Wednesday, October 26, 2005


Twenty quid? for the contents of a bee's hole? don't make me fucking laugh

There is a time and a place for a candle, and that time is a power cut. They are fucking useful, in a power cut and there can be no argument about that at all. And the small feckers on a birthday cake? Well my heart is not made of stone, candles on a cake are alright too.

What is not fucking alright, in fact what is plain weird and despicable and fucked in the head, is the group of women who buy very expensive candles which smell, and put them all over their houses, even thought their electrics are in perfect working order. This one was on about candles the other day, comparing one thirty quid piece of wax with another "Oh it is diptyque for me, I would not buy anything else" "Oh yes, I always light a candle for my bath" says another. How can you see if you are clean around the genitals if you are washing by candlelight? Dirty fuckers.

Women who go on about expensive candles are often fat. I don't know why. If they are not fat, then they are those scrawny, needy ones who have a face like a bag of spanners. Talking about candles is a bit like talking about poetry. It is supposed to make the listener think "Oh, she is very, very romantic this one. And sensual as well. Yes". It is a load of old shit though, the only reason people think candles are romantic is because they make it difficult to see clearly.

It is stupid behaviour going on a date by candlelight as well. It is the lighting equivalent of beer goggles. You can't see the warts or weird facial tics that in decent light would warn you away from a person. If you are serious about bedding someone, then you should get them under a bright bit of fluorescent strip. That is all.

Tuesday, October 25, 2005


Geoffrey Ferris - What a Cunt

I realise that you don't know Geoffrey Ferris, but I can assure you he is a big, fat, masonic cunt. He is an enormous, sweaty, smelly, red-faced fucker and he should be made to sit perfectly still in a cramped seat whilst chain smoking to see if he develops Deep Vein Thrombosis and drops dead. I bet he would, what with being a lardy bloater and all.

Ball Bag

Sunday, October 23, 2005


What the Dickens?

I love interior design an enormous amount yet when I tell people this, or they catch me reading "World of Interiors" they greet the revelation with brilliant statements like:"But you smoke!" or "You use foul language!" or "you don't wear make-up!". One does not need a face full of slap, nor must one be a vitamin-gobbling asthmatic who says "sugar" intead of "Fucking cunting arseholes", to appreciate the very obvious fact indeed, that, happiness lies in beautiful surroundings. I even think that Feng Shui is not utterly pointless shite which is incredibly big of me, for I have very little time for other new age practices.

I really dislike those programmes on the telly telling people to paint one wall red, or make something weird out of meduim density fibreboard, they are so gay. I am a firm believer that people will be most happy with the things they like, arranged the way they want, with the paint or paper or chintz or calico or whatever type of scheme they fancy. There is no "right" way to make your house, it is up to you.

The exception, the one thing I cannot fucking tolerate at all is the "Miss Havisham" dining table. when people have a dining table laid for an army, with posh flatware, the best glass and china, all unused, and never likely to be used. I have seen this a few times, I have even been shown it proudly by the owners: "Look at our dining table! Isn't it a picture of perfection?"

On one occasion, I asked the dining table owner if she was expecting people for dinner. She looked at me as if I were utterly mad and replied; "Oh no, of course not. This is just for show. We never use this table, we eat in the kitchen".

I have never heard anything so ridiculously mad and naff in my entire life. What is the point of having a place where you eat dinner, getting it all ready to eat dinner on, and then fucking off to the kitchen instead? That is very very weird behaviour indeed. If I had that woman over to my house and I took her into my bedroom and showed her a set of clothes and said "Look at this skirt and the top and the lovely shoes. Aren't they great?" And then, if I wandered about the house just wearing my bra and knickers- well she would be quite right in thinking that behaviour, the work of an absolute lunatic.

I can understand that, if you were in the habit of receiving large numbers of hungry, uninvited guests, having the dining table all ready and raring to go would be a wise use of time. However, the type of people who arrange their dining tables as if the queen were expected, are the type of people who never, ever, ever do anything spontaneous at all, and if someone were to turn up and say "Hello there, what is for dinner" the uninvited guest would have the door slammed in their face .

People with these odd, unused pre-set dining tables should be forced to use them, as it is a fucking waste of wood and sand and clay, as well as being just too peculiar for words, and if they make a fuss and say "oh no, we will ruin it and it might get dirty " then they should be forced to remain at the table, with their hands skewered to the damask with bone handled fish knives until they rot in their own excrement

Thursday, October 20, 2005


Cleanliness Is Next to Cuntliness

Some people are far too clean. They dust. Dusting is the province of psychopaths, like collecting newspapers. It is microbes that will kill you, you miserable cretin, and you will not remove microbes by dusting. You will merely spread them around, and breathe them in, and the next thing you know you will be covered with open sores, and buboes, and you will have gangrene in your extremities. The doctors will laugh at you. "That is what you get for dusting, you witless neurotic cunt!" they will say, and send you home to die as you deserve, alone in a darkened room because your relatives will be ashamed of you.

My aunt was afflicted with a shaking palsy, and her skin sloughed off, because she would clean house the day before the maid arrived. People crossed the street to avoid her, because of the great dangling shreds of skin she trailed behind.

People obsessed with cleanliness are sick and dangerous and they should be chained in a corner, with straw to sleep on, before they run amok. My aunt was very clean and she killed the neighbors' dog because she thought it was laughing at her. In fact it was just very stupid and deserved to die. The neighbors were cunts, to have such a stupid dog. In the end she began to dig tunnels and we had her put down. She was from Schenectady. We buried her on a hillside, in an unmarked grave, and the wolves will not shit on that spot, because she was a cunting lunatic.

Mornington Richmond-Redbridge

Mornington is wrong!

You are a gibbering imbecile. Disorder is the enemy of the achieving mind. A positive, can-do attitude is essential, and that means tidiness before all else. You must organize your life, and your cleaning, and get your house in order, if you wish to be successful. Money will not buy happiness, but you miserable desperate cunts are shit out of luck on that score in any case. You should also consider that money will buy women, while happiness will not.

Morbridge Cocksucker-Fuckfosters

Monday, October 17, 2005


You Have A Crushed Pelvis And Internal Bleeding - Would You Like A Blanket?

This earthquake thing. They are launching a appeal for money, so they can help, but they seem to think that helping means sending blankets. Why do they always send fucking blankets? For every single disaster the solution seems to be blankets, and lots of 'em.

I heard a bloke being interviwed who was asked 'what practical help can our listeners give'. This bloke suggested that the listeners should pray for the victims. That's practical isn't it? That's going to be a huge help.

Here is your situation: Your leg has been squashed by a falling building, you require an amputation. What would you rather have at this point?
A) A fucking blanket
B) Some fucking wingnut talking to his imaginary friend on your behalf
C) A competant surgeon and a large dose of morphine

Ball Bag


Don't insult my intelligence you lecturing cunt

I never had much time for Jesus. Not only because I am a non- religious person who has always considered a Messiah like a zip in the fly of a pair of trousers: useful for some people, wasted on me, no, apart from not being keen on guidance, it was the fucking stories Jesus told that would have left me cold: those parables. Parables are pure shite. Only the most idiotic cretin would need someone to make up a very, very shit story to convince then that stealing is not that great or that people should share or not maim each other. I fucking hate Aesop's fables too, they were fucking irritating for the same reason and Sesame Street with all its songs about cooperation. If you put the three of them in a room together, apart from the difference in appearance, you would see, immediately that they are exactly the same: the Big Bird there, a picture in yellow feathers with those great big orange feet, singing away about how we should be nice to the disabled child "one of us here is not like the others", and then that Greek slave with the manicles and a big heavy chain around his neck like a lead going on: "There once was a crow that was terribly vain" and Jesus would waft in with sawdust down his dress starting away: "let me tell you about a man who thought he was the richest person in the world but in fact he was very lonely". It is all the same thing: Pure shite. If they were wanting to make a real difference then they should just get to the point " No killing", "share nicely", "money will not necessarily make you happy". Stupid fuckers.

Friday, October 14, 2005


Culinary experiments

There is a short cut to every short cut, and as a very lazy person indeed, I am currently applying that very maxim to the thieving of recipes for my book. I've been through all the cookbooks in my house, had a good old shufty around the internet and all that was left was this tatty old scrapbook of my grandmothers. Smarting from the remarks on here about Irish master chefs, I had a look through the endless lists of foods which fall somewhere between bread and a cake, and ways to cook unpleasant cuts of meat. She was an adventurous one, my grandmother and in between sitting on graves and taking exception to pretty much everything, she had a fondeness for experimentation in the kitchen. At the end of the book, as she became a little less engaged with the world, she got quite exotic around the stove, and I'd like to share with you a recipe for her"Chinese Casserole" . I'm not sure what makes it Chinese now, it must be the frozen peas and the top of the milk.

1 lb mince
10 oz frozen peas
6-8 sticks of celery
1 can condensed mushroom soup
1 small chopped onion
1 packet of potato crisps
top of the milk

Grease a pie dish. Fry mince in a little oil, place in the dish. Rinse frozen peas under the cold tap and drain. Scatter over the top of the mince. Mix the soup with the top of the milk and add to it the raw chopped onion. Chop the celery and mix it into the "sauce", do not cook the celery either. Pour the sauce over the peas and mince and top with the potato crisps. Cook at 180 for forty minutes


Thursday, October 13, 2005


Be that as it may...

"If we are to construe that part of the rationale for the Miers nomination is her religious faith, then the nomination does indeed appear to be unconstitutional," writes lunatic bore Andrew Sullivan.

Be that as it may, my dick is bigger than the Isle of Man.

(Via the Hungbunny)

Wednesday, October 12, 2005


I'm hating it

The present continous tense should only be used to describe continuous actions which are taking place at that very moment, and should only be used with continuous verbs. Non continuous verbs should never be used with the present continuous tense, one should use the simple present. Australians and Ronald Macdonald can all be fucking off with their wanking "I'm thinking it's time for a cup of tea", "I'm loving it". Well I am not, I'm fucking thinking it's time you learnt to speak english properly you bunch of foreign cunts.

Tuesday, October 11, 2005


Halloween, already? Rim me out, you cunt!

Once upon a time at Halloween, you would put on your mother’s underwear, an old opera hat from the wardrobe and out you went as Lisa Minnelli.

It was a great time. You got to run with the poor kids from the village, taking your chances among the perverts and the old women who put razor blades in the apples. Evil bitch-cunts.

And there was money to be made! Fr Brennan would give you more if you sat in his lap, the filthy old cunt. You could get a few bob for your sister’s knickers out the laundry, (the pishier the better). And there was “the spoils of war“, ie anything you could swipe while the old dear was away searching for her pension money. Served them right too, careless trusting cunts.
Well, not any fucking more!

From today, the shops are full of shitey American pumpkins, ready carved with flashing LED units installed, wankey witches outfits that are total gash, and cheap monkey nuts full of mould and worms. What a cunty shithole we’re turning into.

The little cunts are brought to your door by beanfaced parents in purring 4x4s. When you open the door they shout “trick or treat” in nasally Californian accents. This is fucking Perthshire you cuntspittals. There’s no song or dance, no poem learned through tears and the prompting of granny’s stick,-there’s fuck all! Just their grasping little mitts, and mummy in the background to make sure you don’t feel them up. “Don’t flatter yourself madam, your mewling brood are the pot-ugliest cunts of the night so far, Fred West himself wouldn’t touch them! I wish you good evening.” But if you don’t give the cuntish little brats an i-pod or gameboy, they put your fucking windows in.
Garn! Cunts!
Dr Locum.

Monday, October 10, 2005


You Are Less Clever Than A Fucking Dog

I like swimming. I am an excellent swimmer. I go to the pool to swim up and down most days.

At my local pool they have two lanes for swimming labelled 'Fast Lane' and 'Slow Lane'. If their users are anything to go by, they should be called 'Really Slow Lane' and 'Non-swimmers Lane'.

I couldn't use the fast lane becuase it was full of panting, red-faced gays swimming slower than I would if I just used my dick for propultion. The slow lane was full of people who just seemed to be bobbing up and down and inhaling water.

I fucking hate people who can't swim, they are so fucking useless. A fucking dog can swim, why can't they?

I am a qualified life-guard, although I have never been a life-guard - they are gay - but I would never save a non-swimmer from drowning. If a person was in the water with a broken arm, or was drunk, or had been hit on the head by a speed boat I would cheerfully dive into the water and save them. If, however, I swam out to a person in trouble and they said "Please help, I can't swim", I would reply "Then you are a cunt" and I would swim away laughing.

Non-swimmers. Fucking grow up.

Ball Bag

Sunday, October 09, 2005


Armageddon with it

"It's the end of the world, I'm telling you" said this man to me, yesterday. "First there's floods, then quakes and pestilence". Stupid fucker. "So" I says "So I understand about the floods and the quakes but what is the pestilence? Honestly, I'm at a loss". The man's face became even more smug and fascinated with himself than before. "I forgot, you don't read the papers, do you. Well, the pestilence is avian flu"

What a cunt! If I were a god wreaking vengeance on mankind, I would not make a few chickens sick and make life difficult for the poultry lovers and egg collectors of the world. It's not wrathful enough. My kind of pestilence would be a proper one, with people all covered in boils, seeping, vomiting up fire with blood streaming from their eyeballs. And the groaning of the suffers would set their teeth, which had not already crumbled into rust, on edge, and the terrible terrible pains in the abdomen would cause people to rip their own bellies open and pull out their intestines and strangle each other with them. The final throes of the pestilence would have everyone twitching away on the floor and I, as the god up in the sky, would look down and the way the poor bastards would fall and twitch, would spell out "Noreen is right".

Anyway, because I am not a total cunt, I do not believe the world is going to end one little bit, and quite frankly I find the neck of the people who keep on about it quite astonishing. Before the millennium they were all at it, reading the fucking Revelations and giving a countdown to the big day, which was very uneventful and dull indeed. Even that gay computer virus thing didn't happen, the millennium was utter shite and not all dangerous and world ending.

Then nine yawny eleven happened and there they were, the armageddon freaks, all scratching around in the bible, finding gibberish verses about towers burning. Then there was that stupid great wave and that storm in America, now there are lots of people dying in a place which people are normally bitching about being terribly overpopulated, and they are off again with the "end is nigh" nonsense.

They have shot themselves in the feet, those people who believe in the end of the world, because no God would bother stringing the end of the world out this long, it loses the impact. If you went to the fireworks and there was a big catherine wheel and then fuck all for half an hour, while everyone ate a hot dog and discussed the catherine wheel, and then there was really quite a loud rocket and then another fucking great big break while people pissed about poking the bonfire and throwing bits of sausage at each other, and then after an hour or two some old git let off one of the ones which looks like a waterfall and then that was it, well, you'd not think it was all that much of a display, would you. The world is not going to end. The end


Friday, October 07, 2005


An Oaf Writes....

We had this comment left a little while ago from someone claiming to be a marine:

"we defend our countrys, we get shot at, blown up and see the reality of conflict daily, but i find myself asking why when stupid pathetic lowlifes like you start mocking us. I believe you really have issues and need to get them sorted out. You remarked on Simon Weston being a 'cunt' in a previous thread. Why is he a cunt? The man nearly burned alive in a fucking aircraft carrier. I hope one day that you burn alive in your car. War is no joke, and if you could get off your obese arse and sign up, then im sure your opinions of life and morality would change."

Isuues? Isn't that something a woman would say? Isn't it?

And Simon Weston burned in a boat, but how does that make him NOT a cunt? I still think he is one. The marine's argument has not swayed me.

I was thinking about getting off my obese arse and signing up, but i could not cope with the compulsory lobotomy. Shame.

Ball Bag

Thursday, October 06, 2005


Arms folded? legs crossed? Helen's going to tell you a story

There is no time like the present for listening to good advice. That much you must know. But I won't tell you things you know, no. I will tell you things that will save you from death

They say you always get what you deserve and that is true.I knew a girl some years ago who had very very long hair, and she was very proud of it, she would be forever fiddling with it instead of making herself useful, although she was quite useless even when she tried, the poor thing. She thought herself a terribly romantic figure, and drove a little convertible, with the top down, her very long hair flowing in the wind, like that awful woman, that dancer, with her scarf. Of course I warned her but she did not listen, and inevitably one day on the M5 her hair caught in the back wheel, and snapped her poor bony little neck like a twig, the brazen thing. The car rolled over and over and over and she was mutilated beyond all recognition, with her head in one place and her arms in another, and it was a mess of little bone fragments, and bits of flesh. And then of course I could not say "I told you so", because she was dead, but I would like to have said that to her, because it was for her own good. All I could do to help was to tell her poor mother that she would not have been mutilated quite so far beyond recognition if she had been brought up properly,but as a mother you cannot blame yourself too much, because it is part of the rich tapestry of life and also far too late.

So let that be a lesson to all of you fast young people, that fate or whatever you like to call it may reach out and snap your neck just like that, at any moment just when you think you are very glamourous, and it will serve you right. I am telling you " I told you so" now,when it will do some good, rather than later on, when it will not.

Helen Haridon MD


Fuck me that was a wierd load of bollocks wasn't it? Sheer laziness on the part of me and Noreen made us open up The Bile to the rest of you cretins, and this is the result. Do you know what, in a way it is all your fault. You demanded a post everyday, when we could only be arsed to do one once a week or so. Your constant whining has watered down The Bile to such an extent that we have come to this. You all make me sick.

Let us return to the days of 'Easter can Suck My Cock' and 'I'll Poke Your Eyes Out With Your Cunting Chopsticks'. The glory days. Enough of this fucking wierd nonsense.

You arseholes are welcome to submit bile, but it will be required to meet stringent quality standards from now on.

Christ on a fucking stick!

Ball Bag

Ball Bag is right up to a point!

I like Helen's piece actually, but it might be a bit too subtle for the bile, this is true. Remember, if you want to meet Ball Bag's very particular standards, be free with your fucks and cunts and make one very simple point in a violent way. Think of the bile as the Aldi of blogs. Doing something very simple and cheap for people with dangerous pets.


Wednesday, October 05, 2005


Go on! I dare you

I'm writing a cookery book, which means I spend a lot of time reading cookery books which have already been published for "inspiration". I found this ancient book called "Be Milwaukee's guest", and it had a load of usual old casseroles and roasted things and everything was broiled instead of grilled and there were skillets and all the measurements were using a cup instead of ounces, which is a pain in the fucking arse when you are "using a recipe for inspiration" because all the cups of things weigh different amounts, the fuckers.

Anyway, I came across this traditional wisconsin dish and I could not fucking believe it. The dirty, dirty bastards. If you are brave enough to cook this, I will come around to your house and do your ironing while fellating a really old man. I mean it. Here you go. I want a picture of you eating it though, I'm not buying all that "Oh I ate it Noreen, I did" shite.

"Sausage Cake" (dirty feckers)
1 pound sausagemeat
1 cup hot coffee
1 teaspoon baking soda, dissolved in the coffee
3 cups brown sugar
3 cups sifted flour
1 teaspoon allspice
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1 teaspoon cloves (they will break your teeth, the hard little bastards)
1 teaspoon nutmeg (that is a lot, nutmeg is fucking dirty stuff anyway)
1 cup nuts coarsely chopped
1 cup raisins
mix the sausage and the coffee mixture together. Beat in the brown sugar to a creamy consistency. Sift flour with spices (not the cloves, clearly, as they would stay in the sieve, the thicko cunts). Add to sausage mixture, mix thoroughly. Add nuts and raisins. Bake 350 (thats about 180 c) for 4 minutes in 2 8" square cake tins, which have been greased and floured.


Tuesday, October 04, 2005


Offended people offend me

As ever, I blame America, the land of the moaning minnie, the litiginous, arse covering nation, a land of fatties sending their food back and wanting things "just so". Fucking bollocks to the whole place, pack of whining nuisances.

If I were a bleeding heart, then I might think that Americans cannot really help being cunts that much, in the same way that some people look at a spoilt child, and instead of hating the child, they decide that the child's parents should be sent to labour camp for being great useless saps. But I am not like these people, no. I truly think that America is a cuntwart, because it has such an influence on the weak and the hopeless, with its relentless subliminal messages about being offended about things, sent through programmes like that "lost" and the one about all the doctors fucking each other.

We all know that americans are cunts, but never more so than when they deem things "offensive". The Americans are more touchy than my grandmother, god rest her soul,which is fucking impressive as my grandmother once spent a day sitting on her mother's grave, because my grandfather questioned my grandmothers choice of hat for Mass. The Irish are fucking touchy, this is true but rather than going on there all "oh I am so offended, that was an offensive comment and you are offensive, you offend me" like a fucking yank, they go off and sit on graves, which does not hurt anyone.

The people that offend me most are the people who censor what they say in case it is offensive to anyone. I especially hate the namby pamby noncearelli language people use, like saying "a person in a same sex relationship " instead of "a bandit". We all know what they mean, these losers, but they are so fucking pleased with themselves for choosing the "non-offensive" version of the term, I could just fucking puke. If these smug wankers are even having a conversation where sexuality is an issue, well then they are probably homophobic, or just tedious little bourgeois twats who want to show how incredibly wordly wise they are because they once met a gay. There should be a boat service, like there was years ago, when America was still a swamp, when they imported people from Ireland and Italy to show the holy bible basher pilgrim americans how to cook properly, but nowadays, instead of sending Irish and Italian master chefs to America, they can put all the easily offended people who spend hours choosing the right word for a concept which they find a bit distasteful, into the boats instead, and they will sail off to a place where everyone is offended all of the time, like in that Mr Man book, Mr Cunt.

Sunday, October 02, 2005


Cock Stars

The best thing about being male is aggression and having a loud voice, but second best is you don't have to think about clothing. Even if you're a gay you don't have to because all the gays I know are slobs. When your shirts wear out just buy the same ones again. But rock stars fuck it all up because they all look like cunts.

If I ever become a rock star and win an award, I might have to go on the award program on television with all of the industry people. That is bad enough: They always jabber at those things about how great the industry is and therefore themselves, which happens in every industry but at least in cement or pipefittings they don't dress up like circus cunts and stick their pale, clammy, drug-sweaty faces in front of a television camera at the same time, and they have the simple common decency not to invite Lou Reed, who is a dildo. He is an old man who wears a teenage rebel costume all day, which is desperate and pathetic. He ought to be put in a cage and fed through the bars, with a stick.

But what fills me with hate is that if I went to that moronic charivari I would be a cunt. Because if I wore jeans I would be a man in his thirties at an important thing wearing jeans: A cunt. And if I wore chinos and a blazer, or a gray suit, I would look like I was "dressing up" like somebody who wears those things, instead of simply being somebody who wears those things, which I am, because that is what we do in the middle class, we wear those things when we don't wear jeans. Instead, the only way not to be a cunt or call attention to myself like a cunt, would be to act like a complete cunt and wear a stupid rock star cunt costume like all of them do. And that is maddening. It is like a sore tooth.

Wherever I go in the world, I have to ask myself: If I become a rock star, what will I do about being a cunt? It is like that stupid game with the little wooden statues on the squares, where whatever you do you lose, and when you lose you can't do anything at all, and some smirking cunt says "check check" at you, and you break his nose, and everybody acts all weird about it, which makes me very uncomfortable. I hate rock stars because if you become one nobody will accept at face value the fact that you are boring, they will always assume that you are being clever, or acting like you're being clever to prove how you are too clever to be really "clever", or some tedious asshole thing like that, instead. Like that necrophile on the television who sang in front of all the robot women in the 1980s, while wearing a suit. It is all supposed to be, rock and roll is, about being free, and being you and me, and all of that shit, but in fact you are not free to be like me at all, they foreclose that possibility entirely and they turn you into a fucking signifier without your consent, and what you will be signifying is "I am a dildo". Which is the kind of thing The Man would do to you, to take away your rock and roll and turn you into a number, because The Man wears a Suit. Or as Neil Young sang,

I was down in Dixieland,played a silver fiddle,played it hard and then The Man broke it down the middle.

Which is the stupidest, cuntiest cunty-cuntflap horseshit anybody except David Crosby ever sang with a straight face. Like all rock stars, Neil Young is a cunt.

Arlington Copley Hynes

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