Monday, May 29, 2006


The Oaf Is Back!

Some time ago we had a spat with a 'marine'. Well brilliantly he has got back to us! He claims to have been away making the middle east crisis a lot worse, he has probably been in prison for exposing himself or something, anyway, here is the correspondence in full:

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."

I replied to him:

"Issues? 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."

His new reply:

"No labotamy needed, because you wouldnt get past the physical! Yes, the one and only marine to have a thread dedicated to himself is back. First things first, lets clear some things up. No.1, Lay off and stop the pseudo intellectual attitude that anyone with a connection to the internet can replicate. Secondly, Why am i am Oaf for speaking my mind? After all, it seems that you have done enough of that when spreading your putrid filth about your idiotic dislikes, nobody likes bias! Thirdly, i noticed that the time the article that you promptly published after my outburst was at 1:06pm. No job to go too? Oh, and i apologise for my long delay in being able to repsond to your thread, some of us have been a few thousand miles away fighting for oil profits for a prime minister who cant figure out what side of the political spectrum he prefers. The only true wisdom is that you know nothing - Socrates. Think about that before you publish some more utter gob shite on this pathetic blog. Sincerly yours, 2nd Left. Robert J, 18th Company, 44 Commando - Plymouth."

Isn't that fantastic? I would like to take issue with a couple of his arguments, however. The thesaurus thing - I can't see a clever word anywhere in this blog, can you? I did try to find an alternative to cunt, but all it came up with was 'Left. Robert J, 18th Company, 44 Commando - Plymouth' (tee hee).

The post being at 1.06pm - whilst my workplace lacks luxuries like shitting in the bushes and guns that don't work very well, we do have internet access. And before you say I should have been doing my job instead of pissing around, I can do what I like because I am the boss. Kind of like the Queen is the boss of our 'marine' friend.

Aside from that, thanks for your kind words. We are glad you enjoy our 'putrid filth', it must be a nice break from all the high-brow, intellectual banter you must have to endure in the 'marines'. I expect you all just sit around smoking pipes, drinking brandy and quoting philosophers.

Major General Ball Bag (retired)

Thursday, May 25, 2006


Purple Helmet

Does any other country have cards by 'Purple Ronnie'? They annoy the tits off me.

For those who are lucky enough not to be aware of 'Purple Ronnie', they are a series of greeting cards covered with childlike drawings and nauseating poems about things like 'Best Friends' or 'Big Hugs'. Teenage girls would buy them for their friend if they are having a really 'rough time' to cheer them up, and they will write some wretched message inside about how they will always be there for them and the friend will cry when they read it and promise to keep the card forever and they will pin it up in their bedroom to look at whenever they feel 'down'. Fuck off.

A Poem About My Wife by Purple Ball Bag -

My wife has got huge knockers
She cooks, and cleans my house
And if she gives me backchat
I have to beat my spouse

Ball Bag

Wednesday, May 24, 2006


My Philosophy On Life

Someone bought me a book on how to avoid procrastinating. I sat down to read it, scanned the back cover and then threw it to one side telling myself I would read it later.

Oh, how deliciously ironic.

I am a lazy cunt.

Ball Bag

Friday, May 19, 2006


Fettucine Allah tuna

I am seriously considering converting to Islam. Allah sent a Tuna Fish with his word written upon it; all hail the holy messenger, a marine angel, peace be upon him.

Everyone knows that catching tuna necessitates the barbaric co-slaughter of dolphins, which I totally support, as I fucking hate those squeaking, over educated, syncronised swimming, busybody, cancer- patient- bothering, vicious dolphin cunts. Thank you Allah, you are a god.

Congratulations to the Muslim Deity for thinking outside the box when recruiting his latest prophet - you have to hand it to him. It beats Our Lady interfering with the brains of children in Yugoslavian villages, or hanging around at the bottom of the garden. Fish prophets are the business. And I am sure that the Good Lord Allah will not leave it at just one omega-three- rich angel, no he will not; If the first part of the Koran is written on the side of a fish, you can bet that the rest of the Koran is out there swimming about, under the sea, near some overrated, intellectual, warm- blooded marine life. Go for it, my muslim brothers and sisters! Catch the holy fish and slay the infidel water mammal fiends while you are at it! Allahu akbar!

Tuesday, May 16, 2006


I wonder what a cock looks like sawn in half

A few years ago, I lived in London. I used to like running alongside the river, watching toffs in boats ordering each other about through megaphones, and nearly being mown down by cunts on racing bikes wearing tight elastane. Happy days.

I used to look along the shoreline for pieces of driftwood, pale sides scarred by the beatings of the oily tide, edges filed smooth from years of travel. One day I found half a cat.

And I thought to myself "Half a cat, hmm. Who would want half a cat?" and the answer came to me in a flash - if you only had half a cat, then finding a whole cat would be excessive, and, much as I might turn my nose up at the idea of being someone who would need half a cat, I, suddenly, as a result of finding that half of a cat, was now in the position of being someone who needed another half a cat. I had just found half a cat, if someone were to give me a whole cat - I would have too much cat.

What's more, the discovery of half a cat did not only change my perspective from being a person who had no need of half a cat, to suddenly being a person who depserately needed half a cat, but I realised that if another half a cat were to be advertised in Loot - I might have to fight Damien Hirst for it. I would quite like to fight Damien Hirst, because I think he is a cunt, but most of all I would like to saw him in half.


Ooh, Ooh, I've Been On Safari

Friends of mine recently went on safari, the cocks. It is not so much them going which annoys me, after all, I didn't even know they had gone, but how they acted when they came back.

If I went to the zoo I would say I had seen some mad bears, some sad elephants and some depressed rhinos or something. If you have been on fucking safari though, you come back saying that you saw elephant, giraffe and lion.

Lord knows I am not much of a scholar, but I am fucking sure the plural of lion is lions. Not if you have been on safari it isn't. It is necessary to let people know you have been on safari by refering to all the animals in the singular even if there were fucking big herds of the cunts.

Lion. Fuck off, I am still not entirely convinced that the plural of sheep isn't sheeps.

Ball Bag

Ball Bag is Right!

People say "Lions are big cats" and they are right. That is exactly what they are. You would not catch me flying all the way to Nigeria and paying a fortune to sleep rough and look at large cats. Safaris are for cunts.

Friday, May 12, 2006


Enough is enough!

Football is an unpleasant fact of life with a man, most men seem fond of it, but like visiting his relatives, football is an activity that you mustn't be too rude about, however much you hate it. It ought be possible to limit the effect that any unfortunate factors in your man's life, have on your life, by employing the default female setting of pretending to like something at the beginning of a relationship and then gradually revealing how little you enjoy it, at a rate which will ensure that you have minimal contact with the unpleasant activity, without actually scuppering your position as his mate, but it isn't.

However many tricks women have up their sleeves to get out of dull chores - dressing like a slag; allowing him to jizz on your face; bringing him tea in bed and pretending to care deeply when he is quite clearly not remotely ill - all these ploys will definitely buy you less time visiting his sister or having his mother to stay, but won't work at all if what you want as a reward is to see less of his fat arse parked in front of Sky Sports. No, football fans are fixated,obsessive and dedicated thorns in the fucking side, and no clever female trickery will succeed in ousting a devoted football fan from his seat in front of the game. I blame England.

England is responsible for a lot of bad things in the world, but the worst thing England ever did as a nation, was make a great fucking meal out of football. The game itself is actually alright - I quite like playing football, all that running around and kicking people on the shins and nutting the ball with your head, it beats gay lacrosse and netball into a cocked hat. Even leagues and cups and things are good: opportunities for men to dabble in some healthy competition. And going to football matches is good for men too, it is a chance for them to cry in front of other men without being called big fat gayer queenies, and all that shouting is very good for relieving stress.

Yes, In theory I am in favour of football, as long as I am not expected to join in with all the over the top emotional cuntiness or to wear overpriced ugly shirts in man- made fibres. Indeed, I would be on the side of football, endorsing it as an activity, if it actually only took ninety minutes to watch a fucking game, instead of all weekend. But the reality of watching a game of football is this: it starts with four or five moron retired players called pundits, yabbing on, speculating about which bunch of mincing charvers from the vast and expensive squad of each totally minted team, will actually walk out of the tunnel onto the pitch and run around to kick the ball. Which of the players will have hurt their feet this week? Which of them have pissed the manager off too much to play? What a connundrum! Then there will be a lot of chat about how much practising the players have done for the game, and then one of the retired player-pundits (who clearly thinks that in his day, he was far better than any of these overpaid people who will actually be playing today on the pitch, instead of sitting in a glass room above it, going on and on), will pipe up and give it a bit about how they should actually play the game,and where everyone should stand, and how the players should pass the ball to each other and get it to the opposite end to put it into the goal,and then all of the pundits will talk about the managers, and who has been sacked or moved about and then they will all laugh and be a bit rude to each other,for a light hearted touch. And there is always that scottish cunt with the rapist's eyes, going on and on, saying the opposite to everyone else, and then they will cut to Sir Alex Ferguson,(the one with the drinkers nose who would not look out of place lying on a bench in Glasgow bus station, covered in dried piss with his gob around a bottle of Buckie), talking about things in front of a wall with small logos on, and then the footballers will play the game, while some shouting cunt bellows things over the top of it, and then the pundits will watch the game again all slowly, stopping it every five minutes to draw all over the screen with magical pen, and then they will talk to some sweating men in front of a wall with small logos printed all over it, and then they will all be in the studio reading out lists of numbers. It is fucking unbelieveably long-winded and dull. And the thing I hate the very, very most is the way that football fans call the eleven months of the year that football is on the telly "a season" as if it were a mercifully brief quarter of a year,which by the way, football morons, would be a mere three months. This total lack of ability to name a period of time correctly only goes to support the widely held view held by many non-football fans, that football fans are thick, ill-educated, innumerate cunts. Which may also be the reason why Football only has goals and not tries, because it would be too much for those thick cunt pundits to do the maths more than one- nil, one all, two-one. And the world cup can fuck off as well, don't get me fucking started on that global shiteround. Football-cunty-cunty-cunty-wank wank.

Wednesday, May 10, 2006


Go Away With Your Fucking Cocktails

I fucking hate cocktails. I don't just hate them because the are bright blue and taste sweet enough to give you fucking diabetes, although they are both factors. What I really, really loathe are the stupid sexually risque names they are given like "Sex on the Beach", "Deep Throat" or "Up The Wrong 'Un".

"Ooh, ooh, (snigger) what I really want (snigger) is a Multiple Orgasm (hee hee)"

No, what you want, love, is fucking glassing, you fat, ugly, sweaty whore.

And those stupid show offs who think it is great to throw bottles and glasses around the place as they 'mix' their sickly concoctions, they get right on my tits. If you really must make a cocktail, just shake it up discretely and pass it to me so I can pour it down the sink, stop drawing attention to yourself. Can you imagine if they went through all of that shite when pouring you a pint of Guinness? You would slap them round the face and tell them to snap out of it, wouldn't you?

Ball Bag

PS One of the cocktails mentioned above is not a real cocktail. Can you guess which one?

Wednesday, May 03, 2006


Now who's smug?

If Oliver Reed and Carole Caplin had a child - it would be me. I like a drink, I like a smoke, I like a fight, I like to show off, I like herbal tea and reflexology and running and moxibustion and vegetarian cooking and I like the thought of chinese horoscopes with all the animals made out of water and metal and mud, and I have put my feet into a bath with electricity in it and watched all this rusty goo come out of them, as the negative energy and toxins flowed through my acupressure points. In short, I am an absolute cunt, but I do try not to poke any of these things down the throat and at least I try to be a discreet cunt.

Living in an very bourgeois, small, straight-laced community means that any flaws you have are seized upon, and examined thoroughly so you can be commited to the "not- as -good -as -they -think- they- are" camp in which all people who live abroad dwell in the minds of their expat contemporaries. Any personal choices which do not fit agreably into the incredibly narrow mindset of the people who rule the roost of shitholes like this, make you an easy target for vicious criticism.

Smoking in a largely non-smoking community is always going to be asking for fucking trouble, and I soon found that every time I slipped out of a desperate dinner party, or crappy cocktail to have a fag, some old whore would start up a conversation about how interesting it was that I smoked. Before long, the whore's weedy husband and a couple of other dull emasculated males would chip in with a question or two: "so how many do you smoke a day then?" and "How long have you been smoking" "do you find it makes you wheeze?" and just a million really gauche and intrusive questions, designed to make them feel smug about not smoking, which might go a little way towards compensating for their utterly insipid, tedious, charm-free, small minded and bigoted personalities. If only being a nosey shit gave you cancer of the tongue. That would be great.

It is so transparently aggressive to question people's choices in such a moronic and disapproving fashion. Sure, if I had sparked up a giant cigar, filling the room with the scent of dried shite, there would have been a place for those barbed remarks, but the idea that I should want to sit there and apologise for my addiction as a form of delightful party chit chat, when I was quite clearly not troubling anyone else with my habit, and therefore not even providing a conversation piece, is quite astonishing.

When I was a bit younger I knew this model, who used to wolf man- sized portions of food and then charge off to the bog to honk it all up again, lest her weight rose above seven stone. I never felt the need to ask her how long it took to puke up a double dose of chicken a la king, or how many fingers she used to barf with. It was something she did. Had she whipped out a baggie and yacked her dinner up at the table - I would have been less sympathetic to her. I mean, needs must - she has to earn a living, but you don't need to inflict your dirty little habits on other people. So there you have it, if you are discreet about your antisocial activities, then no one else has a right to comment -unless they are trying to show how much of a cunt they are.

Giving up smoking, apart from being terrible, and making you feel like shit, with a sore throat and coughing up furballs and sleeping all the time, or not sleeping at all, and hating more things than usual (I graduated to hating the storks that nest on lamposts here, the fucking stupid, oversized- seagull, clicking cunts) is fucking ace, because now I initiate the conversation about not smoking, as soon as I sit down next to some tired, bridge-playing, socially competitive dragon and her boorish husband. I love the looks on their faces as I drone on and on and on about how wonderful it is to have the liberty to go out without worrying about where and when I can have a fag, about my pearly teeth, and how I don't really like the smell of it any more. I have been forced to abandon alcohol along with my beloved fags, because I simply cannot go near a drink without wanting to shovel a whole packet of Fortuna into my gob and setting fire to them all at once. But it's not that bad: giving up booze has meant that I have not ballooned into a vast whale, like many ex smokers, but rather now fit even more delightfully into my most punishing jeans and I am at great pains to point this out to my former smoking critics: "yes, I was awfully worried about packing on the lard, but you take that risk, don't you, because life is more important than dress size, but I must say, I have noticed, and I don't own a pair of scales as I think scales are only for fat people, that my trousers are a little baggier than they used to be.
I might be even more of a cunt now, but I'll be around for longer.

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