Monday, July 31, 2006


Some advice

I hate people who claim to be shopaholics or alcoholics or chocoholics. I wish they would all fuck off with their victimy dependence and stick it up their self help groups' arses. People without the self awareness to understand that is it their own choice to be cunts, not because they are the victims of some terrible disease, deserve all they get. I also hate people who say, about little, cunty children "he is not a bad child, he just suffers from bad behaviour". You don't hear that sort of generosity of spirit being applied to "sufferers of paedophilia". Yes everone can help what they do and that is it. There is no suffering from anything behavioural or dependence related- that is fucking shit. Either do bad things, and repent,or revel in evil like the loony you are, or don't do anything and offer up the sacrifice. Ask your priest.

And women who are all "I won't sleep with a man who wears briefs": Listen to me, you whores! Those Calvin Klein elastane boxer shorts they advertise in the magazine with the bald footballer cunt who looks like he has a huge wang - well they are a big con. They make a pouch at the front of the knickers to make it look like the man has a thumper.

I know a gay man who used to put his cock and balls through a cock ring so that it was all bunched up at the front and then parade around in a pair of those knickers and dear god - he looked enormous! The truth was, that he had a tiny little peewee, the size of a small pepper pot, but the vast swathes of lycra fabric surrounding it gave his mickey the illusion of greatness. Don't trust stretchy pants.

One man I slept with, who really did have the most enormous penis in the world, was unable to wear either calvins, or cotton boxers because with the boxers his cock hung out of one leg, and with the others there was a terrible straining at the front, like Salt 'n' Pepa were in his knickers doing some of their odd dancing, and the great heat of that huge member and the bollocks made it like a furnace and cooked his semen until steam came out of his mammoth jap's eye. As a result of this, the only comfortable underwear the poor man could wear was a loose pair of briefs, that kept all the equipment together, without it getting too boiling in there. So you should not turn your nose up at a man in briefs, there may be a good reason for it. And what about people who say "I always judge a man by his shoes"? They should be drowned

Friday, July 28, 2006


Achilles' cunt

A long time ago, I had a very inappropriate gynaecologist. He insisted on a really long chat before getting his speculum out, like a creepy sort of foreplay; the type of conversation one would have with a man in a bar. He would talk about his marriage going to pieces and how his children hated him to death.When he examined me, the inappropriate gynaecologist would always close his eyes as he rummaged around, and make little peeping sounds in his throat. It was weird. All his patients (because I knew a few of them) used to bitch about his weirdness and how slimy he was, but I always thought to myself that I would keep going to him because he was a good gynaecologist, with an unfortunate bedside manner.

Anyway, one day, there were two women outside his office - also patients- discussing his unusual medical practices and how he had told one of them that she had the most elastic vagina he had ever seen. In response to that, the other one pulled herself up in her chair, all the grand woman, and said :"Well he told me I had the most beautiful vagina he had ever seen!"So then I was interested to see what the gynaecologist would have to say about my vag, and do you know what? He said nothing at all except "peep, peep peep". I felt ignored.

I had almost forgotten about having a mediocre vagina until I saw my friend who has a foot fetish recently, and he was telling me about the time he bought a perfect stranger a pair of shoes in order to see her bare feet before she tried the new shoes on. I asked him if he thought my feet were the type you could have a fetish about- he shivered his shoulders slightly, pasted on a kind look and said :"I've seen your feet already". Fucking thanks a million. I was all hurt about having a mediocre minge and feet a fetishist won't touch, so I took myself to the shoe shop and the woman said: "Buy these, these are fuck- me shoes" and I did, thinking that the shoes would distract from the mediocrity of the other two parts, but fuck me, they were fucking high, and fucking tight and all they did was make me need corn plasters.

Wednesday, July 26, 2006


Crimewatch - not up to scratch

One of my favourite television programmes is Crimewatch - a programme that gives you the gory details of all the recent crimes in Britain, under the pretext that you might be able to help solve one of them. I have never helped to solve a crime that I have seen advertised on the programme, but I enjoy watching the robbers beat up the old people.

It was really great when one of the presenters got killed and then they did a crimewatch to catch the killer. It was like life imitating art, or art imitating life, a great conundrum of mirrors and smoke, love and betrayal, intrigue and discovery.

It has got shit now, though, Crimewatch, because they have that glamourous one off the news presenting it, and her glamour has turned the heat up on the other female crimewatch staff to put out and look hot. DC Jackie Haynes, who used to turn up wearing a policeman's uniform and a hat and show e-fits of criminals to the viewers now goes to work in a thong and basque, tossing her hair (which is not tied back off her face) around like an old slag, and she is not very attractive so it is all a bit much.

The producers of Crimewatch are fucking lazy cunts,who have decided that instead of showing a large range of reconstructions of people being beaten to a pulp, raped and murdered they can just get away with flashing a bit of tit. Last week, for instance, they only showed two reconstructions of crime, in a whole hour, the rest was taken up with frotting, meaningful pauses, and the short fat one looking daggers at the other one. I don't need it. I want blood, not minge, for fuck's sake! And I even started to get caught up in the female rivalry thing that was going on, feeling sorry for the ugly one and wishing that she would lay off the slap and concentrate on her strengths, on her fine ability to show viewers the faces of criminals, but women are all about rivalry with other women, so I worked out a plan to save D.C Jackie Haynes from the monthly humiliation she endures on crimewatch at the moment as Fiona Bruce's ugly friend. Yes, If I were D.C Jackie Haynes, I would get a green card and become an American, then I would start a class action lawsuit for sexual harassment against that glamourous one for creating a sexually charged working environment, and then I would take a vast sum of money off her and spend a wedge of it on plastic surgery.

But what really upset me, even more than the two women battling it out for bloodthirsty-tv-babe status, was the bit called "Aladdin's cave", where a man in a bow tie showed lots of stolen things to the viewers in case they belonged to anyone watching. Dear god, the furniture! What a fucking disgrace. And all of these "antiques" were sheer horror; ugly, clunky gilded vulgar shite. I would, as a newly americanised D.C Jackie Haynes,as a way to offset the rather vain and personal reasons for taking Fiona Bruce to court, take the money that I won in my lawsuit (left over after my numerous cosmetic operations), hunt down the men who stole the ugly furniture and then lost it, and pay them to go out and steal more.

Tuesday, July 25, 2006


Freestyle is not free

Swimming is a useful skill to have, although there are some who claim that dying from drowning is an erotic, peaceful and uplifting experience. For me, the fact that these people are still alive and not bloated and blue, bobbing along a body of water is proof enough that living beats drowning.

I am not a great swimmer, unlike Ball Bag who is a superior water creature, but I can swim a very long way, which is the most useful skill to have if you are in a shipwreck . I have never particularly seen the point of "strokes", as in the breast stroke or the back stroke or that one which looks like you are humping a puddle, the butterfly stroke. Anyone who can swim well enough to do these strokes in a professional manner looks a bit gay. And as for people who wear swimming hats, well they should pull the hats right down over their mouths and go under the water until they die, the weird fuckers. Not only do swimming hats look mighty fucking odd, they also support of a chain of pure evil. Women who wear swimming hats do so because they dye their hair - natural beauties have no fear of chlorine- and women with dyed hair line the pockets of hairdressers who are just the arse of humanity. I fucking hate hairdressers to death, with their bad conversation, and vicious snipping and combing. The fuckers. And don't give me: "But swimming hats prevent nits" because they do not, and anyway,I would rather have ten nits, than one hairdresser, or half a woman with dyed hair talking about her hair.

Many people that you see in the pool wearing swimming hats do the front crawl and I am not a fan of the front crawl. It makes a lot of splashing and usually has a roped off bit of the pool reserved for people doing it, like a special pen for people with hats who like displacing water violently.

But worse than people who do the front crawl are people who call it the "Freestyle". What the fuck is that all about? It is not "free" at all, you are expected to whirl your arms over your head like a windmill whilst flapping your legs up and down under the water, and that is how you do the free style. If I entered the Olympics freestyle and gave it a bit of frogs legs kicking in the freestyle race, someone would blow an olympic whistle and make me get out of the pool and find my towel. And as for "style" I do not see what is stylish about scooping water with your hands, whilst intermittently turning your great, big, open mouth to the side and gulping, I think it is extremely inelegant. Freestyle, fuck off.

Monday, July 24, 2006



I have just come back from London. It was shite. Actually it was not shite - I like London a lot, the food there is wonderful and the weather was fantastic. I don't know why people go on and on about the weather in England. There is nothing wrong with it at all, it is as hot as Italy but the people are taller and the men keep their hands to themselves. It is a protestant country, it is true, but it can't help that, and in fact there are many sorts of non-catholics in England as well as the prods: muslims and sikhs and hindus and they appear to be really quite amicably sitting out their days there in London together until they all burn in the fires of hell for all eternity.

Yes London is a wonderful place and you can eat anything you like there. They have all the usual nasty, traditional things like eels and squashed peas and whelks but they also have curries, chinese food, kebabs, pizzerias and steak houses. I ate like a queen, I really did. The other thing I liked about the place is the supermarkets and the vast range of rolls and sandwiches you can buy for your lunch. Over here in shitty Morocco they either have french bread, which I loathe, or moroccan bread in weird shapes and I just don't have the strength to contend with it. Making a roll, or a loaf of bread should be a straightforward business, you just need to create a bread product with a cuttable surface area large enough to spread with butter and put stuff in. Making a loaf of bread the size and thickness of a frisbee is fucking mental, and that is the shape of most moroccan bread. But then, they are all mental in Morocco, so it is no surprise that their bread, if it went to England, would probably sectioned under one of their many and ancient English Mental Health Acts.

There was, however, one type of english bread which utterly confused me, you must need to live there to understand it, and it was the "wrap". Fuck me, what a fucking disgusting thing that is! I bought this thing which looked and tasted like a large dead cock. It was clammy, uncooked cold, thin, raw dough around some really long pieces of shredded lettuce and some squashed beans and a few strands of hard grated cheddar cheese which was bright yellow in colour. And when you bit into the thing, the first mouthful was raw dough, entirely, all folded up like the side of a present, and then the second mouthful was the squashed beans all firing out of the doughy shell like tiny aborted foetuses, each one clutching a strand of shredded, long lettuce, and there was some kind of a sauce on it which I have no idea what was in it, it was like a tomato sauce but with small bits of green stuff that were both crunchy and soggy. Fucking horrible thing. And all the while I was struggling with this great, flapping member of a sandwich and around me there were people in pin striped suits and bowler hats and all the women in flip-flops even though they were going to work, shovelling down these wraps as though it were the most normal thing in the world and it was not normal at all, it was like sucking out congealed blood from, and then chewing a corpse's cock.

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