Monday, April 30, 2007


Don't thank me, people of the north, I am just all heart.

I am wonderful in a crisis - and that is not any form of immodesty at all. I love crises, all that adrenalin and the tears and blood and rushing about, huddling in rooms and tannoys - fuck me, the excitement is massive! God, I love a crisis, I do. I love crises.

Even better at crises than me is my friend Sarah, who is a member of the "Mass Fatalities Working Group for Yorkshire and The Humber". In the event of a mass fatality, for example an outbreak of Avian flu in either Yorkshire, or The Humber, Sarah's job is to procure a JCB digger and dig a mass grave for all the dead. Now, Sarah only has a licence to drive an automatic motor car, so she will need to be thinking outside the box, in a vehicular way when the digging has to start, but, no doubt, like those people who lose limbs in the jungle and manage to drag themselves for miles through the undergrowth and insect life, in a crisis, people often discover new skills.

The place she will have to dig the grave, is next to the Cholera Monument in Sheffield, and I have come up with an idea which will save a lot of municipal funds, as all they need to do to honour the victims of the crisis, once the crisis has been averted and the dead have been buried, is to find a stone mason who has not been seen off by the epidemic and get him to carve " ^ And Avian Flu" next to the word "Cholera" on the statue. See? Great at crises.

Sunday, April 29, 2007



So I decided to try and like snakes - but I will never find it in my heart to like small snakes, however venomous they might claim to be. The one snake I felt able to raise a flicker of feeling for was the anaconda, so I found this documentary called "Duel of the swamp - Caimans and anaconadas".

Really, that sounded like my dream television programme, a whole hour of raw, natural violence, I fucking love that sort of thing. It started offf brilliantly with a caiman in a swamp looking at an anaconda on the ground, and then the two animals sniffed at each other and glared at each other a bit and then buggered off.A bit later they were back - this time the anaconda was in the water and the Caiman was on the bank, gaping, and then there was a scuffle, and the caiman took the anaconda in its jaws and sort of thrashed it around, walloping the enormous snake on the ground, and then hundreds of caimans appeared just out of nowhere from the pond, and they all grabbed at the anaconda with their great big vicious teeth and tore slices off it, and took the pieces of anaconda meat into the water to make it rot and soften, so it would be easier to eat, and it was just fucking brilliant to watch, really. I hope I am expressing to you just how very much indeed I enjoyed watching that.

Then there was a break in the programme after half an hour of Caimans fighting with and then eating anacondas, so, logically the viewer could expect the reverse to be the case in the second half of the programme - that the anaconda would then have a fight with the caiman, and swallow the creature whole. Anacondas love to swallow things whole, it is what they do - and they are dirty great big fuckers that can eat really enormous things. I have heard about anacondas getting out of swamps - swallowing an entire cow without chewing it, and just getting back there in the swamp water, all bloated and full. If I am being really honest, rather than watching the anaconda eat the caiman, the ideal programme for me would be where the anaconda eats the cameraman whole, and you would get this incredible view of the big dislocated snake- mouth wrapping itself around the camera, which itself would be shaking to fuck because of the abject fear of the man holding the camera who was being eaten, but I have realistic expectations - it isn't that likely to happen. Shame - it would be a fucking great show, that would.

Anyway, when I watch a programme about anacondas, I expect to see some swallowing of whole things going on. And in a programme called "Duel of the swamp" the viewer expects a bit of equality - the caiman wins, then the anaconda wins. For if that balance of power did not exist, caimans and anacondas would not be sharing the swamp - would they? No. There would be EITHER caimans, OR anacondas in the swamp, not both. The fact the the two creatures are so evenly matched, explains their living together in close quarters whilst hating each others guts. But did the anaconda eat the caiman? No it did not. It slithered around and then it shagged another anaconda and gave birth to about a million babies. I am fucking livid. The discovery channel can fuck off, the boring gay, touchy feely cunts. "Duel of the swamp" - "A small fight,followed by a mincing tedious knocking shop and creche in the swamp", more like.

Friday, April 27, 2007


Shite-spouting cunts

At the moment, where I work, everyone is all about "practice". It is "good practice" this and "best practice" that. In my opinion, superlative practice would be if they all shut the fuck up, stopped practising and just fucking got on with it. That is all

Thursday, April 26, 2007


Whatever Floats Your Ship

I am surprisingly tolerant towards military people, they don't annoy me half as much as they should. I put up with the pointing (sorry INDICATING) using the whole hand and I watch them spelling out loud using the phonetic alphabet instead of ordinary letters like normal people, without getting too wound up. But they do get the arse on about terminology, the fucking rigid cunts.

Like Shakespeare (who was a cunt as well), I think you can call anything by any old name and it means pretty much the same old thing. Clearly I have my favourites - I'd chose cunt over vagina, cock over dick - that sort of thing. Unless you are a complete moron - somebody describing a cunt as a vagina isn't going to throw the listener into a spin of confusion: "What can he be on about? He said vagina and I only like the word cunt". No! - making a fuss and pretending not to understand synonyms is as gay as musical theatre.

So, I was talking to a man from the British military and he was all on about people coming over to a port, and I said to him: "So how long will it take to drive the boat over here then". He went quiet for a bit, and then there he was, the bastard, all doubled up with tears down his face, hooting about the idea of a boat coming over here, on the sea from one port to another. I just didn't get it , I though it must be a cultural diffference or maybe he had choked on a mutton granule or whatever horrible shit they eat in armies. I just could not see the humour in that statement: "How long will it take to drive the boat". Not a bit of humour in it whatsoever. So eventually he went less red and gasped at me "It's a ship! A ship, not a boat! God, you're killing me".

Now I hate boats, absolutely fucking loathe them. I'm as sick as a dog just looking at one in dry dock, and I do my very best to avoid going anywhere near them, the vag-shaped, rocking, horrible vessels. I do not make myself out to be any sort of an authority on the sea and things nautical - they can all fuck off. Frankly - if there was no sea I would not be that bothered really, and no - I don't care about the rain and water and needing seas for the human population to exist without withering into desiccated leather - I'm sure we would manage just fine without it.

Anyway he wouldn't leave it just at taking the piss about ships and boats, this one, no, he became all adamant about it and was saying: "The only thing that is a boat is a submarine, because a boat is in the water and a ship is on top of it". I mean, I know a lot of people in the military are as thick as fucking shit, but really - had he not noticed that a proportion of a ship/boat is also under the water, unless the boat in question is made of paper and in the bath . What a fucking cretin. And if he thinks I am off to the rowing lake asking to hire a "ship" for an hour he is mental. "Row, row, row your ship", "Michael row your ship ashore", Boats and ships and people interested in boats and ships can fuck off.

Wednesday, April 25, 2007


The man who sniffed chairs

I have had the occasional stalker in my time, no surprise really, as men love dangerous women - especially dangerous women who scowl and ignore them. Men are fucking morons really, because for every total bitch they waste their time trotting round after, there is probably a really wonderful, beautiful, nice girl, who would make them the happiest man on the planet. Yes the penis truly is a mong-rudder, leading many a decent bloke right up the fucking garden path.

Anyway - where was I - oh yes stalkers. A fair few of my more tenacious unsolicited admirers have been foreigners - it is great to go foreign if you are in the market for a stalk, because your really off-the-wall behaviour can be put down to a cultural difference. I knew a Central Asian man who stole my handkerchief. I hadn't snotted in it at least - but he just stole it. When challenged, he said he wanted something of mine - I didn't mind massively, I was grateful it wasn't one of my kidneys, and it was no great shakes of a hankie - one of those white ones, you know? And when I was at school a young Saudi boy stole a pair of my dirty tights - and somehow I let him off the hook, just putting it down to coming from a patriarchal society populated with people who wash their feet five times a day, so tights over there are probably pristeen, and no fun whatsoever if you are after a dirty snort.

No, I wouldn't put anything past a bloke. I was telling a man at a party about weird stalking habits and he suddenly piped up with his own personal deviance: "I like to sniff chairs". He said he had started with smelling used knickers, but he became jaded by the lack of subtlety, so now he enjoyed a good old reekfest at chair seats recently vacated by females. The longer the women had been seated, the richer the pong. Dear god, I need a lie down.

Monday, April 23, 2007


You are the spit of my cunt

People are disproportionately impressed by mimcry. And most mimics are utter, utter cunts. I absolutely loathe that man Rory Bremner -all over the television doing an impersonation - always of the most appalling political or media bores -taking off that yawny-monger Blair, or some man off a news programme, or yet another pointless person from the television. I can't understand, why, when by waiting a mere half an hour, or switching channel you could watch the original newscaster reading the news -why then, you would want to tune in to Bremner doing a version of that man on the news reading the news? Fuck me - I just don't get it.

I'm sure that doing impersonations has been an occasion of excitement for people incapable of entertaining themselves, for many years. Yes, I expect there was a hairy caveman back in the Stone Age, getting cheap laughs and a few extra rides in return for doing a cracking take-off of the man in the cave next door. If I were a cavewoman in those times, the cave-mimic would not be getting the ride off me. I would whittle mammoth bones into pens and scrawl filth on the cave walls or just be in the corner, all feral and spitting at people and their mimcry, because even if there were no television or racing, I would not be amused by that cheap old faking shite.

It is inconsistent of me to dislike impersonators, because I normally relish laughter at the afflicted or even common-or-garden- non-afflicted peoples' expense. But laughter at others' expense should be cruel, not smug. Cruelty is hilarious, self-promotion embarassing. I'm over worrying though - being consistent is dreadfully overrated, just a ponced-up version of being predictable, which no-one, not even schoolteachers, holds up as a fashionable ideal. So I won't be made to feel bad about not liking this form of unpleasantness -impersonation. We can't like everything mean, can we?

And what about when you are at a party and everyone is pressing the fat man at the table to do his impression of some idiot or other, and there he is, that great, fat mimic, with a nascent smile twitching at his lips, like an arsehole after a phaal, being all self deprecating and: "Oh come on now - no one wants to see me do that". Then after a bit more arm twisting he is off, being Gordon Brown with his chin-tic, and Prince Charles and Arnold Schwarzenneger, and I seriously just want to fucking lie down and die in a heap. Any type of a "turn" at a party makes me want to shit - I was at a thing recently where this woman got up and sang a song in a foreign language and to start with I was unspeakably angry, then I became really quite hysterical and had to do that thing where you cough to hide the laugh, and eventually I had to go out to the loo and stuff my hands into my gob, shaking like a shitting dog, until I had got over the laughter. I have even had people at parties ask me if I would like to read their poetry, and of course I would HATE to. If I like the person, then reading the poem is an embarassingly over-intimate gander into their inner soul which is just the type of thing I loathe, and if I hate the person, then I have no interest in reading something about how sensitive and deep they are, the fucking pansyfied, gaylord, leaping fairies.

Saturday, April 21, 2007


Is it of any use to me at all? No? - then fuck off!

The one thing that gives me pleasure in life is beauty. I like beautiful people, beautiful music, beautiful places, beautiful writing, beautiful stuff. All I want out of this time I have on the planet, is a spiritual lacqueur: a shallow wallow in the glorious frivolity of surface-based prettiness.

I feel that cosmetic improvements are always an excellent idea. If you have plastic surgery and it is successful - you have made the world a prettier place. If at first you don't succeed - try try again. I shall be going under the knife as soon as I need to, which I fucking don't yet - so don't be starting that shit. Yes - go ahead and improve yourselves - pluck, wax, avoid white tights - tart this ugly world up a bit. Or sing me a song with a tune, paint me a gorgeous picture, write something for me to read other than chick-lit - oh you get it!

What I can't fucking well abide though, is people improving themselves on an academic level. Why the fuck are they bothering with that?? Is it going to help me? No it fucking isn't. How very fucking selfish that is, is it not??

This man was on to me the other day about all the improvements he was planning on his mind, and how he was going to pay thirty thousand pounds to go back to a college and do a thing called an MBA. I have no idea what one is, but if it costs that much money, then he is being absolutely seen off, the fucking thick cunt! I expect it is a sort of tax you pay in order to be employed by other gullible fucks who have made the same mistake and handed over insane amounts of cash and given up a year of their lives to feel like they are getting ahead when they quite clearly are getting behind. Their wallets are lighter, their heads cluttered with pure shite and they are sentenced to a life with other similary useless fuckers sitting about talking gibberish and administering things and being business like. Why does the man not learn a useful skill like taking blood from people, or cooking? Those are things other people give a rat's knob about, unlike the MBA - a pile of pure stinking shite.

I am enormous- hearted enough to realise that some people feel a pull towards the library and need to feed their starveling brains with a few words of Chomsky or that cunt Dawkins or some awful mumbo jumbo neuro linguistic programming nonsense. Yes, I do understand that not everyone can be as gloriously arrogant and pig headed as me and Ball Bag, rejoicing in our magnificent, unfettered, pure minds. No, I get it, being thrown a few initials by a mail-order university or posted a certificate in mastering some wacky dark art is a source of pride and achievement for the weak. Just shut the fuck up about it though - private study is as interesting to listen to as new mothers talking about their offspring, or old, single women harping on about potential suitors- which is not remotely interesting at all, unless you are completely mental.

The thing I object to most of all - more even than the tragedy of watching people lining the pockets of wicked academic con-artists-,what I truly object to as a card-carrying emotional retard, is the gruesome intimacy that is forced upon the listener by people with their study-talk: all that navel-gazing witterage about goals, and aspirations. In the same way that I absolutely loathe going to weddings, I feel the same squirming premonition of desperate dashed hopes, as I listen to the: "Guess what, I'm going back to school" speech. Whatever these fuckwitted overpriced courses teach their eager students - what they fail to communicate to the alumnus, is that everything, whatever it is you are doing, always turns out the same: - You learn something, (which seems like a marvellous idea as it is being learnt) - but then practising the thing you have learnt soon becomes pretty fucking tedious. So there the diligent student goes - getting more and more hacked off practising his new-found skills, until the solution strikes him: learn to be even better at the thing. So he goes and gets better at whatever he was doing and returns all refreshed to put his knowledge into practice and what happens? He hates it again. There is no level of satiation of knowledge for the normal human being, that is why those Professor weirdos at universities devote their entire lives trying to make sense of a smaller and smaller thing, until the point they are trying to make becomes an atom, and we go back to the fucking "why are we here" bollocks. It is a weakness - to want to know. Be strong, my niggers.

Monday, April 16, 2007


Play it again, Osama

God, the people in this country are real fucking, almighty, useless cunts. If they aren't keening and mewling and begging and clutching at you with their grasping hands, or waffling on about djinns and spirits and other such occultish rubbish, they are making an absolute fucking hash of being suicide bombers. Taking the job title absolutely literally, several of these poor little fuckers are trotting around Casablanca blowing themselves up in the middle of nowhere. One chap had a brainwave and took himself to the American visa queue at the Consulate - which, at best, would be a cracking place to blow up some other Moroccans and no Americans at all. But on a Saturday?? The Yanks don't work on Saturdays, you fucking cretin, they are busy playing "little league soft ball" or hitting each other with chairs in the wrestling ring. So it was a solo feat of terrifying terror.

I went to another half marathon on Sunday and it was turbo shite. The race was sponsored by a bottled water company, and all the spectators had small flags and hats with the logo of the water company on them. But did they have any water for the runners who were pegging around 21km to drink? Did they fuck, the fucking, thieving cunts. People kept keeling over and dying and the ambulance was very busy. I said to this marshall "Do I look like a fucking camel?" and she did not answer, she just waved a flag with the logo of the water company on and blew a whistle. I finished the run, of course, keeping myself going by my insane rage, and flirting with a man, to get his bottle of water off him. I hope he did not have herpes.

Morocco can fuck off. If only those terrorist muppets were together enough to blow the place up properly, I'd sacrifice myself just to get rid of the fucking shithole. That is all.

Friday, April 13, 2007


The Arrogant Apple

I hate articles about superfoods - they make me want to shit. I understand, in the incredibly dull and weird world of nutrition, there is a hierarchy of value- where almonds rule, and fried things are frowned upon. A world where suddenly some cunt discovers an enzyme in grapefruits, or an oil in some type of a nut which will make your hair strong or some such rubbish, and the foodstuff becomes essential eating. I think nutritional trends are a total waste of time. Ireland never had pomegranate juice, and people still bred like rats. I never saw a rice cake until I was thirty and I could have waited another thirty years before meeting one. A glorified polysterene disc with all the flavour of plain tofu. I don't care if it makes me grow wings and fly - does it taste nice? No it does not.

And I read this thing where some awful smug woman was holding forth about how you shouldn't go a day without eating a tomato, and how avocados are good for your vag, and in a sense, although I loathe the hectoring tone of those health books with an undercurrent of CANCER if you don't follow their mad advice, you can see what they are getting art. A do goodery, make-people-live-longer, health-obsessed guidebook. I get the miserable idea of it, even though I don't like it. But then she was starting on: "The humble apple" and I thought: "You have gone too far now, missus". How does she know the apple is not an absolutely vain, self-regarding, ruthless cunt? The stupid, lecturing whore.

Monday, April 09, 2007


Bad French thing of the day

Most French things are vile - berets, french bread, gizzard salad, fussy architecture, moustaches, carrying dogs around, surrendering in wars, ballet and pernod.

The Renault car is the worst French thing ever created- from the squat- arsed Megane to the gaily-named poncy wannabe van the Kangoo, via that fucking unimaginative diamond logo that sits on the front of the car like a little metal wart. Just fucking fucking well fuck off with you, you shitty, little, jaunty, little, froggy piece of glorified scrap.


Saturday, April 07, 2007


I'll fucking break you in a minute

Training is a double edged weapon. On the one hand, I enjoy being paid to stare out of a window for a week or so, on the other, I fucking hate being told what to do. ANd I hate those cunt trainers they employ -over friendly, bossy, ex-schoolteacher women, or oily men who overuse your name, Noreen, thanks, Noreen, if you wouldn't mind, Noreen. Fucking cocksucking, wanky, tosspot fuckers.

But worse than those overpaid, jumped up charlatans standing up there like little gobshites giving out about "listening skills" this or "Team dynamic" that, worse still is the lingo they use. This one announced at the beginning of another day of dull pain, that we were allowed a "comfort break". I honestly had no idea what the woman was on about - I thought she was talking about a group hug, or maybe a great binge on chocolate, or perhaps a sly fondle in the "break out" room. She was talking about urinating, the dirty bitch.

God they are pure cunts the lot of them. And what about those ones that start off "let's begin with an ice breaker" and they make you play a ludicrous game remembering stuff or writing things down on small bits of paper and passing them about - would they ever just fuck away off with it? I am not remotely interested in ice, not one bit, breakable or not, if gets in the way of me looking out of the window, whilst being paid, then it can fuck off.


Message for the Weekend Warriors

To hold down a real job, one that could not be performed by an Australian, in London, you need to be the geeky spod from school - the one at the front of the class with your hand up, a dynamic, ambitious, hard working competitive nerd - the type that got picked last in games lessons.

That said, if you are ballsy enough to go and live down over there in London, and to hang about in overpriced corner shops called “Best Foods” and “Supersavers” which are “Neither” and “Nor” then you could use that drive and ambition to get your malformed, spazzy arses to a physiotherapist and learn to run, so that you don’t look as if you are stirring two pots with your hands, whilst kicking your feet out behind you, like a fucking spanner. The weekends in London are just a crazed blur of pale, deformed office workers, battling their ways along the Thames towpath, limping and dragging their club feet and gammy hips, like a herd of Joeys.

Alternatively, just don’t run - go the Whole Capital City Hog and get yourself properly seen off by a heart attack, with the stress of long hours, and those Islamists on the tube, and all of that fast food from shops called “chicken cottage” and "hamburger hamlet".

And people with spectacles should not be allowed to do any sport at all - nothing makes me feel more uncomfortable than watching four-eyers moving about. Get them lazered, or just fucking sit down, you blind cunts. That is all.

Friday, April 06, 2007


Kidnap my hole

Sorry I've been away - I was kidnapped. Actually I was not kidnapped but I almost wish I were - it looks a high old time. That sailor woman sitting there chainsmoking, in a weird old people's home with fruit on the table, and a lovely new scarf to cover up her dodgy haircut - well who wouldn't have a piece of that? I was over in London while the naval personnel kidnap bollocks was going on, and the papers were full of ranting on about the kidnapped female sailor being "a mother", and how great she was leaving her toddler to go off and fight. They are right of course - given the choice between staying at home going through the "Terrible Twos", and listening to people at a mothers' group go on and on about their piles and their veins, or sitting around in a hot country with a fag in my gob, getting the ride off hundreds of Marines, I know which one I would fucking go for - no brain about it at all, as the Americans would say.

The only thing that is stopping me from taking my inflatable dinghy for a trip up the Euphrates right now (apart from the fact that I get horrendously seasick), is that miserable old bore Terry Waite and his great big pompous face, which would then appear on the television droning on and on about how he could save me, the fucking arrogant, disaster- chasing, fame-hungry, oversized, ginger, beardy cunt.


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