘50 shades of Grey’ sound like a tea afternoon with the local WI.

If you have a kindle, get out and buy it; but be aware, you will be looked at as a nutter when you’re pissing yourself with laughter on your morning commute.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/T-Rex-Troubles-Dinosaur-Erotica-ebook/dp/B00EYQFY9I/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1382273923&sr=1-1&keywords=t+rex+troubles

If this post seems to go a little off topic it’s because I had a pub break mid flow and now have a blinder of a hangover.  This could get ugly.

So I turn to the Sunday morning comedown staple of cheese toasties, sweet tea and whatever trash I can stomach on the tube.  Ended up streaming the football but I think I have overdosed on tea.

While I was gorging myself and celebrating a comfy 2-nill win for the mighty Spurs I found a porn blooper website that is funny as fuck.

It’s got everything from accidental anal prolapse (or ‘pink sock’ as it’s called in the biz) right through to a woman having a breakdown in her first ever scene because she didn’t realise it would be so rough.  The look on her face when she clocks the size of the studs Johnson will haunt me in my dreams.

While I was browsing the adult equivalent of ‘You’ve been framed’ I came across one of those celebrity sex-tape sites.  It claimed to be the most up to date sex-tape sites online.  Now I got to thinking, do celebrities even need to post their sex-tapes online anymore?

I mean after the Kim Kardashian vid there haven’t really been many high profile tapes.

Then I started to think about really inappropriate celebrity sex-tapes.

Imagine if you can a night shot porno involving Cilla Black getting ploughed by a certain Italian celebrity chef.  There would be loose skin getting stretched and pasta flying all over the place.  Masturbazione.

Or the raging homosexual whirlwind that is Louis Spence and John Barrowman holding a fake open audition with the male cast of ‘skins’ that ends in several arrests and at least one death.  Very similar to a Michael Barrymore pool party.  How much coke do you have to take to agree to have a chair leg shoved up your arse?  Sorry, I used the word ‘agree’ I meant to say ‘blackout’.

I wonder if Warwick Davis has a se tape that just waiting to take the internet by storm, why not eh?   Verne Troyer had a video, although it did come over as a little creepy.  No pun intended.

I wouldn’t want to see anything with Dawn French in though, not just because she is grossly overweight but because she is quite ugly too.  She looks like a slapped arse, a massive arse but certainly a slapped one.

Or anything involving some of those ancient political backbenchers or Lords, the ones with cobwebs holding them together.  Like a really old cat that if you threw out the back door too vigorously it would burst like a bag of flour.

Unless it’s a video of Margret Thatcher’s corpse being dug up and sexually violated.  That would be worth a Google.

So I bet you thought I was going with sexual assault at the cinema from this post’s title, right?  Well, like I pointed out, this post was always going to be a bit off course due to attempted alcohol poisoning.

Boom!

 

I can run faster horny than you can scared

So I’ve been watching Emmerdale recently. 

Well I say watching it; it’s been on while I’ve been working because I can’t be bothered to wade through channel after channel of shit.  Somewhere along the line I have just got sucked into the story and here I am awaiting the second part of double episode Thursday.

And there’s this bloke called Cameron that’s knocking about with a shotgun after he escaped from prison for killing loads of people.

At the moment he’s held up in a pub asking these two female characters to make a decision on which one is to be kept alive.  Riveting stuff.

Of course he a bad man, he’s got a hoodie on!

First up there’s a glaring plot hole; why have the police let this criminally insane serial killer out of their sight?  Well I can’t really answer that; you’ll have to write to the producers to complain or something.  I guess if you had a soap where everyone just got on with their lives with no drama or back stabbing no one would watch it.

Would you want to watch people just working in a café where they just gave out sandwiches and a couple of cups of tea to punters for half hour.  Half hour of a fat builder munching the full English saying absolutely nothing to anybody.  Watching, waiting on tenterhooks for that moment that he flips the paper over to have a look at the footie news.  TELLY!

Mind you that still sounds better than Coronation Street.

Anyway; the killer bloke (played by actor Dominic Power – I can’t believe I looked that up) has all snot running down his face due to his mental state one can only assume, or he has a heavy cold.  The two orange women are screaming at each other as the troweled on makeup get progressively more smudged from tears and hair pulling.  Believe me, ever since buying a full HD smart TV I have really noticed the slap (TV speak for makeup don’t you know, love).

There is a gun pointed at their heads all the while and I find myself shouting too; “WILL YOU JUST SHOOT ONE OF THESE BITCHES SO WE CAN MOVE ON, PLEASE!”

For the love of Pete, Marlon is unconscious in a steadily flooding beer cellar.  I don’t think I can stand all the drama.

And that’s what you love isn’t it? All that fucking drama.

Has everyone given up on the easy, go with the flow life style?  Why is it that some people just can’t go one day without drama in their lives?

I know this bloke that has to argue with his girlfriend on the phone at least once a day.  He’s always bitching about her.  “She said this, and she’s done that.”  What the actual fuck, man?  If she’s that much of a nightmare why the fuck do you have anything to do with her?

It’s really a ‘Jeremy Kyle’ case with these two.  She might have fucked this bloke and one of the kids (if not all) might not be his.  He may or may not have fucked that barmaid at a house party and he may or may not have spent all the rent money on cocaine at said house party.  And this is just in one week.  What kind of life is that?

Drama.

I remember when drama was just a class we had at school where we would pretend to be animals and laugh at the overenthusiastic hippy teacher.

“I want you to put yourself into the animal.”  She would often say.  What do you mean, like sexually or when Han Solo stuffed Luke into that dead Tauntaun’s belly?

I would love to do a one off, late night Christmas special of one of these soaps.  You could not imagine the carnage I have lined up for some of these characters.

A zombie apocalypse in Eastenders would be mental.  A reanimated Dot Cotton rampaging through the laundrette with her guts hanging out of her arse trying to eat Ian Beal while the market gets taken over flesh eating ghouls.  I would love to see that ginger mouth on a stick Bianca get ripped apart by an undead horde.  Brilliant television; fuck The Walking Dead.  Alfie Moon fighting off loads of zombies in the Queen Vic would be epic.  Especially with his ‘huge acting talent’!

My version of Emmerdale would be far worse than some nutter hold up in a pub intimidating some over tanned tarts with a pigeon gun.

A rapist is loose in the dales but nobody knows who it is.  Throw in some traumatic flashback moments involving some graphic porno-like fake rape scenes and maybe the occasional animal mutilation close up for effect and you’re on to a winner.

Paddy, it would have to be Paddy, the Mr Nice guy veterinarian that wouldn’t hurt a fly turns out to be the most fucked up serial rapist in modern history; a real Ted Bundy type.

Imagine a scene where he gives a bovine-esque rectal rooter to that filthy looking Debbie Dingle bird.  Complete with lubed-up shoulder length plastic cover-all glove ending up with him grabbing something inside of her and turning her pretty much inside out.  She would live through the experience only to be faced with a smiling Paddy at his trial so she can relive the whole nightmare again as she gave evidence.

I don’t know what it is but I think I’m going through my rape phase at the moment.  Even in my short story work there has been a lot more, what I like to call ‘forced entry’ recently.  You know, like when Picasso went through his ‘Blue’ period… but with more sexual assault.

I think it might be the changing of the seasons.

Scumbagging it!

My taxi driver had a hook for a hand.

One of those grabby ones like that dude had in ‘Live and let Die’.  The character was Tee-Hee and the actor was Julius W. Harris if memory serves.

He could really use it well and not at all did I think we were going to crash due to him being a cyborg.  My main concern lay somewhere else however.

What if, in the night he was having a dream or got itchy nuts and went in for a good old scratch.  I’m guessing that the grip in those bad-boy hooks is a little more than that of the human hand.  I was just worried that he might rip a ball off if he fell asleep on the sofa in front of the telly.  I didn’t express my concern as he had probably heard it before.

Do people with prosthetic limbs forget they have them?

Probably not; after having gone through the trauma of losing a limb that the experience probably lingers.  I’ve read about phantom limb accounts where the person can still feel their hand or arm or foot after it’s been removed.  Weird.

I have met and know a few people that have lost limbs but have never really asked in depth questions, never really felt the need.  I did have a mate that sent me pictures of his amputation scares for me to use as artwork for a CD I was producing but I never got round to printing proper covers.

The name of the band was ‘STUMP’!

Talking about music that I was a part of (many moons ago now), when I was involved with my last band I had a string of shitty jobs.

I remember working three or four cleaning jobs to make ends meet.  One of them was at our local collage, buffing floors in the morning before the kids all turned up.  I told the boss to stick it up their arse after a while as I was fed up with having to roll out of bed at 4.30am every day for minimum wage.  I felt bad afterwards as maybe I shouldn’t have been so agitated as my girlfriend still worked there too.

The boss was a 75 year old woman.

I had so many jobs while in that band you could use my ID pictures to put together a hair growth chart.

But to say that I was properly skint at the time was an understatement.  The girlfriend and I considered a big pot of tea and a few rounds of toast as a treat after the shift.  We used to keep all the pennies that we found while cleaning so that we could buy a load of bread and a pint of milk on the way home.  If we didn’t make the price of those things we went without until the next morning.

Straight up, money was that tight.

We would do a weekly shop in the cheap stores for about £10, all value noodles and frozen sausages that were made up of mostly sawdust and shit.  We could make £5 worth of bath stuff last a month.  Shower gel, bubble bath, shampoo, the lot.  We used to nick bog rolls and bin bags from work and we were never short of paper towels either. Talk about thrifty.

We are going back a good few years and I had pretty much only been back in town about a year and was in agency job limbo.  I always had my own place pretty much; guess that’s where all the money went.

On pay day we used to go to the café in the morning and treat ourselves to a fry-up or pie and mash.  To be fair at the time would be the one day a fortnight we had a proper meal that didn’t have a smart price label on it.

We used to get shitty horror DVDs from the pound shop too.  But the excitement levels smashed it when we found a shit tonne of Dario Argento flicks in the bargain bin.  I still buy £1 horror movies around Halloween to this day from there.  What can I say; I’m a nostalgic old romantic at heart.

And the shit I used to steal from Lidl, ha-ha, what a shit security guard.  We would shop there but top up on a few five finger discount essentials like apple schnapps or pre sliced cheese.  It seemed that as long as we bought more than £15 at a time they didn’t give a shit how much we took.

I never got to the point where I felt the need to apply for a job in McDonalds.

I did however pick up an application from blockbuster; I hang my head in shame.

But I guess we all have our own version of hard times.  For some it’s harder than others.  The one thing I know is that I have lived through that and I’m darn lucky to have what I have; I will never take anything for granted.

In comparison to where I was about 5 years ago, I’m more than comfortable but at least I know that if bad times are coming I can handle it as I have done it before.

http://youtu.be/QJ8TzuqpSQs

Just glad that my hard times make me look like a king compared to some places on this rock we all inhabit.

It really pisses me off when people start to moan about how shit their life is because their car brike down and had to wait for a bloke to come out and fix it or that they didn’t have the right kind of milk in the shop.  If that’s as bad as it gets for you then good luck when it goes proper tits up, and it will.

Well I’m off to make some toast and a pot of tea then spend a few hours contemplating losing my hand when I should be sleeping.

Night all.

The snapback cap of my own personal nightmare scenario

My mid-life crisis is happening right now.

I have bought a snap-back hat, have given up drinking and am currently growing a moustache.  And that’s about it.

I guess it could be worse I could be growing a pony tail, bought a leather jacket, started listening to Miley Cyrus and trying to fuck girls half my age by filling them with drugs.

And I haven’t done a Jeremy Clarkson and bought a Ferrari.

I’m really hoping that I don’t feel the need to run away to Costa Rica to grow weed with a bunch of 16 year old village girls as my concubines.  I would hire armed guards for two things, 1^st to protect the weed and myself as my privet army; 2^nd to listen to the angry sex I will be having with the young girls from their village.  There would be nothing they could do about it as I have all the money.

Eventually they will chop my dick off, stuff it up my arse and put my head on a stick out in my weed fields but at least for a brief time I would have lived; I mean really lived.

Life really is quite cheap down in South America.  For a small fee you can pay to pretty much do whatever you like in certain parts.  When you’re dealing with a place that endorses cock fights as a national pastime (cheers Mexico) you are dealing with some fucked up dudes.  Any culture who’s national dish is chilli based and national drink is tequila be very wary of.

Take the sleepy (not a racist pun) city of Ciudad Juárez, in the space of 10 years between 93 and 03 there were over 4000 women sexually murdered; their bodies just dumped in open sight.  The city is littered with red crosses that symbolise where a woman’s body was found.

It was considered at one point a femicide epidemic.

Speaking of epidemics, rape has become an epidemic down in good old South Africa.  Imagine that; I only thought it was viruses and germs that could be described as epidemics but turns out acts of physical contact are categorised this way too now.

We live in a world where there is a place where RAPE is an epidemic.

I wonder if there are a few blokes out there that have turned to rape in their mid-life crisis.  One day they just wake up with a few more grey hairs than they had before and think ‘fuck it, today is the day I give up asking.’

Middle aged men, seen lurking around at night waiting for the prostitutes to come out so they can beat them and sexually assault them in their Ford S-Max.

If you rape a prostitute is it just shop lifting?

There was that bloke up in Ipswich that had the same sort of idea.  He took it a little too far to be fair.

Women moan that they have to go through the menopause when they hit middle age like some big thing.  Ladies, you don’t have to wake up one day with the urge to buy leather trousers.

I have seen dudes go through an age crisis and from an outsider’s point of view, well funny.  This bloke that used to drink in town started to buy weed to impress some of the younger female patrons.  He started to hang around with the dealers that were a hell of a lot younger than him and started to go to raves at the weekend.  He was a bit of a loser.  He ended up getting beaten and mugged buy a bloke he bought weed from one night.  They bust him up pretty good.

We didn’t see him about for a while after that.

So I guess it’s probably wise to swim within your own age group socially.  There’s no point trying to fit in with people that are 15 years younger than you as they will see straight through your fake cool and probably find it quite sinister.

I did when I was a teen.  Every now and then there would be someone far older that would be a little pissed up down the local and trying to be friendly.  They would be trying it on with some of the girls and acting hard around some of the younger dudes but they always ended up worse for wear.

I remember one bloke down the good old Red Lion tried to feel up some 17 year old bird.  The bloke was this horrid little toad with a balding, greasy head; wore a Megadeth t-shirt and stank of piss.  He got the living shit kicked out of him when he became aggressive with the girl he was trying to molest.  He slapped her around the face for rejecting his advances and we used his head as a punch bag/football for about half an hour.  Even I stamped on the fucker a few times.

He was a state when the police and ambulance turned up to take him away.  Good.  This brings us back to an original point; you shouldn’t try to rape people.

If you are getting blown out by women because you have a bad face and smell of semen because you can’t stop wanking then go to a prostitute.  They are very kind and understanding.  Some of them also have rather serious drug problems and will do pretty much anything/anyone.

If you don’t have the money for a hooker, try petty crime to gain the funds you need for your weekly rub n’ tug session.

Mugging old ladies is a good place to start.  If you believe the government ‘a pension goes a long way’.  It certainly does when your slapping it down on the sweaty back of a smuggled in eastern European fuck slave.

Or you could go the Fritzl route and ‘grow your own’.  All you need is a basement that you can convert out as a secret dungeon and a wife that’s down with your life style.  If you bag yourself a mentally handicapped woman for a wife it makes it easier to get away with fucking your own children.

You may see a retarded woman as an alternative to prostitution in the long run but they come with a lot of baggage.  That and they are usually rough as old boots.  Face it, when was the last time you saw a mong woman with a packet of Bic lady shaves in her basket in the queue at Boots?

So, if you are properly ugly and have the natural body odour of a month old onion you might see streetwalkers as an alternative to a social life.

So here’s to the women of the night for they do us a service and keep the sexual assault figures down across our great nation.

Sleep tight.  x

Don’t go outside… or you will be executed!

Seriously, there are some fucking stupid people out there.

I hate to bring the place up again but this was an incident that happened at my work the other day and its burning away in my brain.

No before we start I should warn you that the level of stupidity of the bloke in question is rather high so, if like me and you’re offended by really thick people, you might want to skim read this bit.

The guy turned up saying he was sent by the agency as a driver.  He got his keys and did his vehicle check then came into the office to get his paper work.  He sorted out his own driver’s sheet and found all of the post codes he needed for his collections; I’m thinking this bloke knows what he’s doing and I go out to do stuff in the warehouse.

Now, about half an hour later I’m passing the transport office where I can hear raised voices.  The driver that I though was on the ball comes barging out and leaves.  I go into the office to find out what’s going on (and be a bit nosey if I’m honest).

Turns out, the bloke was a bit of a spastic.

He had punched in the post codes into his sat-nav then come into the office to complain.  His beef was that he can’t drive more than 100 miles because he becomes tired and his collection was 126 miles away.

That doesn’t sound that bad but this is a bloke that says he is a professional driver that can’t drive for more than 100 miles.  What a twat.  That’s like having a shelf stacker in a super market saying “I can’t put out more than 100 items because I get tired.”

That’s about as useful as a fireman with vertigo; as useful as tits on a fish.

And just what happens after 100 miles, will he just switch off like a really aggressive form of narcolepsy?  Maybe he’ll burst like he’s in a microwave or maybe he just turns into a fucking pumpkin.

Let’s just say that he won’t be working for us anytime soon.

We have had some classics in that place like for example “I can’t drive that truck, it’s not an automatic.”  Then how did you pass your fucking test.

Also the two blokes that rang in to say that they couldn’t work one day because they had both gotten wet waiting for the train… really?

But I absolutely love it what you get a smart arse in the yard.

We had some bloke come from up north giving it the “don’t tell me my job, I’ve been doing it for 25 years” attitude.  We then sat and watched as he struggled to get the curtain on the trailer open.  I strolled over and unhooked one of the straps that he had toyed with for 15 minutes like it wasn’t there with a repost that went a little like “25 years, wanker.”

I’ve used a few lame excuses to get out of work before though, we all have but I came up with a corker, an absolute 100% no fail day off.  I’ve wanted to use it for years but it would have to be rung through to the right manager.

Basically you ring them just before you’re meant to be in saying that you can’t go in that day because you have just violently shit yourself on the bus in front of everyone.  I guarantee you there isn’t a manager in the world that will argue with you on that.  No one wants to deal with shit.

But hey should really work on how they screen these retards at the agencies when they turn up.  The amount we have had to send away or sack just because they are thick is ridiculous.

I think the ones that fail the tests should be made to go on game shows where they have to play for their lives.  A second chance if you will.

They have to battle it out in a series of challenges to stretch their mental and physical abilities to the very limit.  Tasks for example like ‘stack those boxes over there’ or ‘how many fingers am I holding up.’

If they win they are given a menial labouring job, you know like emptying bins or carrying stuff out to skips but if they fail they die.  We could televise their executions like they do in China.  We could do it at Wembley and have a weekly televised raffle for front row tickets.

They could give away tokens that you have to ‘cut and collect’ on cereal boxes or on jars of pasta sauce.  They could have a kid’s special day where they pick one lucky child from the crowd to win prizes by killing as many of these stupid fuckers as possible.

We can have beheadings and shootings and a ducking stool, it would be wicked.  They could run seasonally themed events like a medieval themed Halloween special with all the nastiest forms of torture.  We could have a German themed Oktoberfest event where thick people are drowned in various types of wheat beer.  A summer time event where we harness the power of the sun and burn stupid people alive by using a giant magnifying glass like how kids kill ants.

The possibilities are endless.

But this is on the proviso that these thick retarded shitbags actually fail the tests.

And before you start I don’t mean people that are genuinely mentally handicapped, no, that would be some strange Nazi utopian nightmare that I could never be a part of.  I’m getting at the people that really don’t have any excuse for not being stupid.  People that are thick because they are lazy, it’s that simple; they are stupid because they just can’t be bothered to learn.

There is an almost infinite amount of knowledge in everyone’s home now in the form of the internet.  It takes almost a minute to find any and almost all information on any subject you can think of.  You can become an expert on a subject that you previously knew nothing about in the space of an afternoon with a few clicks of a mouse.

When people talk about the will to learn they are not talking about the ability to learn just the capacity to be able to remember.  If people can’t be bothered to remember simple things then they are no better than dumb animals and should be treated as such.  Wow, that’s getting a bit strong even for me.  Maybe I should wear more black.

But what do you lot use the internet for anyway?

Wanking and slagging each other off on social networks.  So many of you could do so much better and do so much with your time but you just can’t be fucked.

Take another photo of your cat, join another pointless charity group to make yourself feel better about your 1^st world problems and palm off someone else’s humour as your own by posting another shitty meme.

Goodnight.