Monday, February 28, 2005


Sing properly, or get off the pot. That is what an American would say, you wanker

Recently a friend of mine dumped her fiance because he sang just under his breath all the time. Not a song with words, that would just be pretty fucking annoying, but sort of big band-freestyle-pom-diddly-on-pom weird noises. She says she dumped him because he was emotionally retarded and unsupportive, but I do not believe her.

The man was such a cunt that he did not just limit his “do-dodledoddledoddleyay-yay” to lulls in the conversation, so that he would just sound like a mentalist chicken, he would actually mix up normal human speech with the noises. I wondered if he was two people in one man’s body, like he had eaten the Skat-man, and every so often the noises were the poor bastard asking for help. A conversation could go like this:

“did you watch the football mate?”
"no, tiddle-ooh-oh-ohbeedoobopyay ,I find football a bit common, actually”
“It was amazing five-one”
“hoo-yeahmbedum-hubbahhubaau_dum.I-prefer polo and shooting”

”Oh really, how many small birds do you kill in one afternoon then?”

“hay-mummah-mummah,oh,about, wubbu-wubba, one because I am actually quite a mong with a gun”

I can’t remember the real human word bit of the conversation, because I was always so overwhelmed by the utterly bizarre musical theme music, he could have been talking about fucking knitting, but he would probably have had a gay, huntin’related chat, I would think, that one. An American would definitely tell him to speak or get off the pot or sing or get off the pot, because Americans are very direct and would not tolerate that sort of mixed media of communication, or they might say “that guy, he walks and chews gum at the same time”, and I would have to agree with them, which makes a fucking change

Noreen is Right!

I knew a girl who said 'things' all the time. It was really wierd. "I have to run and catch my train. Things" she would say. "Can I have - things - a return ticket to Dublin, please. Things" I had to stuff my hands into my gob whenever I was talking to her to stop my self from laughing. Come to think of it, she probably thought I was a bit wierd too. She might have a blog now and be writing a post which says ' I once - things - new a guy who shoved his hands - things - into his mouth whenever - things - I was talking to him. Things.' I am going to have a look for it.
Ball Bag

Sunday, February 27, 2005


Let the man finish fucking singing, you cunts!

I-used to live in a shithole in asia. I fucking hated it, it was just awful When I was not being forcfed awful twitching grubs and camels cocks, I was listening, glazed, to hundreds of pushy people harping on about how much their sister would like to study in england, or being felt up by oversized aging lotharios filling time between their Hash meetings. Fuck I’m glad I’m not there anymore, it was just the most miserable, awful time of my whole, life, even worse than boarding school . Anyway, one of the ways the petulant and smug expat “foreign experts” would fill their time in between showing off to desperate local girls and boring everyone shitless with stories of the latest ghastly crevice of the country they had visited and had a mildly uninspiring and frustrating time in, they would go to the town’s selection of appalling nightclubs. There were some which were almost amusing, full of people in sunglasses jumping up and down to Ricky Martin, they were all right. But there were a couple run by a very odd chinaman who fancied himself rotten, a self-proclaimed “spiritual person” who swanned about with a crowd of pathetic acolytes, who hung on his every, bigoted and fuckwitted word. He was a prize cock, it is true, and yet, I bear him less hatred than I do the fuckwit djs he employed.. One of these djs, a Brit, was so lobotomized he could only really speak in cockney rhyming slang, despite living in a clearly non english environment, and most English people only know a bit of cockney rhyming slang which they have got from carry-on films or eastenders. Like “pony” do you know that one? Hmm? I know it is short for pony and,trap which is cockney for crap. So he could have just said “crap”, the arsewipe. Confusingly, a “pony” is also cockney for 20,or something. I don’t care, what it means, it just was another reason to fucking hate the man, he was a little twat,,and as sexist as Roy chubby brown, always on about women’s minges in a really uninformed, teenage way. My favourite conversation was how he would boast that oriental women thought he had a really big dick. I think he needed to get naked with a few African gentlemen, to put things in perspective, the little anus. What a cunt. I fucking hate djs, The status these men enjoyed in Asia was bewildering, and yet it was not only a function of these expat DJs being minnows in a pool of amoebae, it is the same the world over. Djs get loads of attention and fame, and adoration, and I do not fucking understand it. It is not difficult to put on a fucking record, or choose one to put on, unless you are really, really, really really really fucking stupid. And I hate the way they will not let a record finish, and sort of fade into nothing, they have to start another one halfway through. What is that all about? What’s the hurry, fuckers? Fucking Djs, just fucking fuck off unless you can just play rufus and chaka khan and keep your fucking traps shut.

Noreen is Right!!!

I just can't believe that people can be so loved for putting records on. Why don't they just record all their records onto a cd then send it to the club in a taxi while they sit at home and wank? Yes, she is totally right this time, DJs are complete and utter cunts.

Friday, February 25, 2005


Looks like a potato, eats human flesh

I am not especially interested in gardening, or flowers really. If you were thinking about giving me a bunch of flowers, I would say to you “actually, would you mind bringing me some chocolates, or better still those peanuts which have like a crispy shell around them with spices. Or bacon crisps, I fucking love bacon crisps” Anyway, unlike most women, I get stressed by bunches of flowers, There is so much you are expected to do when you receive them. How is it nice to give someone a present when they have to work hard after receiving it? I don’t get rewarded by working hard, I prefer things to be simple. Flowers are a pain because there is always a woman hanging around who will say “oh, don’t forget to slice the stalks off them and put that powder into a vase”, and if you are very unlucky, there might even be two know-it-alls and the other one will say “No, Geraldine, you do not slice the stalks on that one, you bash them with a mallet, and it will be lemonade in the vase with an aspirin otherwise the flower heads will fall off, and we would not want to be responsible for so many floral deaths, would we?” I never have a vase, so I have to take a washing up liquid bottle and chop the top off and by the time I have done all that, the person who brought me the flowers is thinking “you know, next time, I will bring her nothing, the disorganized bitch with no clue how to receive a bunch of flowers”.

And don’t give me that “oh but the exquisite fragrance of flowers is special, is it not” because I will tell you a lot of flowers do not smell at all, and someone brought me some once which smelt like urine. I am not sure if they were making some kind of a point, or they thought “these flowers are so pretty, we will ignore the fact they smell like an old commode”.

At least flowers you get in a bunch from people are already dead. I cannot say the same thing about flowers growing from bulbs. It is spring now, and people are all about bulbs in the spring. Bulbs give me the creeps, they look like potatoes but if you were to eat them, you would get very sick, or even die. Then there is always a great fuss about them too, like my mother will go on about “oh, my bulbs”. I hate the orderliness of them, people plant them in fucking_rows like a north Korean carnival, and they all grow, all boring and straight, and then die and look shit. Daffodils are the worst, I fucking hate them. Ever since I read “the day of the triffids” I have not been able to trust those fuckers. A daffodil has a mouth just like a triffid, and do you know what happens to tramps when they die? Hmm?:That’s right, the daffodils get them, and before you ask no I have not been drinking, it is ten in the fucking morning.

Noreen is mental!

Jesus, she's having a go at the bloody flowers now. Don't worry readers, Noreen goes a bit mental like this about once a month, it soon passes and she is once again annoyed by normal things, like that cunt Robbie Williams and people who say 'literally' when they mean the exact opposite.
Ball Bag

Thursday, February 24, 2005


Babies Fucking Disgust Me

Babies are fucking revolting, aren't they? I don't just mean the foul smelling shite filling their disgusting nappies, although god knows that's bad enough, what I find really nauseating is the way they eat. First, that fucking goo you feed them is fucking rotten, it makes me feel sick just to look at it, then instead of eating it they smear it all over their faces and into their hair, then they look at you and expect you to clear it up for them. Well they can fuck off. Just eat properly and wipe your fucking face, you dirty wee bugger.
Ball Bag
Ball bag is right,
Babies are indeed messy things, but I find it unusual that a man should be whingeing about it, since from conception to potty training, it is the woman who does most of the dirty work. Conception involves the woman sitting in a pool of jizz, while the chap wipes his knob on the curtains. Birth! The woman sits in a nest of chopped liver in a room which looks like an abattoir while the bloke smokes a fucking enormous cigar. Unless you are married to a “new man” which, we all know is code for nancy-boy-gaylord, then the chances are that it will be the woman who wipes up shite, food, blood, sick and her Chanel, which has been lovingly poured all over the seat of the Khazi. Yes, babies are messy, but until you have pushed one out of a sexual organ, gentlemen, don’t come fucking crying to me. By the way, I am on the rag, so any funny comment about feminists and I’ll chop your balls off

Wednesday, February 23, 2005


Coconuts. I don’t fucking think so

Coconuts are really dangerous, I watched a nature programme about them and they fall off trees, and if you are sitting under the tree and a coconut falls on your head, then it is a choice between being either gaga for life, or as dead as a corpse. If the coconuts don’t manage to get at a human, then they roll, and roll until they reach the sea or a river and then they bob, spookily along the body of water until they arrive at a coconutless place so they can take it over and grow there and try and kill people all over again. They are gradually taking over the whole world and wiping out the human race quite slowly at the same time.

When they aren’t busy killing, or propagating, coconuts are busy tasting really, really awful and just being in all sorts of food. I had a curry the other day, and there was coconut inside my naan bread, the fucking cheeky stuff. I hate it, it is like dandruff, but wiry and with the nastiest flavour in the world. Not only does, it chisel its way into practically everything we eat, but I met a person with a carpet made out of the hair of a coconut. The dirty bastard! A carpet, made out of coconuts, for fuck’s sake. Of course, people are always on telling me that you can make a sound of a horse by banging two halves of a coconut together but I am not impressed. Just half of a,seashell can make a sound like the whole sea, and the sea is far bigger and more impressive than a fucking horse.

Ball Bag says to say that Noreen is right!

Ball Bag can't come to the computer as he has been hit on the head by a coconut, but he says to say that coconuts taste foul (he used the rude f-word, but I refuse to put that). He added that coconuts are gay. I can't say I approve of all this, you know.
Ball Bag's Mum


If you fold your clothes up, I will not have sexual intercourse with you.

I would not describe myself as that fussy, when it comes to sexual partners. Like, there are some women who have such complicated criteria, it is amazing they ever get laid: “oh, he must be tall, and have really good teeth, and not wear briefs, and if there is any hair apart from a triangle at the pubis and a small neat patch between his nipples, then I’m off like a ferret after a rat. Oh, and he must be rich, and unattached, blah blah blah”. Miserable bitches. No, I like to think of myself as a fairly equal opportunities person when choosing a sackmate. The truth is, that there is a indefinable quality about the men I fancy, and generally they are quite naughty, and well hung. That, really, is the most important thing I would say. I’ll overlook a bit of back hair, in return for girth.
God, I’m getting sidetracked, right. I have only turned and fled in the bedroom twice in my life, and they were for very good reasons. The first was a man who was very sweet, but a bit of a drip who said “I’ve got something to tell you, it’s my first time”, and I am afraid, I couldn’t cope with the responsibility or the incompetence of it, so I got dressed and legged it. The second was a bloke who fucking folded up- all of his clothes before the act. We had been getting very friendly, and just as it looked like everything was getting cracking he hopped out of bed and started folding each of his garments up and placing them on a fucking chair. Even his socks, which were not clean. It made me feel cheap, really, because I thought, “Jesus am I that unexciting that the man is thinking about his orderliness instead of tearing my knickers off with his teeth. What a passion killer”. So I picked up my clothes which were not at all in a neat pile, but were in a path from the bed to the landing and shoved them back on and went. He didn’t get it though. I said “I will not shag a man who would rather fold his clothes up than do me, that is just fucking rude, and quite weird like an obsessive compulsive , and I have gone off the idea altogether now”. He said I was a bitch, the arsehole, so I reckon I was well out of that one. Would you fold your clothes up- before sex, or do you think that is the act of a loony? I like people who agree with me, by the way.

Noreen is right!

I went out with a girl who not only insisted on folding all her clothes, but also had to take off all her make-up before we went to bed to do it. What a bore she was, she wouldn't even let me come on her tits, the selfish cow.
Ball Bag

Tuesday, February 22, 2005


Drinking Till You Puke

We have all done it. We have all drunk too much and ended up puking our rings up. I haven't done it for a while, but I used to do it fairly frequently, and at that time I developed a theory. I noticed that straight after I puked I had a compulsion to look at my pasty, streaming-eyed face in the mirror. I don't know why, because it certainly did nothing for my self esteem. Rarely did I look at myself wiping vomit from my chin and think to myself that I was a winner who was really going places. I theorised that most people looked at themselves in a mirror after throwing up quite a few quid's worth of alcohol, checking with friends confirmed my theory. But now the wonders of the inter-web allow me to check my theory more thoroughly, so tell me - Do you look at yourself in the mirror after vomiting through excess alcohol? And how do you feel about yourself as you look?
Ball Bag

Ball Bag is right!

It is very normal to look in the mirror after puking, just like looking in the mirror when you clean your teeth, but more revolting. I threw up after drinking too much on Sunday morning, unfortunately I was sick into a timber yard, and felt it would be a bit of a liberty to ask the proprietor for a little mirror to check myself out in. I am very polite

Monday, February 21, 2005


Don’t just moan about your beer, invent a new delivery system

God, I am so bored with beer in bottles or a glass. It is old fashioned and lacks
imagination. I drink beer from a bottle, because it is a nuisance pouring beer into a glass, unless you can be arsed to tilt the bloody glass and take care over pouring the stuff out. And I dread it, when someone asks for a glass, because there is always a lot of foam when I pour out beer, and then people won’t leave it and go on and on and quite apart from it being fucking rude of them, it is just extremely dull listening to them going on. However, there is a problem with bottles, because some of them have screw caps and some of them do not, you would need an opener to get the metal off. The manufacturers of the screw ones are not complete bastards, to help you know which type of cap is on the beer,they employ a factory of pixies to write “twist off” in French on the cap, the problem is, unless you are French or speak it, and happen to be an eagle or a cat or another type of an animal with excellent vision, you are fucked, so normally you would need to guess “is it a twist-cap, or is it an ordinary one”. When they started with those bastard twist caps, I was keen not to look behind the fashion, so I was always twisting away, and sometimes, after my palms were bleeding so much I could have been the occasion for a pilgrimage, I would say “fuck it” and then spend a long time looking for an opener because I had put it away thinking that it would not be up-to-date of me to have one around.

I can’t stand people who are always fucking moaning, without a solution, they are cunts. It is true, that really fucking stupid saying: “there is always more than one way to skin a cat” and I am sure that drinking alcohol can be done in a different way. Not those little arsewipe jelly-shot things, they are fucking awful, but I was thinking about different ways, actually to drink. Sipping is the way a human should drink, I suppose, but we could also lap out of a trough. I might write to Stella and ask them to make plastic troughs with a peel back lid which you then lap. That would solve the problem. Lapping is quite manly too, like regressing to being a caveman, so it would not be gay at all.

Noreen is right up to a point!

Drinking out of bottles is for girls, which I suppose is OK for Noreen. As for pouring it into a glass problems, we have people who are trained in that kind of thing, they are called barmen, so just go to the pub and get them to do it. As for a new way of drinking beer, just put your gob around the beer tap and turn the fucker on.
Ball Bag


I basically hate the word 'actually' actually

I was having dinner with friends. One was telling a story. “So I ended up vomiting into a traffic cone”, he said. “As you do”, said another. Everybody laughed. I didn’t laugh, I reached over to the one who said, “As you do” and stabbed him in the eye with my steak knife. He lost his sight, but I don’t think I was unjustified. Why do people say, “As you do”? It isn’t funny, it wasn’t funny the first time I heard it and now that I have heard it 7 billion times, it still isn’t funny.
Why do people say ‘basically’ all the fucking time? It is now used so often that the word has lost all meaning. Has nobody else noticed this? Use of the word basically should be made a criminal offence punishable by a good kicking.
Do English people realise how often they say ‘actually’? They say it all the time. All the bloody time! Stop it! Just fucking stop it! They even brought out a film called ‘Basically Love Actually’ (I think that’s what it was called).
And don’t say ‘no pressure, then’ in pressure situations, either. I could go on, but my blood lust is rising to dangerous levels, so you bastards had better keep out of my way. I mean it.
Ball Bag

Ball Bag is right!

It is a shame there are so many people in the world with no social skills at all, and so little imagination that they have to honk up the same tired clichés and banter over and fucking over again. I met a woman once, who was perfectly okay, the problem was that whatever I said she would say “no shit Sherlock” so we had a conversation like “God it’s cold” and then she would say “no shit Sherlock” and I would say "would you like a drink "and she would say “no shit Sherlock”. Normally I like it when people agree with absolutely everything I say, but this time it got on my fucking nerves, the silly bitch.

Thursday, February 17, 2005


The sign of the devil

Everyone is on about numerology and lucky numbers and ones which you add up and take them away and it's always 666. Bollocks to that. There is one sign of the devil and it is that fucking @ sign. I hate it. Do you know, the reason this blog is on blogspot, is because I fucking hate the at sign so much that it makes me angry to press it or even to look at it. On my keyboard I have tippexed it out and replaced it with a cock drawn in biro. That is far, far better than the at sign.
Shall I tell you what I hate even more than the at sign just on a computer or in an email adress? hmm?
I fucking, fucking well, almightily want to maim and hurt and cut with knives people who put it on invitations.
Party @ Jane's
Oh really? well guess what, Jane, fuck off because I will not go to a party in a place of the at sign. No I bloody won't.
It does not take less time to draw the squiggly bollocks sign, does it actually. It takes longer because you are not accustomed to drawing an a and then going all around the sodding houses afterwards to make it look like a little arsehole.
Fuck I hate it. Just say at.

Noreen is Right!

I am not even sure how to write the @ properly, it always takes me ages, I could write about 20 'ats' in the time it takes to write @, but that would be silly.

By the way, Party @ Ball Bag's place 2nite. 8 till L8.

Anyone who replies to that invitation and comes round will be clubbed with a lump of wood studded with nails, as they will definitely be a tw@ (aren't I clever?).
Ball Bag

Tuesday, February 15, 2005


I Bet You Already Know How I Feel About Hockey

Womens hockey is ok, I have no strong feelings about it, it is a sport for women. So why do men play it? What is wrong with these people? And they all have a real chip on their shoulder, because they know themselves that it is a sport for women, so they try to tell you how dangerous it is and how you have to be tough to play it. Wrong! Scuttling around a field, bent over like a little old man and occasionally getting a bruised knee does not make you tough. I know the ball is hard like a cricket ball, but I would only be impressed if you had to head the ball, or if you were allowed to beat your opponents with the sticks, but I suspect that would be frowned upon by the referee.
I once mentioned to a hockey player that his sport was really gay, and he flew into a rage and excitedly told me about all the people he knew who had to go to hospital as a result of playing hockey. To me this is just not an argument, just because an activity lands you in hospital does not make it not gay. I know a nurse who told me that a man was brought into hospital because his boyfriend was inserting a large vibrator into his bottom when it got stuck and they couldn't get it out. It resulted in a trip to hospital, now you tell me - is that gay or not gay?
Ball Bag

Ball Bag is right!

I have a lot more respect for a man who can insert a huge vibrator into his gary than one who can play hockey. Hockey is like fast croquet, except people have gay names like “centre forward” and “inside right”. “Inside Right” is a tailor’s term, and everyone knows that tailors do their jobs just so they can feel cock.

I would not let a vibrator anywhere near my backhole at all, as far as I am concerned it is a one way street. And as for it getting stuck up there, Jesus. I read a thing in the paper which said that if you were willing to get disemboweled you could stretch your intestines, out and they would go all the way around the world one and a half times. If the vibrator got lost, the doctors and nurses would have a lot of work to do going through all those canals to get it out again. That man with the vibrator, he is a brave man. Men who play hockey are sad. The truth of it is, that if you need more equipment to play a game than just some men and a ball, then it is probably a gay sport. Snooker is excused

Monday, February 14, 2005


Speak up, you cretin

I am not deaf, as a matter of fact I have excellent hearing, and excellent eyesight, and I can actually wiggle my ears and raise one eyebrow at a time, and, well, my point is that I am in no way any sort of a mong. Highly evolved, finely tuned, that’s me.

Which means I can actually hear every word you whispering cunts are saying, so no, I’m not going to make your day by saying “what did you say again, I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that”

People with quiet voices, people who fucking describe themselves as “soft spoken” are bad people. They make themselves appear quiet, when in fact all they want, is to be asked twice, what it is that they said. Fuck off and be hermits, you miserable tiptoeing morons. If you don’t use your voice box then it will go rusty and one day you might want to shout “help” and all that will come out will be a pathetic wheeze.

Noreen is Right!

Once again, she is absolutely right. I think people who speak in a quiet voice do so because they think they have presence, well they don't, they do so because they are cunts. I can't be bothered to say pardon to these people, now I just nod and smile, much as you would to a senile old aunt. They deserve no better.

Ball Bag

Friday, February 11, 2005


Two hands, two balls. Or one ball. Why be greedy?

If you are unlucky enough to be an only child, or to have had no friends to play with when you were little, then I am sorry. I really am. I mean it quite sincerely. There is not much in the world better than hurling a cricket ball and getting your brother plum on the knackers, or breaking a window with a tennis ball, and blaming it on another kid. Siblings, companions, balls. Great things.
I often wonder if it is periods of enforced loneliness and social isolation which prompt people to take up fucking juggling. Oh no! I’ve given away how I feel about it.

Dungarees, stupid hats or kerazzeee hair. Braces, shoes which have been hand painted. Garb of git and clothes of cunt. Fuck off you juggling wankers. I don’t care how difficult it is to throw three things around and catch them. I’m not impressed. Juggling is sad, the hobby of a loser, desperately craving attention and applause and possibly small change. If you have more than two round objects to hold, then get a fucking carrier bag and put them in it. There’s no need to make such a meal of it.

Noreen is Right!

She is absolutely, completely right. The only reason a person would learn to juggle is to show other people that they can juggle, and anyone who thinks that others will be impressed or like them more because they can juggle is an utter, utter cunt. I fucking hate people who can juggle, I really fucking hate them, fuck! "Erm..ok I have nothing interesting to say and I am without any recognisable personality, but if you had three oranges you would be seriously impressed." No I wouldn't. If I did have three oranges I wouldn't let you throw them from one hand to another, I would cram them down you boring throat until you fucking choked, you wanker. Fuck I hate jugglers! Did that come across clearly?
Ball Bag

Thursday, February 10, 2005


My prawn cocktail snack tells me to kill people

When you lick the middle of a prawn cocktail, shell-shaped crisp and hold it to your ear it makes a crackling sound. Yesterday I did this and the snack spoke to me. It said “Burn Ikea”
I fucking, fucking, fucking hate that Swedish shithouse. If I ever want to punish myself, which I absolutely do not at all, I would go there on a Sunday or, Saturday, or on late closing night near Christmas.The experience is totally unpleasant from the second you park three hundred miles from the entrance, to the moment you emerge in tears. And what is with the annoying names for everything which you have to write down with a midget’s pencil? Lamps called Frygge and beds called Bungflypp. Fucking hell! Smug notices everywhere telling you how the one miserable creature they have employed on the shop floor would rather eat his mother than help you, to make the products cheap, which not all of them are. Great crates everywhere, blocking your way, full of real shite which you grab just to avoid the dark hell pit of brown cardboard boxes near the cash desks which is the actual shop. Once I came out with a plastic tube with holes in it and an oversized stuffed toy snake, instead of a sofa.

The thing which is most appalling is the way you are forced around the whole bloody hangar before you can escape. When I realised that the miles and miles I had walked was just fucking window shopping and that, having failed to write down the stupid anagram words that were posted on everything, I would therefore be unable to identify the products I actually wanted, I lost it. Finding a gap between a wall with fucking stupid wiggly mirrors and a ludicrous chair I tried to escape the system and get the fuck out. I crawled through a collapsable tube, I scaled a bunk bed set five beds high. I ended up in a ghastly maze of filing,cabinets and defeated, went to the restaurant. Jesus Christ, It was just dreadful.
The Swedish are very good at making porn films though. I watched one with a dwarf giving it to three blonde girls. Gifted.
It wasn’t me, honest!

Noreen is right!

At least I think she is probably right. One of the many, many wonderful things about living in Ireland is the complete lack of Ikeas. We don't have even one. It sounds very popular though, I heard today that customers were trampled at an new Ikea as people tried to stampede in after it opened AT MIDNIGHT!! You could not possibly need a sofa so urgently that you would need to go out in the dead of night and step on other people in order to secure it. What is wrong with these morons? When I first heard about it i thought it was a joke. We also have people over here who will drive to Glasgow in order to visit Ikea. Why the fuck they would do that I have no idea, we have plenty of furniture shops in Ireland, although none from Sweden. Are all the shop assistants beautiful, topless Swedes or something? There cannot be many men of 32 have never set foot in an Ikea, but I am one of them. I am special, and not in a spastic way.

Ball Bag

Tuesday, February 08, 2005


Hurry up, radio presenters, I’ve a life to lead

I cannot fucking stand the radio. It mutters away in the background like a senile relative who just won’t die, mumbling in a really fucking annoying cadence. Can someone explain to me why people who work on the radio, or on the television news for that matter, start speaking like robots, emphasizing every single word and speaking so slowly? I can’t have the radio on now as it makes me get my facial tic, which is not becoming.

Sometimes, I switch on Radio Four for the woman’s hour. You’d think it would not be too challenging and that there would not be that much to get cross about. Forget it. It is the worst hour of my life.

There is always one woman who has overcome something awful, and one that has been up a big mountain or down a mine or something, and one who has written a poem or a book or a song. It’s like Extreme Women’s Institute. There’s an air of education about it too, as they wheel in some foreign bird who explains how her tribe can sing out of their arses, or how people communicate by swapping pets. And then that one who has written a poem or a book will chip in and say “yes, that’s rather like the Phoenecian custom of pet skittles, where a woman’s virtue was determined by throwing ferrets at a large rock” and then the other one who is more thick but has survived the hardship will chip in and say “that is what my mother used to say when she was having one of her turns”, and then the one that has just come down a mountain will not be able to leave it, the pushy bitch, will she, so she will finish it off with a remark about how difficult it is to have ferrets thrown at you when the air is really thin. Fuck off Radio Four, and your women’s programmes. That’s right, I’d rather listen to Ball Bag singing rugby songs.

Noreen is right!

My rugby songs are truely superb. I am afraid I have no strong opinions about Radio 4's Womens' Hour. Sorry.
Ball Bag


Why don’t you finish the job you arsehole

God, if there is one thing I fucking hate it is people who make a virtue out of being “self destructive”. “Ooh, that’s just me, that is. As soon as things start to go well, I just find myself pressing the “destroy” button and it all goes wrong. There was I with the wife and a great job, and I just jacked it all in because I couldn’t handle happiness”. Or “fame is so hard, all that money and hot chicks wanting to sleep with me, I’d better be an arsehole, just in case anyone thinks I am not being self destructive”. There’s a name for these sort of people and it begins with a C. Cretins. Fucking cretins. People who can’t just fucking get on with being ordinary, who have to excuse their moronic, attention seeking fuck ups with a stupid name. “self destructive” Fuck off and finish the job then you muppet. Oh, no, you can’t because finishing yourself off would constitute a success, and that wouldn’t be “self destructive” enough of you would it. Jesus Christ. And how is it “art” to dick yourself around just enough to keep life and limb tgether, but not quite enough to stop being a total drain on the world, and the emotions of anyone who crosses your miserable path. Fuck I hate those bastards. Women readers (yeah right!) listen to me. If your boyfriend is a “self destructive” person, always just falling short of usefulness or fucking things up in order to look like a tortured poet, kick him in the nuts, shag his dad and nick his wallet. Give him something real to whine about the little bollocks.

Noreen is Right!

My god isn't she magnificent when she is really angry? I think what got her going was Robbie Williams, he is always on about being self destructive. Noreen is the only person in the world who hates that cunt more than I do. She is right though, I wish he would just get on with destroying himself and stop whining aboput the process. A shotgun operated with your toes would do the job very nicely, Mr Williams. Anything to spare us any more of his irritating, babyish songs. By the way, I know a famous Irish actor who knows Robbie Williams and says he is definitely gay. There was a time when people thought George Michael wasn't gay, can you believe that?
Ball Bag

Monday, February 07, 2005


Lent, how to make a sacrifice without being a cunt

Lent is a bad time of year. People sitting on spikes and beating themselves with nettles. Hair underwear. People get competitive about it, don’t they? They need to be all flashy-bastard “look at me I’ve not had a drink or a wank for a month” Fuck off. However, self-disciplined as it is, and self discipline being something I would normally think of as “for cunts” it is good practice to give something up. So I am going to do an understated thing. I am giving up calling ballbag a cunt, I will change it to “a pudenda”, which is latin for cunt. Latin is the language of the church.

Noreen is Right!

Non-catholics might not know aboutTrocaire. It is a charity to which you are meant to give all the money you would have spent on enjoying yourself over lent. They send you little money boxes to put it all into until the end of lent, then you give them the lot. It is heartbreaking, you just want to blow it all on fags/booze/whatever you gave up, but that would be wrong. My money box this year has some starving africans on it, and it sits on my table putting me off my dinner. One of the little buggers has a fly right on his mouth, the dirty wee fucker. Why do they not shoo them away like normal people? It is typical of their bone idleness. Perhaps if they could be arsed to shoo flies off their faces, they might also be able to get off their skinny arses and grow some food.
Ball Bag

Sunday, February 06, 2005


'Big Holy Father' - A Thought for a Sunday

Could this be it? Could time be up for His Holiness The Pope? Whilst we all hope that he lives to kiss lots more runways, his present illness highlights the need to revamp the pontiff choosing process. Like many things in the One True Faith, it is a little old fashioned.

What I am proposing is a Big Brother style contest where all the top Cardinals are thrown in to a small house and filmed non-stop. They should be made to do tasks, like seeing who can drink the most communion wine without vomiting up the Blood Of Christ on the carpet, or trying to stuff as many sacrement wafers as possible into their mouth inside a minute, remembering to mumble 'the body of Christ' before shoving each one in.

Then the public can vote out their least favourite until we are left with our new Pope, announced with a large firework disply, not that shitty white smoke that is just soooo 16th century. This is the only way to drag the catholic church into the 21st century.By the way, we are both catholics so we can say stuff like this, but if non-catholics say anything similar then we will be very offended, so you fucking heathens had just better watch it.
Ball Bag

Ball Bag is right

People should not take the mickey out of the Holy Father if they are not left-footers, that is true. However, non-catholics will all be going to hell anyway won’t they, so if I was a heathen, I would probably think carpe diem and take the piss anyway. Don’t do it here though, or Ball Bag will beat you with his staff.

Friday, February 04, 2005


Christ on a stick! That Fucking Wave

I am so sick of that fucking wave. When it happened it was mildly diverting, although the size of it on those home videos was slightly disappointing. I thought it would be a massive wall of water, like in those films about comets hitting earth, but it wasn't that impressive.

But the continued coverage every bloody day bored the tits off me. Christ on a stick, could you give it a rest for a little while? How many more fishermen could they show looking sadly at the place where their shack used to be? They must have interviewed every poor sod in the wave's path.

Those bloody tourists coming home annoyed me too. They were trying their best to look traumatised, but they couldn't fucking wait to have a camera pointed at them so they could pour out their boring tale of near death for the thousandth time within a few days.

But what I really hate are those idiots who flew out after the wave to 'help'. All they wanted to do was look at dead bodies and have an interesting story to tell their friends when they got back. Those stupid cunts would have been so much better off giving the cost of their airfare and time off work to charity to buy fucking blankets or something. They have a shortage of blankets out there apparently, what Asia does not have a shortage of is fucking people. FUCK!!
Ball Bag

Ball Bag is right

My friend Eugene had a girlfriend called Tsunami. I think her parents were hippies like River Phoenix’s and that one called Moon Unit's, the poor bastards. Tsunami is quite a butch name though, to be honest. Like, if I was going to call a kid Volcano or Earthquake it would definitely be a boy. A more appropriate natural disaster name for a girl would be something like Puncture, or Burst Pipe. That is more feminine.

Thursday, February 03, 2005


Buy a hat, or a pair of sunglasses, you loser

I would not let a man do it to me who owned a sun vizor. There is no excuse for them. A visor is not a hat, so it doesn’t stop you getting sunstroke. It is not sunglasses so it only protects you when you are standing up. Does a vizor make you look nice?no it fucking well does not. It makes you look like you have had a bang on the head.
I would also have a fairly serious problem with a man who wore waistcoats out of choice, unless he had a very, very large penis.

Noreen is right!

And what about people who wear bowties, they usually think they are wacky, but the are just arsewipes. And don't get me started on fucking comedy ties, christ on a stick!
Ball Bag


I Am Not a Fan of the Seahorse

Seahorses are really gay. Seahorses swim standing up and the male seahorses have baby seahorses. That is the gayest thing I have ever heard. I would eat a seahorse. I would eat a raw seahorse and I would chew the seahorse with my mouth wide open so everyone could see me eating the seahorse. Seahorse.

Noreen is right!

She is demented and childish, but definitely right. Seahorses have wierd boggly eyes. I think anyone who likes seahorses must have serious personal issues.
Ball Bag

Wednesday, February 02, 2005

Haloscan commenting and trackback have been added to this blog.


Tennis is for Cunts

Tennis is for cunts, I hate tennis and I hate anyone who plays it. People who take tennis lessons are even bigger cunts. And I hate the way they pick up the ball with their racket. Use your fucking hands or I'll chop the bastards off, then you will remember how much I hate you every time you try to wipe your arse.

Wimbledon ruins my summer. Tennis on TV and radio day and fucking night for two whole weeks and the whole 'will Tiger Tim Henman win Wimbledon this year?' bollocks. Of course he wont, he is soft as shite. By the way what, if anything, is less like a tiger than Tiger Tim Henman? Those wankers on 'Henman Hill' really, really piss me off waving their flags and drinking fucking Pims and shouting 'come on, Tim' in their weedy voices. The hill should be re-christened 'Cunt Hill' in honour of the people occupying it.

The only decent thing about tennis is Serena Williams, she is magnificent and I should very much like to have sexual relations with her. Yes, she is probably stronger than me and yes, she would break me in two, but it is definately the way to go.

So there you have it, conclusive proof that tennis is indeed for cunts.
Ball Bag

Ballbag is right!

I particularly dislike those fucking shopping basketson a stick which open up and pick up balls so the lazy twats don't have to bend over and pick up their balls themselves. I thought tennis players were playing sport? If they cannot bend over and pick up a ball which is not heavy at all and even has a hairy surface to grip, then these losers should be in a bath chair,drooling or in a special home, not on a fucking tennis court.

Why do they wear white? Because it will save them changing into a shroud after I kill them.Why do they say love? Because they are cunts that is why. One -nil. One all. One two. That is the way to count.I don't even fancy any of those men, they are all great fairies eating fucking bananas and sweating on a chair in front of a camera. Fuck off.


The Year of the Cock

It is the year of the cock. Fucking A. Thank you, Chinese people for giving me something to snigger about all year. People born in the year of the cock try and get around it by saying” I am a rooster” but I won’t tolerate that. Who actually says “rooster”in real life? Hmm? Only Americans and probably Canadians, because they would faint and die if they said cock. Fuck off. If anyone tried to say “I am a rooster” to me I would act like they hadn’t said anything at all. I might even say “Ball Bag, did you just fart, because I just heard a faint noise like some wind escaping”. That always gets them.

Noreen is right!

Anyone who uses the word rooster should be maimed.

Tuesday, February 01, 2005


The best lizard

A Komodo dragon can run as fast as a dog. Lizards are cool, far, far cooler than snakes. I hate snakes and not in a “ooh, I’m a lady, ooh they are scary and phallic and bite” way,fuck no. I hate snakes because, quite simply they have no feet.
Don’t give me that “a snake can move as fast as a dog” because I don’t care if it can move as fast as a bullet. Does it have feet? No it does not.


Noreen Is Right!

Snakes are supposed to be frightening (so Australians would have you believe). Well I have a snakeskin wallet - who's laughing now, you scaley bastards?
Ball Bag


Fucking Hell Skiing is So Fucking Gay

Skiing? skiing? Fuck off, more like. I fucking hate skiing. Wankers go skiing, and they wear stupid wacky hats with horns and tassles that make me laugh so hard I could just fucking vomit. And there is far too much stuff to carry - the skis, those stupid gay little poles - what are they even for? - all whilst wearing the most uncomfortable footwear in the world.

And 'apres ski' is fucking shit, just because it is cold outside doesn't make this crappy room pretending to be a pub any less awful. And people who use the phrase 'apres ski' should be fucking cut. 'Apres ski' - fuck off.

And all those cocks waiting in line at the airport with their own skis and stupid smug looks on their idiot faces make me want to shit. Next time I see someone with their own skis I am going to see how far I can push them up their arsehole.
Ball Bag

Ball Bag is right!

Balancing on two thin pieces of wood is quite clever. But to spend a week doing it is the act of a twat.

The main reason not to ski? Fondues. Eating rancid cheese mixed up with gin is fine if you are auditioning for an MTV show-offs programme, but mystifying that anyone should pay money and travel to a badly heated wooden hut and pay a kidney to do it. Fuck no. And why do you have those gay forks to eat it with? And which chinless dickhead decided you should have “forfeits” if you drop the overpriced crouton into the methylated milky slurry. Fuckety fuck off.

Skiing is cold, it’s gay and overrun with real twats braying at each other. Go to the seaside, it’s much nicer.

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