Thursday, August 31, 2006


Why do you need to do anything with them at all?

When Americans are not busy interfering in the Middle East and eating vast disci of minced cow, they like to make up really irritating sayings which they then repeat wantonly, at anyone who crosses their path. One said to me the other day, possibly as a little dig about my shit-tinted view of the world: "When life hands you lemons, make lemonade".

As it happens, life has handed me some lemons - a whole tree in my garden, growing away there with yellow fruit. I knew so little about lemons before I moved here that I thought they might grow on vines like grapes, or be the tubers of a miniature palm, a sort of citrus potatoes. However, lemons actually grow on a normal tree, much like an apple or a pear - there is some white blossom, then the centre of the flower gets swollen and pock-marked and green, and gradually becomes more turgid and lengthens, and eventually turns yellow and drops off. That, is your lemon, the product of my lemon tree.

Anyway, I would not dream of making lemonade with the lemons life has handed me, because there is no need to make lemonade when schweppes are already doing a fine job of it all by themselves. And don't you be giving me: "Home made lemonade is better" because it is just a dull, flat version of the schweppes one, with a lot of squeezing and sugary syrup and yawny yawn yawn. Besides, why should you make anything at all if life produces lemons for you? Jesus Christ? Only the americans would feel the obligation to start monkeying around with something they were handed, the fucking busybody cunts. Life has handed me lemons and they stay on the tree, that is all

Tuesday, August 22, 2006


The art simply isn't good enough

Despite not liking Avid Readers, and finding books in general pretty fucking dull, I try my hardest to be invited to join Book Clubs. I never normally read the book, I cannot be fucked to, but there are usually crisps on offer at the Book Club venue, and maybe some type of deep fried cheese ball, and a general sense of bonhomie at the beginning that quickly gets clobbered by an arsenal of pretension. It's a cracking night out.

I would never go to a book club with men in, because it would be terribly boring. Men never have anything to say, really, at all, unless they are talking about sport, and the type of man who would have something meaningful to say about a book? Well, wouldn't he be a big cunt! No I couldn't have men about, if they weren't being awful cunts, then they would change the dynamic and there would be sideways glances and giggling and flirting and all the men desperate to scratch their balls, but just too polite and literary to go ahead and do it. Mixed Book clubs would be shite.

When there are only women, a book club becomes a full on intelligent cat fight, with each specky whore trying to out-bright the next. The choice of the book is key, and whichever woman chooses it, makes sure that it "Says Something" about what a fascinating individual she is. They might pick out a Greek Tragedy so they can harp on about the witch fantasy, or choose one of those interminable Chinese books about downtrodden people in factories triumphing over their terrible circumstances and becoming eminent academics. Or they force everyone to read that fucking book: "The Kite Runner", which is all about Afghanistan and anal rape. I just don't see why anyone would want to read that shit, I really don't. The sick weirdo bastards. I am not remotely interested in Afghanistan, not since they blew up all the nice Buddha things, it sounds like all sorts of a shithole, and as for anal rape, well that is just a way for the author to distract his well-meaning, middle class readers' attention from the miserable yawny fest that is the protagonist's relationship with his tedious father and some old servants, and shock you out of the dreadful stupor created by the author's mediocre prose and boring imagery. If you are going to write about unpleasant things outside the realm of most Times' readers personal experience, then write better, you fucking lazy cunt. And what about the name? The Kite runner. Ripped arseholes in Kabul more like.

Monday, August 21, 2006


I wish I were infallible

Non-catholics find the idea of papal infallibility hard to swallow. And in return for their nasty protestant or watever-it-is scepticism, they will spend eternity in hell. You see, there is a God.

My husband is a non-catholic, and often people ask me: "What will you do when you die and he is burning away downstairs while you sit there in heaven with a bottomless pot of tea and all of Westlife except for the fat one who cheated on Kerry Katona" and I say this to them "I'll have a fucking riot" It is sensible to marry someone who won't last more than a lifetime.

And recently I have had an earful from non-catholics about His Holiness deciding to get shot of Limbo. "Where will the souls go that are in Limbo?" they say to me "What about the little babies". Who cares? Are they catholics, those souls in limbo? No they are not. And the people who ask, don't even believe in Limbo either (because they are non-catholics) so why, the fuck, they are going on and on about it? It can only be because they are terrible, terrible cunts.

The Pope is simply responding to the modern minimalist trend, he is performing a laundry on souls. You just don't need another level of aether all cluttered up with imperfect beings - get shot of it!

And the more pedantic limbo-bitchers give it: "you can't just get rid of a concept like that". Oh can't you? Well it looks like he has, doesn't it! Bring on the change - I like it when the church has a clean up. I was glad when the vatican got rid of St Christopher, he was a gruesome, smug anus of a saint, encouraging people to wear his nasty little medallions and to make a great meal out of going on holiday. When they decided that he did not exist I was thrilled. I hate travellers, they are frightful yawnies, and don't deserve any saintly assistance at all, the boring itinerant cunts.

Friday, August 18, 2006


Those fucking eyeties again

I have had a basin full of the Italians. There are loads of them around here, all shrieking at each other: the men with their hands down the fronts of their far-too-tight trousers, the women a gaggle of fat whores with dyed hair. The fuckers. I am going to write to the Pope and suggest he move to Cardiff, he'd get a better class of homeboy there, the poor old bastard.

At least the Eyeties are only here for a day or two, riding about on their vast coaches, looking at themselves in everybody's wing mirrors and waving their hands about like cunts, crying because they miss their mammas. I've no time at all for them, fucking bunch of noncers.

You have to hand it to the Italians for their cuisine though, don't you? Despite the fact that they can't make a cake to save their lives, the Italians invented Spaghetti. And before any of you Slants start on about "as a matter of fact the noodle was invented in the East" I know all that. But it was the NOODLE, wasn't it, that you fucking lot invented, not the spaghetti.

People get all confused about dried starch products, the world over. When I went to Germany, the fat cunts there insisted not only on misnaming spaghetti: "noodles", but they even called penne and the ones which look like shells and bows noodles as well. What fucking morons! The Germans all call their children Luca and Mario too, which is immensely gay. They should grow some balls and go back to calling their kids things like Adolf and Wolfgang - proper german names instead of some foreign crap. Or, if they must choose a foreign name, then why not a decent Irish one like Kevin or Colm? Mario and Luca, je t'en prie.

But it is true, they have almost got the main course nailed down, those Italians, I must confess to being a real bastard for a slice of pizza, as long as it has no capers on it, and lasagne is nice too. The thorn in the side for Italian cooking though, is polenta. Dear God! I had some the other day and it was just the sickest old shite I have ever tasted. I actually thought I was the subject of a wind up, I genuinely did. I pulled that face, where you have the wry smile about to leap out, until I realised that the person serving me polenta was for real, they actually thought that this fucking pappy foodstuff like an old sponge with a dried out outside, was some type of a delicacy! I would seriously rather eat tripe, I fucking mean it. Absolutely yuckety sick foul.

I had to hold my napkin over my mouth and spit out the piece of polenta, and then I had to get the clean part of napkin that was folded over the spat out bit, and wipe off all the little warty dried bits of polenta off my tongue. The texture of it was fucking horrendous. I told my sister Maud about it and she said that she had a similar problem in America, where they brought her a bowl of stuff which looked like grit, and she asked the waiter "what is this?" and the waiter said "it is grit" and she said "I can see that, do you have any fried eggs?". Americans and Italians, what the fuck? Que Ora? Stop eating grit and cook some pasta instead, you fat weirdo cunts

Monday, August 14, 2006



There is a special killing field in my heart, for people who are amazed by things, I feel tired just thinking about them. I can't make myself see these vibrant, grinning fools either as endearing little balls of joie de vivre, or poor lost unfortunates with their own way of making sense of the world by linking it together in a barking way : "I was on the train and I met someone who knew my sister. Isn't that amazing! And they had come all the way from Barry Island in Wales. All that way, and they knew my sister!"

Even if it were amazing and not totally obvious that if you travel on a train which goes to a limited number of places, some people on the train will be going to the same place as you, and therefore your link with the place and their link might just be the same one, even if it were not the most fucking mundane yawny fest in the world, I would still want to kill the person, for going on about it so enthusiastically. Because going on about things enthusiastically is bad. |I hate amazing coincidences, and people who think coincidences are amazing. Cunty cunty cunt.

Having said that, I have been the recipient of an astonishing number of road stories recently, and I do not mean people telling me hilarious tales of their adventures under way, no, stories about which road they drove on, to get somewhere. Nearly everyone I meet starts talking to me about the best way to get about, in a car. If I were a cunt, I would describe the volume of road tales that I have listened to as an amazing coincidence - but it is the summer, and people travel about, and bad people then come back from their travels and hunt around looking for people to boast to about which direction they drove in, and which roads they chose.

I quite like to see how long I can make these fuckers talk about roads for, because when I am the recipient of road conversation, I switch the birdsong-holding-music on in my head while my conversation partner jabbers letters and numbers and landmarks at me. And if I want a bit more zen time, all I do is say "sorry, what was the actual name of the road again?" or "did you say left or right, I need to syringe my ears, you see and I don't always hear correctly?" and then they are off, telling me more and more ways to drive around. It certainly beats a conversation some french people were having about "what ees love exactly? Can we be sure eet even exeeests" which was as pleasant an auditory experience as listening to a fox howling.

Friday, August 11, 2006


Slow Food.

Some of my most erotic experiences have been conducted over an egg mcmuffin. I won't go into details, I expect there are children present - the little cunts.

I am a deeply loyal person, and it does upset me when people just give up on things. When my mother is not on about the local dead, she likes to have a pop at fast food, as if there were something wrong with it. She is all "Fast food", in the type of tone of voice I would have got a smack for as a child.

The most terrible hypocrisy about her new fast food problem is that I can remember the performance that was made of our first family Mcdonalds. I was about ten years or twelve years old, and the family went over to London for the night and went out to watch a play at the theatre, which was dreadful -the theatre is a dark trouser of cunts, and afterwards we went to the brand new Mcdonalds in Picadilly. And our mother was all "Isn't it amazing, you ask for it and it is made under your nose in a minute flat, there's no waiting at all". And I wore long socks and a dress coat to go to that fucking Mcdonalds and sat in all the fluorescent light, on a plastic seat,with my hair down and an alice band in it, got up like a little fucking lady. And I had never seen a gherkin before in my life, it was the most extraordinary thing I had ever, ever seen or tasted - vile on its own, like a little sour frog turd, but marvellous in there with the mustard and the plastic cheese and the burger. Fuck I could almost take up meat again just thinking about it.

So, there you have it,there is nothing wrong with fast food at all. It is just food, that arrives quickly. And don't give me that saying: "good things happen to those that wait" because they do not, do they? What has ever happened to you, good, while you waited? I know that the last time I waited patiently somewhere, it was to get a tooth crowned, and that was fucking horrible, atrocious poking about. No, fast is good, otherwise there would not be races where you saw who was the fastest at running, or swimming, would there, there would be pointless events where people were professionally slow, and they would not be called races, they would be called "waits". Waiting is for cunts - fast=good

Tuesday, August 01, 2006


Personality tests are pure shit

I did a personality test on the internet and I was not at all pleased with the results. It said I was a slut, and then it said this load of bollocks: drawn to artistic and cutting edge industries, drawn to careers where creativity is a solitary pursuit, more abstract than concrete, original, appreciates beauty, ideal love seeking, intense, imaginative, introspective, likes indie rock music, prone to an interest in acting, likes art house movies, self expressive, likes to look wierd, pulled to the symbolic and mysterious, likes to perform, prone to keeping a journal, attracted to the counter culture, interested in journalism, odd, trend setter, different, lives an experimental life, prefers shopping at organic markets, attracted to wierdness, more likely to be vegetarian, dislikes the ordinary and non dramatic, feels both special and defective.
Fucking neck of it! I am a vegetarian but I absolutely fucking draw the line at indie rock music. They are talking about that cunt Robbie Williams and that desperate chopper Morrissey, aren't they? I only like R and B music - the rest can fuck itself. And "Like art house movies" - no I fucking well do not like them., I like happy movies, porn movies or ones about disasters. Art house - I don't fucking think so.

And what about "Likes to look weird" I fucking well do not like to look weird. And I don't much like being described as introspective - as you can see, the whole business of examining myself is leaving me extremely cold. Fucking cheeky psychologist cunts. Nor, by the way do I feel either special or defective - I think the psychologist is having a pop, and insinuating that I am a mong. The fucking cheeky cunt! Indie Rock Music, art house, weirdo bollocks - fuck off

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