Wednesday, March 30, 2005

 

Stephen Hawking - Not That Clever

Dr Stephen Hawking is supposed to be the cleverest man on earth. Why, then, did he waste his time writing that bollocks about a history of time when he could have been trying to find a cure for multiple sclerosis. Whilst I accept that he is probably a bit cleverer than me, I think I am a better all-rounder. I am better at swimming, running and even better at something as gay as singing. I doubt he is much of a lover either, the useless cunt.

I do feel sorry for him though, imagine not only your body turning to fucking stone, but having to sit in your wheelchair knowing that oaf Harry has fucked your daughter. Apparently she is quite attractive, she is not a spastic or anything, not that that would stop Harry, the dirty bastard.
Ball Bag

Sunday, March 27, 2005

 

Easter Can Suck My Cock

Fuck me, I am bored! Every fucking shop in the country is shut, all the bars are shut and the off licenses are shut. Just because a percantage of the population thinks that jesus came back to life or something today, does not give them the right to shut B and Q so I can't buy stuff. How dare they! Those fucking cunts! It's my day off and if I want to spend it looking at fucking lawn food then I should be able to. I want to go to the pub later, but, oh that's right, I fucking can't. I am fucking furious, I hate being bored and I hate it when other people impose their values on my life. Cunty cunty cunt cunt.
Ball Bag

Wednesday, March 23, 2005

 

I am perfectly capable of getting drunk without your input, you meddling little cretin

Fuck me from behind with a huge marrow, I hate drinking games so very much . I don’t go out that much, and when I do, I like to go to the pub with friends. You know what it is like though, one of your friends gets someone from work tagging along, and instead of just shutting up and being slightly remorseful at inviting themselves along to an event where they know one person, vaguely, the uninvited guest will just fucking take over like one raw, gaping thrush-festooned cunt.

Usually these top-shelf wankers are slightly higher in the work pecking order than the friend who brought them. Not much, just like the friend’s line manager, or head of accounts where the friend is doing admin somewhere else in the company. Whatever, it is just a real opportunity for these A-list arseholes to make of a nuisance of themselves, as everyone in the pub holds off punching them to death, out of loyalty to their friend.

I can cope with loud mouthed arseholes, I can cope with people's colleagues who talk really boring shop, and are aggressive when anyone points out how dull their conversation is. I nod, and smile and josh with them, and wait for them to fuck off. I don’t mind bores, or even the creepy ones who say things under their breath like “I bet you’re dirty” or “You like cock, don’t you” I start talking about how I have always wanted to bugger a man with a strap on, and those creepy ones, for all their big chat, are usually very impotent or just fucking –lights-out -square in bed, so they leave pretty sharpish. I don’t, just for the record, like to bugger men, in fact I have a low opinion of men who ask women to do it I think it is a bit cowardly. Why not get a man to bugger you,who doesn’t have to go out and buy a prosthetic penis on a belt? Jesus Christ.

Anyway, tedious as it is, having low-quality interlopers in the pub, nothing, nothing can compare to those ones who say: “I know, let’s play a drinking game”. I fucking loathe drinking games. They are for people who have no conversation, or who do not like booze, but want to get drunk, and need motivation to do it. For fuck’s sake.
I hate being told what to do, and in my spare time, I could get violent if someone were pushy enough. This one once told me to add up some numbers and then pick whatever hideously expensive drink corresponded with the number on the cocktail menu. I hate cocktails, just fucking hate them, and they always make me drunk very quickly and feel ill. I also dislike maths. Why would I then do maths, in order to buy a very expensive drink which I loathe. I just looked at him and said “No. I am teetotal” because I could not be bothered arguing, and had to watch all my poor friends downing hilarious drinks called “cocksucker” and “flange-opener” until they all went outside and were sick in the car park. And this one, your interloper, he sits up there like the fucking king giving everyone a nickname, getting right into his stride like it is a fucking team building exercise. What a prolapsed overgrown cunt he was. Just a real cunt. He thought everyone adored him except me, who he kept poking with his great sausagey finger and saying “old party pooper here” . Fucking drinking games, why can you not get a drink and just fucking drink it without having such a performance? I do not need someone to measure two fingers down my glass and watch me sip it, or throw a fucking box of matches in my lager. Fuck off. If I want to drink lager with matches in, I will buy some and put them in, but guess what? I am not an utter cunt, so I will just get a lager, put it near my mouth, and fucking drink it, just like that! Fucking hell
Noreen

Noreen is right!

Drinking games are for cunts with nothing interesting to say. They are not funny, they are shit. Really shit. I sat next to a drinking game wanker at a wedding. He constantly badgered the whole table to take part and said that we were boring when we wouldn't. He was not only the most boring man at the table, but at the wedding and possibly in the world. He tried to tell me about his Audi TT, but I told him I hated them so he shut up. Then he wanted us to play something called 'no hands pudding'. He said it would be funny, you had to eat your pudding with no hands, like a dog. I said he should go first and when he did I pushed his face into his gateau and do you know what, he was right, it was pretty fucking funny.
Ball Bag

 

I'll Poke Your Eyes Out With Your Cunting Chopsticks

I went into a noodle bar in London once, because I like noodles, although the fact that they call it a 'bar' is very wanky. They gave me a big box of noodles and some chopsticks. I asked them if they had a fork and they looked at me like I had just done a big, steaming turd on the floor. As I looked around I noticed every cunt in the place was trying to eat with two little sticks. Why? A fork is easier, much, much easier. They only reason they were using fucking chopsticks was so people could see them using them and be impressed. Those bastards still make my blood boil even now, I wanted to rant and shout and rip their chopsticks from their idiot hands and shove them down their idiot throats. Asian people can use chopsticks, anyone else who uses them should be set on fire.
Ball Bag

Tuesday, March 22, 2005

 

I’m sorry. I just need to “share”

Normally I would maim anyone who offered to “share” when they meant to bend my ear and drive me half-insane with their whingeing on and on and on and on and on about something which they found deeply distressing but I thought “you fucker, just pull yourself together and stop moaning for christs sake. Offer it up, if you are religious, or make up a bit of bollocks about Karma or some other version of shit happens. Jesus Christ!”. I would not think it unsympathetic to feel that way. I think everyone gets a bit short-tempered, when they are on the receiving end of a big long moan.

I don’t have a picture of myself as a moaner really. I think I am quite cheerful and keep a positive look on things. Like, there is not a lot you can do to avoid the crap, so it is best to just get a fucking grip really.

This sharing I am going to do is not a moaning sharing nor am I about to offer you some of my crisps. That would not happen, I don’t like the thought of other people’s fingers rummaging in my bag(eh, Vapples) and then nicking all the big ones with the flavour on. It is a pain in the arse. No, this kind of a sharing is like what they do on “friends” when they sit on that great sofa, not ever going to work, any of them, not even the one in the suit who is a smart arse, and they take it in turns to spurt out shite anecdotes about their pointless, hopeless, lives. Here it is then......

My tortoise is fucking gay. I have four tortoises, and they are all male. How do I know? Because they have dicks. They also have like an indentation in the base of their shell, so they can mount up on the big round shell of the tortoise they arefucking.
My medium sized tortoise sodomises the massive tortoise, all fucking day long. It takes him ages to climb on and when he goes at it he sticks his long withered neck out and opens his horrible mouth. Anyway, he looks like he is shagging, no question. The one on the bottom though, the one who takes it, he just eats. He sits there and just eats a plant, or a tomato. I am impressed. So I wanted to ask, have you ever eaten during sex. I am not talking about popping fucking strawberries into each others mouths in some lame attempt to copy that film with the annoying woman and the ugly man and the fridge, nor do I mean pausing, having a massive fry up and getting back on the job. No, what I am on about is mid fuck, cock still in, unwrapping a ginsters pie, or taking delivery of a kebab and just fucking eating it. If you have, I am very impressed, and please tell us exactly what you ate, and if the other one noticed.Gay tortoises, Jesus! Eating and fucking, what will they think of next.
Noreen

 

I do not like discipline, but I would not describe myself as an anarchist. No

I’m not keen on discipline. Whether self-imposed, or inflicted by a person with a little more power than their victim, discipline just cramps the style. There are places it is required, though, just to stop everything being a great fucking shambles, like on the road, and in queues. You notice why it has a function if you go to a country like Italy* or Thailand, where people just drive how they fucking well like, and make a complete hash of it, and if you want to see people fail to queue, then go to china or germany. It really struck me as odd that neither of those places can queue at all. One is a communist country, and you are always led to believe that commies are forever in one queue or another with all those soldiers and stasi people breathing down their necks, so they would just shut up and wait patiently. But they do not, they push and shove and forget all that respect for elders thing they normally bang on about, just elbowing grannies out of the way and trampling on old men.The other one, Germany, those people are very disciplined, they even have toilets where you can check that your poo is healthy before you flush it away. I’d say that is a good sign, maybe even the ultimate self-discipline, yet the bastards cannot queue for their lives. They push in and argue and are generally very unpleasant, and mutter on about how this is not organized enough because if it were really organized, then noone would have to queue. Well, german people, I would like to propose (they always say that) that you learn some fucking patience., Stop eating bread and recycling for a moment and learn how to stand fucking still and wait without giving out about it. Jesus Christ.
Noreen


*readers of the previous comments will already know this, but I saw a man drive while wanking in Italy. He was no brilliant multi tasker though, his steering was all over the place.

Saturday, March 19, 2005

 

Cunt of the week.......the winner!

You naughty, lazy bastards. Barry sets up a competition to find the ultimate cunt, and what do we get? A few smart arses suggesting we “take a look in the mirror”, a barking Kiwi on about some politician I have never heard of, and then two of the commenters trying to be more fucking irritating than usual to scoop the title. You’ll have to so a bit better than that ladies and gents. Anyone can be a prat, you need a little more effort to be a twat, but cuntdom, like royal lineage just strikes a few lucky souls. So LJ and gatsby, well tried, but still mediocre. The rest of you, well congratulations on,the spectacular apathy, because competitions are a bit gay. We were especially impressed by the shortage of nominations, since we had started you off with a couple of hints, and we live in a world with a great number of cunts. No one came up with Piers Morgan, or Davina Mccall (a yelling, fidgeting, gauche reality television presenter) not was there any sort of a mention of famous scientologists, or vegans, or that inflatable flange-face Williams. What happened to Bernard Manning, Michael Winner and the one who whistles? Christ on a bike! I could go on all, day, just all fucking day.

This means it is up to Barry to choose, and he has found a prime candidiate, this one called Glennibal Lecture. He is very famous in the blogosphere, but I am not interested in bloggers, as you know, I find most of them pretty self-absorbed, navel gazing, arch, perky-commenting, show-offs, so I had never heard of Glenn. Anyway, Bazza explained what he is all about:


Although he has a job, he manages to post a new link every eight minutes or so, with a niggling comment. ……extremely influential in setting the news agenda. Whatever he links to will be picked up by hundreds of other a-holes, turned into a scandal, and will maybe end up in the New York Times after they have spent a couple of days huffing and puffing about it.



That’ll do for me. I had a look at his site and it was miserably dull. He seems to copy other people then say “indeed”, instead of yes. He also says “Heh” to be patronising and the rest of the time, he likes to make statements with a question mark on the end, in a "newsnight" kind of way like “Coup in Syria?” You can imagine the intonation of it, it is like when I say “cup of tea?” and I am asking if anyone would like a cup of tea,but kind of hoping someone else will volunteer to make it. Ambiguity, that is the trick of those question marks and it is a way of covering your arse, you see, like if there is a coup in Syria, that Glennibal will say ”see I told everyone that” and if there is not, he can say “well, I was not convinced by that rumour, that is why I put the question mark in.

There are no flies on him, that is for sure, nor does he miss a chance to give the readers a little bit of entertainment alongside his remarks.
Sometimes he’ll do an ekphrasis and give the readers a glimpse into his domestic life, mentioning his missus, and the odd jobs they have to get done around the home. It’s quite a read, I can tell you.

But it is a bit power crazed, all that influencing of the media, and I find his manner really unfortunate, even if you cut him the slack for being foreign, Smugness, like Esperanto,and speaking in tongues, is a universal language, and that man is a big smuggard. So, Mr Instapundit, please step forward to receive cunt of the week. Well done
Noreen

Some are born cunts, some achieve...

I personally wanted Piers Morgan, but whatever. He’ll still be acting like a cunt next week, and every other week. I think I’m on pretty safe ground when I say that. We have all the time in the world.
Barry

Friday, March 18, 2005

 

Of all the colours to choose for a pair of trousers!

Sometimes, I try to see what life is like from another person’s point of view. That is because I am sensitive and an empath. Despite knowing my own likes and dislikes, I can appreciate how other people might not share my, sometimes strong, opinion.

When I see someone wearing a pair of white trousers I have to keep myself in check. Not because I think they look awful, after all, what you wear is a matter of personal taste, is it not. It is not my aesthetic objection to white trousers, it is a statement about restraint and control and the miserable confining nature of our society.

People who wear white trousers have to watch themselves, more than normal people. White trousers are a way to show the world how careful you are. Not everyone can avoid the marks and blemishes of daily life, slovens are always in jeans. No, a white trouser wearer is a warrior against filth, a beacon for control freaks, a magnificent advert for self control and permanent alertness to soiling, and the act of wearing white trousers is a signal for the world to noticve and recognize his excellent self-discipline.People who worry unduly about their impact on the world around them, are vain. Possibly a little insecure with it, but basically vain, and vain people are weak, and weak people are fucking useless and should be hung upside down and beaten across the soles of the feet, the fucking losers.
Next time you see a white trouser wearer, watch them carefully.They always look at seats, and chairs, and benches before they sit down, and real cunty ones will have a wipe at the surface, just to point out to everyone else, that their bottom is going to be cleaner than the rest of the world’s, that they are superior, their standards of hygiene and cleanliness are exacting and meticulously upheld. I know I have a problem with people who are over clean, well, I worry about them. If you hide from dirt, it will come and get you and drag you to your grave. I get round my altruism, though, by remembering that I hate those pernickety cunts, so if their pristeen, untroubled immune systems are floored the first time they meet a germ, well, good fucking riddance.
I don’t just hate people who wear white trousers, I hate people who sell them and make them. The whole cycle of dependency and the insidious controlling nature of the clothing cannot be broken until the,supply chain is disrupted. Stop producing white trousers, and eventually people will move on to jeans, or beige, or black, or a normal colour for legwear.

My husband bought me a pair of white trousers once and it nearly destroyed us. I was deeply unhappy when he gave them to me, even though hey were a nice shape, and went with everything. “What is the matter, ungrateful bitch” he said “I can’t bear the responsibility of them” I said “each time I wear them I will not enjoy myself, I will have to reign in my behaviour and be quiet and clean and not spill things and be still and just be so fucking miserable I could die”. I was right. White trousers are just another kind of bhurka, they cramp your style, and limit your movement. I gave them to my sister.

One of the reasons I love cricket so much is because it encourages people to make white trousers filthy. Grass stains, mud, a weird red patch at the groin for bowlers, where they rub away with the ball. I wish they would play all the matches in white, instead of those really gay one-day pyjamas, what is that all about? Yes, white trousers are evil fun-spoiling miserable weeds, worn by competitive arseholes, delighted to have yet another chance to draw attention to themselves. Pour coffee on train seats, leave a square of choclate in the starbucks armchair, buy cartons of ribena and give them to every child you meet, so the whiteys realise what utter cunts they are. White trousers, only for astronauts, or camouflage in the snow, or cricketers. White trousers, might as well have cunt written on the arse.
Noreen

Thursday, March 17, 2005

 

Tango and salsa, no I do not want to fucking dance, do I look like an utter cunt?

The worst evenings out I have spent, involved salsa or tango dancing. I know it is some fucking cultural bollocks that various hot blooded nations make a great meal out of, and as such I respect it. It is clever, requires concentration and coordination, you need exotic clothes to do it, the music is nicer than Chinese opera or throat singing, and to a cold hearted celt, whose natural state would be drunk, and fighting neighbouring tribes (rather than mincing around in lace, glaring at people) it is all rather emotional and passionate.

There was a big craze for it, do you remember? and certainly in London, when I lived there, all sorts of little bars sprung up with ensuite dancing instructors and evenings which were like “learn to dance, have dinner, then go back and try and remember the dance you just learnt”. What could be wrong with that? I will tell you what,. It is fucking awful, miserable, boring creepy shite.
The first time I got dragged to one of those things I went along to the lesson. There were lots of attractive ladies in their twenties, and some slightly raddled old slags of thirty plus. But the men, Jesus Christ! Someone had gone down ugly street and handed out leaflets to the losers and loners and by God, they had turned up. We had to get a partner, and I got this old one in his late forties, with long grey hair. For fucks sake?! If you have grey hair, it should never be long or in a ponytail. George Clooney has got the grey hair right, Richard Gere looks like a great big fairy. Anyway, I am losing the thread, yes I had this old one as a partner, so I say to him “Hello I am Noreen” and he says “Hello I am Brian” and I say “God, it is my first time, I am so sorry if I tread on your feet” (of course I did not mean that I was sorry one bit, American people, I was being ironic, and had a big plan of trampling the man so he would piss off and leave me to go downstairs and get a tequila) and he says “Oh, I have been twenty times before, and I do that gay “saroc” French thing with all the twirling and showing off, as well as the tango, and some other kind of dancing in pairs”. So I say to him “Really, you must have a gift for dancing then” and he says “No, it is a good excuse to hold a woman” and then he puts his arm a bit closer. I was a bit horrified, until I noticed all these old fellers were whispering away to the ladies and pressing their crotches in, and that one who was the teacher, he was so short I had not noticed him, and then I moved my eyes down a bit and saw he was a swarthy little feller, all balls and twinkletoe feet, and he was pressed up against the lady teacher but she was not wincing at all, even though he had a lot of gel in his hair and she was looking right down at it. And they were wiggling about the two of them, and it looked like they had the St Vitus dance, or maybe the woman, her knickers were up her crack and she was trying to get them out without actually pulling at the gusset, and he was doing a testicular readjustement, but without letting his hands make contact with his bollocks, and I had a moment of deep panic, so I made like I was about to faint, and went down the stairs and stood theatrical-like outside the door with my hand at my head, then I went in and got a drink and said “fuck it, that is terrible”.
I swore I would never salsa again, but some people will not fucking leave it alone, and before long there were those ones who invite you round for a party and while you are in the loo, they have rolled back the carpet and there they are, all frotting away while their feet behave like they are killing ants. I would never tell those people that I hated it straight away, I would just say “oh, me I have two left feet” then if they were pushy bastards I would add “It gives me the creeps to be honest, to have my genitals so close to someone” then they would go on about how liberating it all was and all that craft and skill of it”. And then I started to notice that these ones who were really pushy like about tangos and salsas, they were the real squares, and often the tangoing women were those ones kind people would describe as a “late bloomer”, like they were a speccy violin playing minger until they hit 25 and reinvented themselves as some sort of a babe. There were loads like that, real keenos about learning the dance, and overlooking, or worse enjoying the fact that their bits were pressed up against some old geyser giving him the thrill of his life.
And, to top it all, I used to work with this man who was just the fucking end of creepiness, who each day he came in would say “Noreen, do you like tango” and I would say “No, I fucking hate it, I have been telling you for weeks” and he would say “Come to tango with me, I am brilliant at it”, and I would say “no, I don’t care if you can fly using only your pubes, I will not do that gay, creepy dancing, now please go away”.He would laugh like I was having a banter, and do the same, all over again the next day. He either had a thick skin, or was trying to send me to the fucking Priory. Tango, Salsa, whatever you want to call dancing beneath the waist with your hands all up like you have deep heat under your armpits, fuck off and die, or just become a secret sport like badger baiting. Tango. Fuck off.
Noreen


NOREEN IS RIGHT!

When the Martians arrive and ask me to show them round, dancing is going to be one of the hardest things to explain. Why are the earthlings doing this?
-Are you having a good time?
-What?
-Are you having a good time?
-What?
-Are you having a good time?
-No. Go away.
-Do you want to dance?
-No, it’s stupid. It makes you look silly.
-What?
-Leave me alone.
-What?
Barry

Wednesday, March 16, 2005

 

Marine life, it’s fucking awful

I like the seaside, I love it, as long as I do not have to go into the sea. Now this is not some kind of retarded problem with living near a freezing cold and sewagey sea. I do not have fucking baggage about icy water or enormous beating waves, or beaches where the shingle makes holes in the bottom of clogs, no that is not my problem. I do not like going in the sea because of fish. They have horrible mouths, and some of them are poisonous, like fucking jelly fish. How mortifying would it be to be paralysed by a creature made of wobbly stuff? I could not live with myself if I were maimed by a fish. Big fish, as well, they are horrible. Those fliddy little fins, all small and flapping and their great glassy eyes making you terrified. I wake up at night in a cold sweat sometimes.
I will tell you about my worst nightmare, and it is all about fish. I dream that I am in a small boat with mad Declan. He is doing that thing with the oars which means I am getting covered in sea water, and when a piece of bladderwrack seaweed lands in my hair, I wrestle the oar from him and beat him, over and over again around the head. But madmen have reserves of strength. The calories they save from being fuckwitted go surging into their muscles like an army of slightly simple fighters, and, besides, Declan does not have a lot to lose from the head beating, so he takes the other end of the oar, and like swings me out into the sea. Then I fall into the water, and you know how it is with dreams, suddenly you can be in a totally different place, and I am in the middle of this blue ocean, surrounded by middle-aged brassy English women who should be wearing larger swimming costumes at their age, and we are swimming with those fuckers, dolphins. Jesus Christ! I am under the water and all I can hear is that awful squeaking and hooting which sounds like a boiler.
I fucking hate dolphins, I do not care if they are trained killers, or detonators, they have horrible faces, and when they swim with people they poke them with that nasty blunt nose. Jesus Christ, if a dolphin did that to me, I would scream a lot of rude things, I’m fucking telling you. And, what gets me is how people are on about how intelligent dolphins are. If they are so bright, then why do they not solve poverty, or create world peace instead of swimming with chavs and making a horrible noise? Fish and octopi, don’t get comfortable either, I fucking hate you too, and eels, Jesus Christ.
Noreen

Tuesday, March 15, 2005

 

My Friend's Baby is so Fucking Ugly

My friend and his wife have had a baby, and my god, he is breath-takingly ugly. He looks like he is special, and not in a good way. His eyes, nose and mouth are all squashed together in the middle of his enormous face and he has a huge protruding forehead. I honestly thought that there was something wrong with him when I first saw him, I was trying to think of a tactful way to ask if they were sure he was alright, but thankfully I kept my big yap shut, because it seems that he is fine. Apart from the way he looks, of course.

Astonishingly, his mother thinks he is handsome. "Isn't he such a handsome boy?" she asked me the other day. I looked at her, alarmed, thinking it was some kind of trick, but she clearly believed he was attractive. "Yes," I replied, "he's lovely." I hate myself.
Ballbag

Ball Bag is Right!

There is a way to let on to the mother, that her child is unfortunate to look at and that is either to say “My God, it is the fucking Kraken, will I swap it with that one in the tank over there?”, or to say “Isn’t he alert. What a bright little thing”.
Noreen

Monday, March 14, 2005

 

Ninjas are gay

The crack troops of the orient, the special forces of the eastern world, Ninjas are held up as the example of manliness. But wait, are they really all that?
Would you trust a man with a bandana, and if it is worn over the eyes, would you not think that he is a good way to being an actual (fuck off Tony T) gimp?

Where do they keep all their stuff, as well. Those gay little stars and the thing that looks like a skipping rope? I bet they have a bum bag, or a “fanny pack” (that is what Americans call them, can you believe it?!) underneath that great black dress, and there is probably a mirror in it too to check that their bandana has not gone awry.

They were all right, ninjas until they started getting turtles to join in. Can you imagine it? like if the SAS decided they would recruit some gerbils to help them carry out clandestine operations, or the SBS trained a school of porpoises in surveillance and detonation. Fuck off you ninjas, you are as soft as shite, and just by the way, why do you not excel in one discipline? Hmm? Jack of all trades master of none, that is it.
Noreen

 

CUNT OF THE WEEK

Noreen wants me to fill in for Ball Bag. He's gone racing, the fat tosser.

Concerning bees I have nothing to say. But to pass the time I thought we might organise a Cunt Of The Week competition. Send in your suggestions for Top Cunt, explaining why your guy deserves to win, and on Friday we'll announce the winners.

Barry
Barry is right!

There are a lot of real cunts out there, and it is going to be quite a job to sort the clits from the flaps, so get thinking. If you do not want to post your uncharitable opinions about people on the site, because you have some sort of a picture of yourself as “nice” don’t worry! You can email them to emeraldbile@yahoo.co.uk.
Mind gone blank? What about magicians, locking themselves in perspex cages, bending spoons, wearing terrible clothes and having real pram-faced assistants?! There must be a cunt or two among that lot. Practitioners of tantric sex, or at least those ones that go on about it, cunts? You decide.
Noreen

Update!
Nominations so far are: Emerald bile blog writers, two foreign royal people, a man whose name rhymes with duvet, the one who comments called gatsby, and a New Zealand politician called Winston. Great start, everyone! Keep those cunts coming.........
Noreen

Sunday, March 13, 2005

 

If you have stripes and wings, you may bumble. Other creatures, get a fucking grip

No one likes a phoney. There is something a bit fake about then, like you would not trust them completely, or necessarily believe everything they were saying. There is a large wagon of people all ready to say “This one is a phoney” about people in politics, but I am not too worried about those types of phoneys, or those celebrities with the clay feet, it is no real surprise to me if they turn out to be wankers.

The type of phoneys that I want to poke with a sharpened stick, are the ones that pretend to be scatty. Fuck off you wankers, you know exactly who you are. People who describe themselves as “bumbling”, a cuttable offence in itself “That’s me, just bumbling around not knowing what I’m doing. I just bumble about, bumbling”. For fuck’s sake! Those people on about bumbling, they are meticulous planners. They are the type that run through social scenarios in their heads, rehearsing the “bumbling” things they will drop into conversation. They are fanatically organized and will always know what they are doing and where they will be going to do their “bumbling”. They pretend not to know what the time is or have a sense of direction, but actually have a GPS system in their comedy hats. These people never talk they “waffle”, they are studiously vacant, but watch their rivals like hawks. Things “just happen”, they never choose to do anything. Great arseholes. It is making a mockery of people who are not quite all there too, and I think it is terrible to laugh at the afflicted, like being a hypocrite, just fucking unacceptable.

If you mention bumbling to me, I will paint you yellow and black and stick a pole down your throat as a proboscis, and then I will create a giant flower with the different coloured rings on it (to show where the pollen is) out of Styrofoam and crepe paper, and then I will sit there until you shit me a jar of honey. Fucking hell, I hate phoneys, “bumbling”, “scatty” people, fuck off!
Noreen

 

Noreen’s dog

My dog has a really ugly penis. It is thin and long like a wormy tube or a tubey worm. It keeps sticking it out of its foreskin all the time. There is no need for that really, and it makes me feel a bit queasy. It even licks it, when it is out of the sheath. My friend Jonathan says that if he could do that, he would never leave the house.
When I used to bite my nails, my mother would put a lacquer on them which tasted like nasty bitter glass. I think it would be cruel to do that to Gerald’s wang, so I came up with a solution. Each time he sticks it out I ring a bell.

Noreen

Friday, March 11, 2005

 

Don't Work Harder, Work Smarter. Then Fuck Off.

I fucking detest people who are really proud of how many hours they work a day. This stupid, macho bollocks surrounding who can stay longest at the office gets right on my tits. I met two people at the weekend who were trying to be the one who worked the longest hours, it was pathetic. One said that he had been working really hard recently, putting in about 80 hours a week at the office. That's not working hard, that's just working long, you cunt. Shifting 10 tonnes of gravel with a spade and a wheelbarrow is working hard, not sitting on your fat arse looking at your gay computer for hours on end.

If people aren't able to get there work done in a reasonable amount of time, perhaps they should get a job that they don't find so difficult. I have plenty of time to get my work done without 'pulling an all nighter' as those wankers say. They fucking love getting food delivered to their office in the evening too, just to show that they will stay to get this thing done. Just fucking do it tomorrow.

Anyway, one of these people I met at the weekend raised a glass of Guinness and said "I work hard, but I play hard too." I stabbed him to death with my car keys in a furious rage, and I am glad I did. 'I play hard too', what an utter cunt.

Ball Bag is right


I have never met anyone nice who said “work hard play hard”. They were all cunts, and what’s more, most of them were unsuccessful and unhappy cunts. If they really worked and played hard, then they would be working and playing, not talking about it. The only thing which should be hard in life is a penis. Everything else can fuck off.

Noreen

I drink tea hard. I’ve had four cups today, and it isn’t even 11am. I really like to push myself to the limits. Not girls’ tea, either, but super-strength Man’s Tea. Made with leaves, not bags: so it gets into your bloodstream quicker and, like, totally fucks your head. It is the kind of tea Hitler would drink, if Hitler drank tea.

People who drink herbal teas should be taken outside and shot. I believe that very strongly.
Barry

Thursday, March 10, 2005

 

Fuck Off The Lot of You

We have noticed a large upsurge in our readership since some bloke called Attu linked to us, and to say that we are unhappy would be to understate our position somewhat. We are really pissed off. Can you people not read? It says at the top that we want you to fuck off. We aren't joking, this isn't a ploy to get you to read our shite because that is what we really want. We truely want you all to fuck away off. Serioiusly. What is the matter with you people anyway? Who would want to read this bollocks, you sick wierdos? So fuck off and read Harry's blog, it is much better than this shite anyway. Go on, then. Fuck off.

BallBag is right!

Jesus Christ some people. Harry has done all these underlined things for us, as a hint for you to go and look at his blog, but there are some hides like fucking rhinos around here. Ball Bag is right, we never wanted people on here, this is like a virtual dead letter box except glaringly open in cyberspace and linked to lots of other blogs.
Noreen

 

If you use the word “fragile” in anything other than a conversation about moving house, I will hurt you

There is a fashion for words, isn’t there? Like I would not call someone a Joey, or a Deacon, after that poor man on the television, if they were doing something stupid, or were being a bit slow to catch on, nowadays, Twenty years ago, it was the word I used most, nowadays cunt is the new Joey, I would say. People are all saying it.

I did not want to talk about swearing though, not a bit of it, no, what I am fucking sick to the gums about is that fucking word “fragile”. Jesus everyone is described as fragile nowadays. It used to be a word you saw on the Pickfords box, and that was it, and frankly, that is where it can go back. Practically everyone says it, all the time. “He has a fragile ego” which means, “that one is a psycho, fucking watch out”. Or “yes, she is very fragile” “That woman has a serious valium addiction. Do not ask her to operate a heavy machine”. “Fragile beauty”= “anorexia” “fragile relationship”= “mutual hatred”, “Fragile soul”= “a big gay”
Fucking stick it up your fragile arsehole, or I will get a fragile temper and you do not want to see that, let me tell you.
Noreen

Wednesday, March 09, 2005

 

The atkins diet: for cunts

The totally laughable, risible, fucking ludicrous idea of a diet without carbohydrates would be an especial type of a joke in Ireland. The idea of no bread or potatoes, no fucking crisps, no swedes, just loads of expensive meat with a piece of skinned grapefruit sitting on it-what sort of cunt would think of that. I fucking love potatoes, I really really love them. I even ate a raw potato once because I love them so much I thought I would love them raw too. It wasn’t great, but it was nicer than a raw kidney.

I can’t stand people doing the Atkins diet they are utter cunts. I am not a fan of people on diets anyway, there is a bit of the “look at me, I am altering myself, do you see it?” and it is just fucking miserable and annoying of them, that restraint and smugness. Fuckers. I don’t care what people eat as long as they just eat it without the song and the dance, they can eat raw carrots, or weird juices as long as they do not spoil the meal for everyone else. Those Atkins fuckers are the worst. They will sit with a face like a slapped arse while normal people tuck into the rolls, they won’t touch booze, they are self flagellating bores. They go on and on about which stage they are at and they smell bad, because of the metabolizing or whatever the fuck it is. I would rather have a really fat person who just eats, than a gruesome Atkinser who can’t leave off talking about sugar and carbs. Hopefully they will all die, and when they get to purgatory it will be a giant spud-u-like floating in an ocean of lager, and they will still be on that stupid diet and never be able to join in, the miserable fuckers
Noreen

Noreen is right!

A big bowl of spaghetti contains more calories than a small bowl, and the Eat 20% Less Diet is effective for almost everyone. That’s all there is to know about diets.

This is all pretty topical, because my friend Clive bought an exercise bike a couple of months ago. He used to be a fat cunt; now he’s a fat cunt with an exercise bike in his garage. Too little too late, old son. Pedalling nowhere is an excellent metaphor for his worthless life, by the way.

Or take Ball Bag. Since he stopped playing rugby he has ballooned into a fat fucking toad. But he’s comfortable with the way he looks, and I admire him for that. Give me a wheezing slug like Ball Bag any day rather than a carrot-munching narcissist like, for example, Eminem.
Barry Hutton

See also.

Tuesday, March 08, 2005

 

Harry is right

Harry is on about people called
John this week. I don’t know anyone called John at all. I knew a man called John in Asia, but I haven’t seen him for years so I do not think that counts. And, has anyone met a child called John? No. I knew it. It is going off the boil. I knew five people called Terry as well out there though, can you believe that? Like in London I knew not one single person called Terry, not one. Honestly, not a single Terry, in fact I do not think I really believed that Terry was a name, only Terry Wogan and that was it. Then I move to Asia and fuck me five Terries and a John. I bet if I went back I could find an Aloysius, just you wait. Anyway, there you have it, England was full of Johns back then but now you would have to scratch around or go all the way to Asia to get even one.
Noreen

 

ITV, television by cunts, for cunts. Yes that does include fucking Coronation Street, Christ on a stick!

I have just seen a disabled girl on TV. She had withered legs, and a wierd big head. The presenter asked if people stared at her, "Yes," she replied "I wish they wouldn't, I am no different from anybody else." For a brief moment I thought she might also be blind, and to spare her feelings her parents had told her that everybody rolled around in chairs and had giant deformed heads, but it appeared that her sight was perfectly adequate. Why did she say it then? She was clearly very different from everybody else, that's why she was on the fucking show in the first place. The presenter let it pass, a competent presenter would have pulled her up on it. Typical ITV!
Ballbag

Ball Bag is right!
The only time I was happy to be watching ITV was when I watched that fucking alarming film, "The shining". I was so scared, that every time the adverts came on, it was a blessed relief. If I had watched it on the BBC, I would be dead, unless they had done that irritating thing where they put half the film on before the news, and then after watching people in suits on about the Pope and Iraq for half an hour, you are back in the saddle watching loonies creeping round deserted hotels.
Noreen

Monday, March 07, 2005

 

Why would you go to Iraq to buy a horse? For fuck’s sake!

I can’t fucking stand CNN, they are always calling each other their names, all the fucking time. “Thanks John” “You’re welcome Hazel” “That’s okay John”. Just shut up, and say the fucking news, I am not interested in you nancies making a big show of politeness, because I bet in the makeup room it is one big catfight, with everyone in a big scrummage: “Pass the fucking mascara hazel you whoor” “Fuck you Jon schmon you are a big drip with a voice like a herd of camels and everyone thinks you look fat on the telly you penis”. That is what it is really like, a jungle.

The other thing that gets on my nerves a lot is how they are always on about what it is like being a correspondent. There will be a whole programme on how difficult it is to be a reporter in Brighton, or Grozny or something, but not much about the country. All of it reminiscent of that woman who keeps winning the sailing, just making a meal of being there, and how difficult it all is. If it is so difficult, then why do they not move back to America and get a job there? Anyway, whether these reporters are enjoying themselves or not, that is really only of interest to them, and people who like them. They should just write one of those boastful letters people put in their Christmas cards instead, and send it to people they know, instead of going on the telly for half an hour and telling the world, Jesus Christ.

There is one of them I get annoyed with. He has a voice like a corncrake, a smug corncrake, going all over the place with enthusiasm. He was on about Iraq and elections and the man was talking about “horse trading” non fucking stop. He mentioned it three or four times. “But what do you think about this horse trading”. My uncle Gerald was a horse trader, and did he go to Iraq? Not he fucking well did not, he went to the horse fair and bought and sold horses. And unless tinker Mick was hiding his light under a bushel Uncle Gerald was not buying or selling horses with a Grand Ayatollah. CNN, Fuck off. Ball Bag?
Noreen

Noreen is right!

Thanks, Noreen. Why do reporters think that their work is so important? They are so proud of the fact that they 'risk their lives' to bring us the facts that we need to know. OK, I accept that we need to know what is going on in a war zone in order to have an informed opinion, but to be honest it is more important to me that my bin is emptied for me every week, so to me (and I suspect almost everybody except reporters) my binman is more important than some fucking reporter. And they always over emphasise the danger they are in, and they are so proud of their 'gallows humour' because if you didn't laugh you would go mad because the job is so fucking dangerous. Bollocks. Why don't they take themselves a bit less seriously, and then why don't they fuck off and die, the cunts.
Ball Bag

Friday, March 04, 2005

 

Swear properly, you cunt

I was asked to leave the very first school I attended because of my language. What cunts those nuns were for that. Why did they not get rid of the fat girl who was always sniffing people’s hair, she was an odd one, or that small boy who was always getting his lad out and showing it to people, in between ringing the nuns doorbell and running off. If he is not in jail, then I will eat my fucking hat.

I fucking hate people who are square about swearing, they can fuck off. There is a time when filthy language is called for, and I do not feel the impact if I were to say, “Oh Gosh”. What the fuck does Gosh mean anyway? Is it an acronym Get Out, Shit Head, or Gloves Off! Skanky Hairball, or Git Orifice Shagging Hag? If it is I will say it in full, that will have the right effect.

It is always fucking awful women in their thirties on the telly, saying “oh my gosh”. For fuck’s sake!. And then actual real women start saying it too, the stupid sheep. I blame that appallingly shite programme sex and the fucking city. God those women needed a good slapping. That one with the clothes like she had got dressed in the dark, always going on about everything, she was just fucking awful. She was always on “oh why am I single” and I would think to myself, if you just bought a pair of fucking jeans and stopped being such a whinging cow, maybe someone would actually want to be your boyfriend. And she was so acquisitive, always after this man called mr big, not because he had a large cock, which I would be able to understand, but because he was a big spender. Christ on a stick, those women have their priorities up their arses. And the square one was just dreadful, and the ginger one who is now a lezzer, fucking hell, I would not want to be stuck in a lift with that one, and then there was the one who liked shagging, she was the best but they made her get cancer and go all boring, the tedious old slag.
Noreen

Noreen is fucking right!

As the proud owner of a fine pair of testicles, I have never watched Sex in the City. What does annoy me though is that nobody seems to have noticed that the woman I will call 'The Main One' is a pig-ugly fucking minger. She is held up as a figure of beauty. Why? I can't see it. All I can see is a big-nosed, boney old whore. Does nobody agree with me?
Ball Bag

Thursday, March 03, 2005

 

Now THAT Is What I Call a Disaster!

Droughts are really boring, so are famines. Just loads of people hanging around looking miserable and living in crappy tents. Earthquakes are OK, I like to see the wrecked buildings and bridges wobbling like fuck, but camera footage is rare and doesn't show much. That big fucking wave was alright for about 5 minutes, once the home movies started appearing, although the size of the wave was strangely disappointing. But the best disaster ever has to be the 9/11 thing. Not the pentagon bit, or the Pennsylvania bit, they were pretty dull, but the New York bit was exciting as fuck.

Now don't start whining about thousands being killed and kids with no Dads, I think we can all agree that that is awful, but in terms of excitement the World Trade Centre collapse is hard to beat. It had the fucking lot - planes, explosions, tall buildings, fire, people jumping from really high up and then the spectacular demolition of two massive towers. And the footage of it was fucking great, really good quality stuff, amazing. Rarely do I look at a disaster with my mouth hanging open in shock, but this time I genuinely did. Disaster footage can sometimes get done to death, but I just could not get enough of this one. If there was a 2 hour special on tonight, I would still watch it.

I have a problem with calling it 9/11, though. 9/11 is the 9th of November isn't it? We need to be careful or history could get confused in 1000 years from now. And just by the way, why call the big hole Ground Zero? What does that mean? Big Hole is far better.

I didn't like the way firemen in the UK used it to ask for more money. They didn't do it the next day or anything, they waited a year or two, but they kept harping back to it all the bloody time because they wanted £30k a year. For a fucking fireman?? All they do is sit about and drink tea and play snooker, then occasionally pour water into a smoldering skip fire. The lazy, greedy cunts.
Ball Bag
Ball Bag is right!
I agree about the 9/11 thing, that is confusing for British people. We invented English and telling the date long before any americans started writing it arse about face. It is also the phone number for their emergency services, 911 although why they can’t have 999 like we do is beyond me. Like, if I was dying in a fire and all the firemen were busy playing snooker and looking at page three, I would have to fumble around for my phone, and once I had pressed the nine, I would then have to fiddle about looking for the one instead of just going nine, nine, and then one more nine. I think Americans make life difficult for themselves.

Ball bag is right. BigHole has a gravitas to it, whereas ground zero reminds me of ground hog, which incidentally is a better name for a hedgehog than hedgehog, because they do live on the ground and are not always in a hedge, or we would never see them, and gypsies would not be able to cook them. Those Americans are right about ground hogs but they should sort out their numbers, because that is fucked. They need to “do the math”.
Noreen

Tuesday, March 01, 2005

 

Bird Flu Is Cool

This bird flu thing sounds good doesn't it? They say if it comes over here school will be cancelled. Yipeee!

Seriously though, it could kill thousands. Thousands of old people, they are most at risk. I think it is all a huge conspiracy to solve the pensions crisis. I am not sure if there really is something called bird flu and it will be deliberately introduced, or if it is made up and MI5 or someone will just go around bumping off anyone who smells too much of piss and blaming bird flu. Either way, you can bet that dastardly Prince Phillip is in it up to his saggy neck.

They say it started in Vietnam when somebody drank some duck blood. Duck blood! Christ on a stick! Anyone who drinks duck blood deserves everthing they get. Honestly, some people. Duck blood.
Ball Bag

Ball Bag is right!
It is supposed to make you virile, drinking blood. I would not care if a man had a hard on like a totem pole, if he had been drinking duck’s blood he would have to clean his teeth first, before I would go near him, the dirty bastard.
Noreen

 

I really fucking hate weddings so much, and no, I am not single, you bastards

I have been married for long time, which is amazing given my foul temper and lack of tolerance. I will say, though, that I think weddings are just fucking awful. I hate them. I hated my own wedding and I have hated all other weddings I have ever gone to. Slagging weddings is never going to win you friends or even be understood by most people, they will give out about how you are just a misery, or jealous of the bride. If only it were that simple, but it is not, it is a feeling of proper panic which overtakes me, a vision of cages snapping onto the beach/marble floor of the town hall or stone slabs of the church around the happy couples’ feet. I fucking hate it. I try not to go to weddings, because I hate them so much. In fact, I have not been to a wedding for about four years, and I didn’t feel the same welling up of fear, as it was all in a foreign language.


The only person I have ever met who understood how much I cannot bear weddings, was this barking old queen I used to work with. He was a very friendly and kind man, always asking how you were, and hanging around for an answer, which is quite rare. However, if you were to answer “actually* Crispin, wonderful news!! I’m getting married!”, then he would step back from you, raise his hands to his head and say “Oh no, oh dear me no, oh how awful, oh no, oh dear” and then wander off, clearly very upset. People thought he was doing it just for the spice, but he was not. He felt that it was the most extraordinary thing to want to do, to get married and stay with one person, and most of all, make a great spectacle of yourself along the way. Marriage suits lots of people, so I didn’t agree with him about the long term/ growing old with someone/ companionship side of things, but the wedding itself is just grim. My innate pessimism makes me feel uncomfortable, when they are giving it the “I do” and all that honoring shite. Fuck that, it is just asking for trouble. The fact that so many marriages break up, doesn’t help either. As I stand in a church listening to a pair of people in ridiculous clothes telling me their middle names a lot, I feel terrified at the hubris of it. Second marriages are even worse, because the people already have form for fucking up a relationship. Luckily, they normally happen on a beach, or up in a fucking balloon, or somewhere where the couple can finally get away from their mad exes, various petulant children and ill-wishers, so that is quite good.


And as if that whole exchanging of vows isn’t enough to get me twitching, sometimes you,can get to the reception and it is a fucking pantomime in itself One foreign wedding I went to, did not redeem itself by being in foreign because every single friend of the happy couple got up and performed in some way. Three of them did a hilarious skit about falling over or something. Another one played a horn, really badly, so badly I had to bend down and pretend to do up my shoelace, even though I was wearing girls shoes without laces. I hate weddings, yes, but I would not want to hurt the feelings of a really untalented person with a horn, because part of me admires someone who is so bad at playing a horn, that they would think it okay to get up in front of a huge audience and play it. I tried to see if the tongue was in the cheek with that one, but they were german and I think not. Another time I went to an English one and it was a fucking Ceilidh, for crying out loud! Who would do that galloping dancing in a fucking hat and gloves. Jesus Christ. Fucking hell I hate weddings, no thank you I do not want to come along, here is a toaster now fuck off


* ( Tony T, I would always say actually to an aging queen it is like saying please or thank you)

Noreen

Noreen is wrong!

She's wrong this time. Weddings are OK. Weddings have drink, some weddings have free drink, those are the best kind. The mistake Noreen is making is by going to the stinking, boring, church-bound ceremony. I never go to the fucking ceremony and nobody has ever noticed. I really good friend of mine got married a few years ago and instead of going to the ceremony I went and played a rugby match, then turned up afterwards and got pissed. He still doesn't know, I think he would be upset if he found out, but how would he? There are so many people at the stinking church all looking pretty much the same, the happy couple are too busy to notice who is there and who isn't. The only ceremony I went to was when I had to get a lift with a friend and he made me go, but I am really glad I did. The groom, a good friend of ours, started blubbing during his vows like a big fucking girl. Everybody thought it was 'sweet', but I told him he was a fucking gay and I was ashamed to know him. We were laughing so much we had to go outside. Even one of the ushers was turning purple and shaking with laughter. What a fruit!

I tell you what I do hate though is fucking black tie weddings. First of all it isn't classy, it is tacky as fuck, and secondly I feel like a right penis dressed in a dinner jacket at 2 in the afternoon in a pub across the road from the church where all the rest of those wankers are watching people light candles and sing. Black tie. Fuck off!

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