Wednesday, March 29, 2006


Here's a sign for you - my fingers in your eyeballs

When I lived in China, people took my photograph a lot. I would be minding my own business somewhere -and within a couple of minutes a peasant would appear with his whole family, and insist on taking lots of photographs of me, with each of his relatives in turn; standing in front of a tree, or a bush or a lamppost, or a sign with hundreds and hundreds of rules on. The Chinese didn't seem that bothered about the background of the picture, for them, the most important part of the photographic composition was my honkie face, in the same photo as them doing a peace sign with their fingers.

I fucking hate the peace sign, it is one of the most idiotic things I have ever seen. And the name is completely wrong: "Peace sign" - Looking at someone sticking two of their fingers up in the air certainly does not make me feel at all peaceful, it makes me want to put the palm of my hand over the top of the two peaceful fingers which are sticking up, and break them off. And why is it called "the peace sign" anyway? I want to hear about one time ever, when someone has managed to diffuse a volatile situation by poking two fingers up in the air. If it were that simple, Easy jet would be flying to Basra and Pyongyang.

And what about those people who creep up behind their friends and stick two fingers up behind their head? What absolute cunts they are! Just fucking stop it, before I cut your fingers off.

There are so many useful fun things that you can do with your fingers, like making pastry or smoking or wanking, there is no need to keep your hands busy making them into bizarre peaceful shapes. Peace sign? Fuck off.

Monday, March 27, 2006


Spastic Racing

Everybody is papping on about banning horse racing because some animals that are eaten by the French anyway died last week whilst running and jumping.

I really, really don’t want to get into the argument about whether or not horse racing is cruel, because it bores the tits clean off me, but if you want to discuss cruel sports let’s talk about the Special Olympics.

People say it is cruel to make a horse go over jumps, but it is cruel beyond belief to chuck mongs into a swimming pool to see if they can make it to the other end, or humiliate them by forcing them to do the long jump and not even make it to the sand pit.

These poor people would clearly rather be at home drooling and being inappropriately friendly to strangers, but instead they are forced to waddle round a track for the enjoyment of more fortunate folk.

Those fucking hippies go on about the only reason horses are made to run fast is so people can bet on the outcome, well just you try betting on the Special Olympics – it is impossible to read the form of any of those fuckers, who knows what they are going to do next.

I bet on one little moon-faced cunt because he looked slightly more awake than the others and looked as though he might understand that he would soon be required to run around a track without leaving his lane or stopping to wave at his carer. I could not have been more wrong. He came in second from last, but still smiled as if he had one the fucking thing. I wanted to slap the cheery, useless little fucker.

And when I went to the bookies to ask if I could put £500 on one of those mongs still smiling and waving after coming last they threw me out. They know I am on to something.

Ball Bag

Sunday, March 26, 2006


Unfair Trade

I was feeling in that mood where you want to save the world - I think I must have been ovulating, so I bought some of that "Fair trade" chocolate, the stuff which means that the people who grow the chocolate, get the money you pay for the product, which is the way trade ought to be.

Fuck me that chocolate was rank! I don't know what they put in it, but it was fucking nasty, and it cost a fortune. I'm not surprised those chocolate makers are on their uppers, forced to scratch a living by trading on the charitable nature and goodwill of people like myself, if they expect the consumer to cough up two pounds fifty for some solid engine oil with the texture of cow pats. Why do they not try making a nice Crunchie bar or a Marathon? It is not that hard. Fucking thieving lazy cunts


Saturday, March 25, 2006


Don't be so fucking arrogant

My grandmother was violently allergic to bees - so much so that if she saw a bee, or heard a moped, or saw a black speck on the horizon flying about, she would leap from her wheel chair, and hobble as fast as a severely crippled old lady can move, away from the bee, or the thing which resembled a bee. I am like my grandmother, because although I am not severly crippled and I am not allergic to bees - if I hear anyone saying "Is it just me, or....." or "Am I the only one who..." then I move away from them as fast as I can.
And, by the way, the answer to those questions is "No" and "No", because invariably, the things that these cunts believe themselves to be the only ones saying, doing or thinking, are incredibly mundane things that half the population say,do or think as well. And even if these "AM I the only one" types happen to be boasting about slightly rarer traits than usual, like : "Am I the only one who collects feathers" or: "Am I the only one who enjoys being bitten by dogs", you can bet that there still are other people who do those very things as well, because the world is enormous.

Thursday, March 23, 2006


What the fuck is this??

I hate logos on things. Nike and Reebok can fucking kiss me, the nasty overpriced cunts, and as for Von Dutch that vile, wacky-fonted chav-tailor, they can fuck off and die too. Yes it is true, "label" clothing is sheer wicked waste and fucking ugly with it.

At least you can play sport in some of the labelled gear mentioned above, although not all, I have been told off by a cunt in a sports shop for running in a pair of trainers which were "Fashion". "Fashion!", I don't fucking think so. Jimmy Choo is a fashion shoe, not a fucking sneaker. Yet lectures from spotty label-nazi shop assistants are nothing compared with this atrocity I find on the internet. What the fuck is this picture all about? Who, just fucking who goes around in a T-shirt with "technorati" on it? I really hope nobody does, I am fucking telling you. If I see anyone wearing a geeky,gay-logoed top like that I will rip the shirt off them, tear it into strips and then I will find a sailor, who will tie the strips into an elaborate Bow-Line knot and then, me and the sailor, we will string the T-shirt offender up in a tree until they asphyxiate and
do an enormous turd in their knickers.

Wednesday, March 22, 2006


Get it fucking right, you morons!

Yesterday was muslim new year or something. Yawny yawny cunt cunt. I hate new year, I do not see why we need a great song and a dance about a "New Year", it is just a day after another day or, if you are looking at the bigger picture, a year starting after the year that has just finished - who gives a fuck? And now people are not just content with making a meal out of one type of a year ending, they are all on about their particular variety of new year, and thinking that anyone else gives a shite - the fucking cunts.

It fucks me off, that we can't just have one new year which is when the number on the end of the year changes - like from 2005 to 2006. Whenever I say that to people they start on: "Well as a matter of fact, for us it is not 2006, it is 1427". But do they write 1427 at the top of their cheques? No they fucking do not, so it is only actually 1427 in their heads, isn't it and we could all have a piece of that. For instance, I might decide, just for the laugh, that today is the year 11111111111777777777779999999444444444, and I could have a little party and go around wishing everyone a happy new year and not writing the number 111111111111111777777777799999994444444444 on my cheques, and the sad thing is that people are so tolerant of excessive new year worshiping that they would probably say: "Oh, right you are, and a happy new year to you too".

Now, I'm not saying that people with different beliefs and ideas should not celebrate the beginnings of their particular ideas of what makes one year change into another one, but why they can't do it at the same time as everyone else - I just don't fucking know! There is a New Year being celebrated just all fucking year round: the Chinese have a new year in february, the sikhs and the muslims have theirs now, next month it is the Thais, the Jewish one is in September - the financial worker's one is in april and the academic's one depends on which country you are in- I'm fucking sick of it. I hate new year, and I wish all these cunts would settle on one date and just fucking celebrate their respective years all in one go, on that chose day, and they can keep the fucking noise down, while they are at it.

And, why do Australians and New Zealanders insist on calling December "Summer". It isn't fucking summer, is it? it is December, so it is winter. I don't care how fucking hot it is over there Winter is a name for the months December to March, not a description of the fucking weather. Anyway I have heard it is always hot over there, so they have no right to start renaming seasons just because they fucking feel like it, and don't any of you fucking southern hemisphere types give me "we had snow once in Perth in August", because I do not want to fucking know.

Tuesday, March 21, 2006


Maximise your flaws

I am not sure whether to admire or despise Fergie from the Black Eyed Peas. First of all, I thought she was great, with that attitude and all the stomping around on stage, glowering at people. Then I went off her because of her appalling sentence finishing in that song "where is the love", and now she is singing about her hump.

Everyone has parts of their body they are not particularly fond of, and I believe that we should just make the best of it, and wear flattering clothes, and if the situation is really dire, hang around in darker places so that people do not spot the flawed bits. What I cannot fucking abide is those needy, desperate, tedious women who harp on about "Oh my arse is fat" - it is not going to shrink because you talk about it, instead, you draw everyone's attention both to your gargantuan behind and the fact that you are an insecure, neurotic bore. So, I would say that I hate people who whine about their imperfections, they are boring cunts.

However, I would hate anyone to think that I were not sensitive to people with disabilities and I admire people who get on with life when they are short on limbs. What's more - I actually know a bit about this sort of deformity, as, when I was small, we had a cleaning lady who had a hump which she called her "charlie" and she went on about it loads as well. So now I feel a bit sorry for Fergie, but I also think she would do well to just stand up a bit straighter and maybe wear a hat to draw the eye upwards

Thursday, March 16, 2006


I think you mean well done

I was at the toddler group with all these Americans, and I turned my back for a second to get a cup of tea. You have to be careful, with small children, if you turn your back, they will do something awful - you can guarantee it. So when I heard this American woman shout "Good Job!" to my kid, my heart fucking sank. Like all small children, my daughter does have the occasional accident, but that is the risk with that age of a person, like Paula Radcliffe, they are not always reliably continent. But when I turned around, she had not crapped on the floor, not a bit of it, so I had to say something.

"Excuse me, Missus," I said to the American. "Did my child just shit on the floor? If she did, I am terribly sorry, and if you show me where you keep your cleaning stuff, I'll clear it up. But I have to say, I don't generally give praise when there is an accident like that, I prefer to say "Oh dear, never mind, next time try and get to the toilet on time".

The woman looked at me as if I were mental, and said "Uuuhh, no, There haven't been any, uuhhh accidents".

"Right" I said, "so why were you talking about jobs then, if there were no jobs laid on the carpet?".
The woman pulled one of those faces that you only see on the telelvision when the character in an american TV series gets the wrong type of latte in the StarBucks.
"UUUhh, I was praising your daughter for the nice way she shared the play dough. I said "Good Job, that's all".

"Right". I said. "that's what I thought you said. So it was a different way of saying "well done". Okay. That's that then. God, silly me!".

Anyway, I got her back, the evil old slag; when her son let another child have a turn on the rocking horse, I bellowed "Excellent Turd!". Fucking yanks

Wednesday, March 15, 2006


Fruity Politician Cunts

Politicians are obsessed with fruit, just fucking obsessed with it. They are all "Eat five bits of fruit a day" and going on and on "Fruity, fruity fruit, eat the fruit". I met Patricia Hewitt a few years ago and the one thing I found out about her was that she is obsessed with fruit. I asked her what her hobbies were and she said: "Eating fruit" and while I was with her she ate a whole platter of watermelon, sixteen grapes and two segments of mandarin orange. I had to make a really big effort not to comment, and all the time I was thinking "I bet her bowels are really loose".

Monday, March 13, 2006


Sayings Are Shit

Sayings are always bollocks. 'Too many cooks spoil the broth', no they fucking don't. 'A stitch in time saves nine', I am not even sure what this means. Is it about knitting?

The most shite one is 'Good things come in small packages'. This is usually trotted out by some little shortarsed fucker with a chip on his shoulder about his stumpiness. Even when they mean it lierally, it is still bollocks.

Try saying 'good things come in small packages' to this woman I have been following for the last few months. Yesterday I gave her a matchbox full of my pubes and she was fucking livid. I told her that good things come in small packages, but she called the police.

That stupid whore. I think tomorrow I will slit her nostrils. That should teach her a lesson.
Ball Bag


Methinks he doth protest too much

I think reading is gay, but as I am a large-hearted person - if other people want to read books- well that is their business. But reading, like one's sex life is something personal - and I don't fucking want to know about it.

It may be because I have to move in the direst of dire expat circles, that I am constantly listening to these awful bores and whores harping on about books. There is no need for it. In the olden days, people who lived in places like this hole, had difficulty getting hold of things to read, and so a little chat about what books you had, might have had some point to it, in the same way that you might share your marmite, or let on which shop has got a supply of salad cream. But nowadays, with the arrival of amazon and the internet - there is simply no need at all to bang on about books - unless you are a cunt.

I was listening to this man the other day, and he just didn't fucking shut up about books, not for a second. He started out having a dig at somebody because "they simply DON"T have any books in their house! Can you imagine it! Just one small shelf with a couple of dictionaries on it. I have a whole study full, and I seem to spend all my spare time making shelves and as soon as I have made one shelf - it's full of books!". What a cunt! Unfortunately I was the only person who thought he was a cunt, and as I did a quick scan of the room, everyone was nodding thoughtfully, some with their hands under their chins, and one woman was chewing one cheek and looked a tiny bit sad.

There is nothing wrong with filling your house with books, just as there is nothing wrong with owning lots of cars. The thing that is wrong is that the type of people who have more books than shelves, are terribly sniffy about a surpluss of any other sort of posession. They will say things like "No one needs more than one television" or " you can only drive one car at a time" and it is because they see a higher value in being book-greedy as opposeed to collecting any other type of thing. The higher value that they see, is that books "make you clever and want to read".They are the type of people who play classical music really loudly around their children and buy those awful baby einstein videos. The fact is - you are either clever, or you are not - a bit of music and a book or two will not make a dull mind bright.

When I was a child growing up, we only had one bookcase, which was locked with a key. In it was a great pile of books about birds, a couple of weird medical dictionaries, a teach yourself esperanto, twenty four georgette heyers and a couple of books about satanism. We were not allowed to open the cupboard, and the one time I did - to get one of the books on satanism, my mother slapped me on the thighs.The only reason I wanted the book was because it had a picture of a naked man on the front, and my sister Maud couldn't see what I was interested in getting into the bookcase for. "Oh, give it a rest Noreen" she said, after I was on at her to break into the case and get the other book on satanism which had a picture of a woman with blood on her tits. "Books are shite". And she was completely right. After sitting through school listening to jumped up, little, goggle-eyed spods banging on about "The wasteland" or Ulysses, and then, somehow always meeting the type of people who think I want to know that their favourite shakespeare play is the "slightly obscure Timon of Athens", which I do not want to know one little bit. Or being stuck in a lift with those cunts who celebrate that miserable turnip Philip Larkin and his boring, mewling poetry with rude words in, where the man complains about his parents even though he is grown up, or has a little whinge about work, when he could be looking on the bright side and writing pop songs, if he is so good at poems, and making a few quid out of it, so he can leave his job and tell his parents to stick their inheritance up their arse. Honestly, some people like to be miserable, I am fucking sure of it!

Or my favourite of all, people who, when asked who their favourite poet is, (which, by the way I never ask, I just seem to be in the room when the question is asked) choose that squirrel-bothering nazi Ezra Pound, just because he stopped talking and lived in a cage for a bit. There is a chicken next door who does exactly the same thing, and noone has given him a nobel prize for literature. People who talk about books or who talk about having many books, are probably illiterate,because otherwise why would they need to tell everyone in the world that they are able to read? And they are most definitely, fucking boring cunts.

Sunday, March 12, 2006


The parable of the ginger minge

There are some people in life, who are incapable of deciding anything at all for themselves. I am not having a go at indecisive people, because being indecisive is normally the function of a person wavering between things that they like. Quite often I cannot decide whether to drink red wine, or lager, and I might dither for a bit. Or I might not be sure whether I want to go for a curry or a chinese. Eventually some external factor like a bit of sunshine (lager) or the fact that my friend had a chinese the day before (Curry), will help me to make the decision. It is an embarassment of good things that makes most of us indecisive - we just can't decide what we want the most.

But there are some people who gain no pleasure out of anything at all in life, unless they have taken it from someone else, they lack the ability to define, all by themselves, what they would like and how it would make them happy. Like the toddler in the playgroup who hovers over the other children, snatching their toys and then having no idea whatsoever how to play with them, getting no pleasure out of the object at all. You should feel sorry for the poor, joyless mites, with no clue how to play, snatching away and screaming, but I do not, I just want to drown them, the grasping little feckers.

When I was at university, I knew a very nice girl whose best friend was this absolutely vile witch. The best friend-witch was a short, busty creature, and it was lucky she had a bust because her face was a pale, featureless moon, with tiny piggy eyes sunken in right next to her nose. To add to her unfortunate features, she had long ginger - I'm sorry, "auburn" hair and went on and on about it, whenever anyone spoke to her. I used to have a bet with a couple of boys on how long it would take the woman to turn the subject from whatever unlikely start it had to "My hair", she was fucking adept. She could go from cricket, to "my hair" in two sentences: "What colour ball do they play cricket?", "red", "Really? that is the same colour as my hair!". From History to "my hair" in just one "Didn't king arthur's Guinevere have auburn hair and wasn't she the most beautiful woman in england?" God, that girl was all sorts of a boring cunt. Anyway, apart from her unfortunate habit of talking about her ginger wig, she was incapable of identifying a man to whom she was attracted, preferring instead, to wait until her very charming and lovely best friend got a crush on someone. Now the charming best friend was terribly shy, and was definitely more of a listener than a talker, which made her the friend of many men, but never the ride. Every now and again, she would moan on to me, and I would explain that she should just tell the feller she liked him, or ask him "do you fancy a fuck?" as most men are fairly straightforward and delighted by a direct approach. But, somewhere in this charming woman's head was a picture of a man on horseback, whisking her off to a beach where they would make tender love, without the sand in the crack, and you have to let people go about mating, the way they choose to go about it, so I gave up advising her to go in there for the kill, and let her sit about, mooning after this man or that man and never getting any of them.

It did not help that her poisonous best friend would also sit in on these conversations, and once she had identified that the charming girl was head over heels smitten with this one or that one, the best friend would steam after them like a short, plump, ginger whippet and have her hands down their trousers before you could say "slag". I have no problem with girls who are fast workers, but this woman's ability ONLY to fuck the men her friend liked, was fully insane. One evening after yet another tearful download from the nice girl saying "I suppose I never had a chance with him, he fancied my best friend all along, and I would never take her man", I lost my cool and decided to get this old whore back. I bumped into her and pointed at first tedious man I saw, "boring David", a man who gesticulated all the time as if he were fanning a great cloud of flies from in front of his face and who would adjust his crotch aty least once a minute. He was no friend of the bath either, preferring to douse his person in clouds of expensive aftershave, and yet he was not french, he was Welsh. He had a great sense of humour, if you like jokes about computers and oblique references to long-dead science fiction films. Oh yes, he was a laugh altogether, and my favourite thing about him was that he had a reasonably attractive face, until he moved, whereupon he would look perfectly normal and then suddenly - wallop, he would get this frozen look, where his eyes were all squinted together while his jaw hung slack a la Gordon Brown. If this habit were something that he could not help, I might find it in me to be charitable about him, but he actually pulled this face, because he thought it made him look "a bit of a character". Yes, I found David a thoroughly annoying cunt and in the normal way I would have dived into a doorway to avoid him, but this day, because I was with the ginger woman, I did not, instead I said: "Oh look, there's himself!". "Who are you talking about?" said Ginger. "Who is that person?" "Oh he is the man your friend wants to ride" I said, and then legged it, because I did not want to see a gurning stinking man and a short ginger woman getting it on - I had only just had my breakfast. And I was not disappointed - she was straight after him, all moving her head from side to side, and looking up at him, and laughing in an exaggerated way, and before long her ginger pubes were all glued together with his cum. So there you have it. It is better to choose your own items of pleasure than to ape other people, or if you want to put the positive spin on it, there is someone for everyone.

Thursday, March 09, 2006


The name is both wrong and gay

Yesterday at this woman's house I took a biscuit with the word "nice" on it, which despite being a very gay name for a biscuit, did seem like a fairly good guarantee that it would taste okay. The biscuit did not look awful, it was just a thin, brown biscuit with some granulated sugar all stuck onto the surface of it, and a slightly crenellated edge to the thing. But when I ate it, it was not nice at all, it tasted of fucking coconuts so it was not a "nice" biscuit, it was a "fucking horrible" biscuit.

Wednesday, March 08, 2006


Never Call a Nun a Nun

When I was five and a half, I was beaten by a nun for calling a child in my class a spastic. Well, I did not actually call her "A Spastic", a little boy called Kevin O'Neil did, the mouthy little bastard. He went up to this child, stuck his face an inch from hers, and roared "Spastic!" at her. Now I was never fond of Kevin O'Neil - he was a cunt and half, always running about being unpleasant to people and his target that day was a girl who I think had a more unfortunate life than anyone I have ever met. She was an Afghan refugee - and quite what it must have been like, being an Afghani Catholic in a Soviet infested country packed full of really barking muslims - heaven only knows. She never spoke, just sat and played a zither in the corner of the classroom. To top it all, she had reasonably severe cerebral palsy and drooled a lot and sometimes made a yelping noise. I am sure she meant well.
Anyway, back in those days you did not "have cerebral palsy" -rather, you "were a spastic", and so when this little cunt Kevin was beaten by the nun for calling her "a Spastic" I chipped in and said "Excuse me, Sister Anne, but she is a Spastic, is she not? So what is wrong with Kevin calling her a Spastic? Just like you are a nun. If I call you "A Nun", will you beat me too?"
Stupid question. I got a sound wallopping on the behind and it looked like I was on the side of Kevin the cunt - an all round bad piece of five year old judgement.

Anyway, the reason I was thinking about this unfortunate incident, was because of the latest fashion for feet -The Platform shoe. I hate platform shoes, I think they are just appalling. I hate the way that short, stumpy women wear them and think that it makes them look tall and willowy - it does not. It just makes them look like they are wearing "correction shoes" , If you wear platform heels, people will assume that you have two club feet, or a shortening of the leg. Do not wear them.

Tuesday, March 07, 2006


International woman's day can crawl up my hole

Tomorrow is International Woman's Day. I had never heard of International Woman's Day until I went to live in a country where women were treated incredibly badly, and subsequent shitholes that I lived in, where women were also treated appallingly badly, accordingly made a great song and a dance about International Woman's Day.
In China, if you get pregnant outside wedlock and refuse to have an abortion, you are hounded out of your village with people beating you with poles of Bamboo. On International Woman's Day, however, all the neighbourhood will gather and give you bunches of flowers and really ghastly plastic presents, just because you have a vagina, regardless of whether you have used it according to communist law or not. In Russia, your husband will spend most of the year drunk and beating the crap out of you, while his mother shrieks orders at you, delighted that there is someone in the household even more downtrodden than her. On International Woman's Day, however, you can dress yourself up nicely, while all and sundry gather and sing mournful songs about how fantastic women are. And here, in this shithole, where women work like oxen, while their lazy cunt men sit about smoking fags and showing their cocks to people like me, there are posters all over the fucking place on about "8th March, International Woman's Day". What a load of arse. I hate "Days" anyway - Mother's Day can fuck right off as well, and so can "Labour Day". If it is not a Holy Day of Obligation, I don't fucking want to know about it. That is all

Saturday, March 04, 2006


So very right, and yet, so very wrong

There is nothing quite as delicious as a warming curry, or a fine chinese takeaway or a nice meal down the Blue Elephant Thai restaurant. Yes I fucking love all of those marvellous foreign cuisines, they are a delight to the tastebuds - bursting with exotic flavours, transporting you to warm, exciting places.

That is, until you get to dessert. What the fuck happened in Asian cookery, all those years ago, when they were busy inventing finer and finer curries and yet more ways to eat noodles, discovering the new ingredients and each experiment coming out more magnificent than the last? How could they make such wonderful savoury food and then fail, so appallingly on their sweet dishes? I could understand if their desserts were just a bit dull, or low-key as it is a bit much to expect a cuisine to excel at everything. Yes, if they just had a couple of rather bland or texture-dull dishes, that would be fair enough. The problem with Asian desserts, though, is that they are actively, and aggressively foul. Take Thai food, for instance. The last time I went to the Thai restaurant we ordered all the puddings to see which one would be nice. The best one was a blob of rice all stuck together with sickly stuff like neat orange squash, the worst one was a leaf that someone had jizzed in and then rolled up and tied with a piece of string. It looked like a Satanist had been at the Palm Sunday display, it was absolutely appalling, and it tasted even worse than it looked - really beyond foul. And then at the Indian you can get a rice pudding, which is just a fucking horrible idea. Rice is for putting curry on, not swilling around in milk and weird spices until it gets a thick old skin on it. Fucking appalling. Or there is an ice cream that looks like an unwashed cock, and tastes, like a dirty unwashed cock. Fucking shit awful. And then the Chinese, well they have an exciting and diverse set of regional choices for your main course, but I beg you - just get the fuck out of there, before they bring on the pudding: Soups which are dried beans swimming around in a gluey bouillon, or these fucking fruits like eyeballs with the pupil taken out - lychees. they are called. I thought it was a cruel joke being played on me the first time I popped one of those in my mouth. "Is it a sheep's eye?" I said to the host. "Or what type of an eye is it? I hope it is not a criminal's eye, I've heard all about your Human Rights' record". I thought he would laugh but he did not, he just went on and on about what a special fruit it was and how it made you damp or on fire or some such shit. What a cunt!

Having said that, I once slept with a man solely because he told me that he liked Chinese sweet bean soups, and I thought that anyone who liked that sort of thing was likely to be incredibly filthy in bed. He was not, he was quite normal.

Friday, March 03, 2006


Put Your Tongue Away - You Look Like A Spastic

Why do girls poke their tongues out? They are especially fond of doing it when they are having their photo taken.

I think they think it makes them look adorable and girlish. It doesn’t. It makes them look like cunts.

It would be annoying enough if just one girl did it, but fucking hundreds of them do it. You see it in all those stupid fucking celebrity magazines, go and steal a copy from a newsagent (do not under any circumstances buy it) and there will be at least one picture of some stupid celebrity whore sticking her tongue out.

I have taken to carrying at all times a pair of rusty shears so that if I see some silly bitch sticking her tongue out I can chop it off. I realise that I would have to move pretty quickly and the chances of me getting to use my shears are pretty slim, but I still think it’s worth carrying them.

Ball Bag

Thursday, March 02, 2006


Put something filthy in my box

If you look over to the left, you will see an instruction with a line under it which says "pop up my CBox". If you click on the words, then a box pops up and you can write stuff in it. It is quicker than blogger, and not a cunt like haloscan, so I can read the messages in the box too. I have even disabled the profanity filter, so we don't have to use gay euphemisms for swear words, it will let us write whatever we want. So what are you waiting for? Fuck off and put some dirt in my box

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