Saturday, August 18, 2007


It's about something I like

Usually I write about things I hate, because there are so many things that drive me fucking insane. From the irritating and niggly tics of my co workers to the very word co worker (how gay), via the environment, politics, weather, media, food, language oddities, crazes and fads and "personalities" that are forced upon us by the fact of our existence, in this time, in this place - there are so many things that are so very fucking incredibly annoying I could shit.

There is a vast choice of things to be irritated by, it is true, but negativity alone is like chips without ketchup - just missing a little something, so I thought I would tell you fuckers about something I enjoy massively.

It is Dog the Bounty Hunter - a television programme featuring tattooed, religious-maniac gypsies in Hawaii, going around all trussed up in body armour, waving cans of mace and alternately swearing like sailors then having a prayer session on the roadside. The woman in it, Beth, has the most enormous bosooms I have ever seen in my life. They have a life of their own, each one of them and she hoiks them up with a belt cinched around her waist and displays them to the world in clinging, plunging tops showing a cleavage that runs from her chin to her belly button.

So, this one, the woman with the vast tits, her husband who has long hair combed over a thin patch at the back, her stepsons and step daughter and a random bloke are all Bounty Hunters - which means thet they drive around in huge 4 x 4 cars, looking for people who have not kept to the terms and conditions of their bail. And they are giving it all the large talk there in the car, the team of hunters: "Look at the photo of this here person" one of them says "what a loser - what a face with evil in it". "Oh yes" says the large woman "That one has no hope at all". "Let's catch them then and bring them in - ooh here we come all after yous evil bastards!". But once they get the poor, miserable junkie or whoever it is that has forgotten to go to court, the tune changes entirely.

"You are exactly like me " says Dog the bounty hunter, a long haired, strutting thug with a penchant for leather, and with feathers braided into his fringe, as he handcuffs the defendant's wrists behind his back. "But you do not have the religion. Get the religion and let Our Lord into your life and everything will be fine and you'll go to jail for a bit, and they will let you out and you'll be fine". Then there is a bit of hugging, the bounty hunters light a fag for the criminal and shove it in his gob - and while he is incapitated by a lungful of fumes, because his hands are cuffed and he can't take the cigarette out to exhale - they start on with the Jesus stuff.

"You must not take drugs - Jesus told me to say that" says Dog the Bounty Hunter. Yes" says Beth the large woman, "And stop walloping that poor whore of a wife of yours". Then the dim son with a pigtail pipes up: "My dad here took the drugs - and look at the skin on him now! Honestly - you'll be better off without those crack pipes and whatnot". By now the poor criminal has smoke coming out of both nostrils and is beside himself to get into the jail, where there will be crackpipes and sex in the showers and fighting and no God bothering whatsoever, so the criminal decides to act all peculiar and says: "Yes Dog and family you are entirely right and I will go into that court house over there and mend my ways". So the criminal rushes himself into the court house as fast as he can move and Dog and Co wave him off - yelling bits of religious dogma and trite advice after him.

After that there is a bit of back patting and I told-you-soing from the Dog brigade, then they go off and buy strange clothes, or drive to the beach or count their children.

I am quite sure that Dog the Bounty Hunter is not a Catholic, which in itself means that his bleatings on about Jesus and stuff are a total waste of time.mAnd what is more- when Dog The Bounty Hunter goes into the fires of hell like all other protestants or methodists or whatever other type of non-Catholics there are in America- there will be a large crowd of criminals he caught and handed over to the authorities, waiting to fuck him in the arse, and set his long lacquered hair alight. It is my favourite programme on the television.


Sunday, August 12, 2007


I don't care if you are dwarves or midgets. Shut the fuck up!

"Whistle while you work" sang short-limbed disney freaks, the seven dwarves. Thanks a million you shrunken fucks, thanks for making it ok to pollute the workplace with pointless noise.

I am not a fan of the whistle . Ever since Roger Whittaker released his version of "The Skye boat song" with a whole load of whistling in the middle of it, I've thought it was an overrated thing to do with your face. I can whistle - I'm not a fucking mong, and I can even hold a reasonable tune with my whistling, but I cannot go as far as the vibratos and glissandos of El Whittaker, nor would I ever want to. There is only one reason for whistling and that is to call your dog.

I can understand, although I wouldn't encourage, people whistling a tune when they are entirely alone as they are not getting on anyone else's nerves with the racket. That said, I really don't trust people who can't be alone without some kind of noise in the background - I always fear they are drowning out the shrieks and gurgles of a million voices in their heads, or that their minds are so incredibly vacant, that they can't entertain themselves by thinking about shite, and therefore are forced to fill the void by making noises through their pursed lips.

And what about those cunts who have to announce their arrival by whistling, like a sort of ambulant theme tune? We've got one at work who cannot move from his office without creating a personal salvation army band of whistling and "tum te tum" tuneless singing, just beyond annoying. Sometimes he will walk down a corridor, making his music, and if you speak to him he will not respond immediately if he is in mid whistle - but rather, will carry on for a few more bars, and then stop and say "Good Morning", and then get back on with the whistling noise.

I say noise - not because I am being fey or a bitch, but because he is really not recreating any type of a tune - it is more rhythmic than anything else, and that is a generous way to describe it. I heard something similar on one of those awful classical music radio programmes, the ones with two women who could have eaten themselves, they were that smug, banging on about "modern" classical music which sounded like the dustbin lids, your man and his whistling and some groaning. Along the lines of the shite my dear friend Hungbunny puts on his podcasts - all very clever - but to an R and B fan - unmitigated ear torture. Anyway - my colleague at work is not even in that league of awfulness, the unfortunate fool - his "oeuvre" is like the noise of a ghost and the wind in trees and a bird that is being plucked while still alive - not good. And I know what you are thinking - that he is one of those retarded ones people are forced to employ in offices nowadays, to meet some type of a quota or to get the spaz subsidy. Well he is not. He is no great shakes in the brain department - I'll give you that, but a mong he is not. A fucking thorn in the side is what he is though - a noisy, irritating, jaunty, perky, tuneless fucking cunt.

Saturday, August 11, 2007


Don't do it please


Don't ask your girlfriends if you can film yourselves having sex. We know you are not going to be able to resist showing the footage to all of your mates, and that is the best case scenario, while you are still fond of the bird. If the relationship goes sour - who knows who will see it. Get a new grotty hobby like interfering with yourself in front of emmerdale, or sniffing hair.

And women - for fuck's sake! Don't let them do it. Just imagine your boyfriend, Barry from the garage, his two brothers, simple Sean and that one with the cod eye who hangs around the newsagents - all with their lads in their hands, trying to aim jizz at the particular bit of screen with your tits on, watching you doing things with your man, on the night you go over to your mothers. Keep that mental picture, darlings and don't fucking do it.

And no, of course I fucking haven't. I'm not a total monkey

Monday, August 06, 2007


Putain! It's Poutine

I don't have much to do with Canadians really - I have not come across that many of them in my life. But, if I were forced to make a generalisation about them based on the one or two Canadians I have met, I would say: "They mean well" and "They are harmless" , which everyone knows is just another way of saying that they are saved from being fucking irritating, by the fact that they are just a touch too boring.

The ones I have met have been the French variety, and for all they claim to be bilingual, they speak both French and English with a peculiar accent. That ubiquitous squawking effort Celine Dion is from there, you know the one with the great big husband who got her famous and I can barely understand her - she mumbles away there, "my heart" something or other. Spit it out, woman.

Like the real French, French Canadians eat some weird shit. I went to a national day celebration at their embassy a while back and the food they had was just extraordinary. Shot glasses with raw elk in. RAW ELK. I think it is terrible to eat elks - the poor animals, but if I were going to shoot and gut and skin one and go to all the trouble of slicing bits of meat off it - I'd go the extra mile and cook it. Fucking filthy feckers, raw elks. And they made us watch a propaganda film of people fishing in the snow, and smiling eskimos and lots of chinese children in Vancouver all plump and happy, and everyone was smiling and no one was eating elk at all, apart from us. I think it was their idea of a practical joke and that afterwards they went inside and lay on the floor howling with laughter "We fed them elk - RAW ELK, those stupid cosmopolitan, Quebec-ignorant fuckers". Well you did not feed me raw elk - my elk is in the flowerbed along with the blob of wasabi you so kindly put on the top, so stick that up your holes.

And then I was talking to this Canadian woman and, tactfully, I didn't mention the elk even though, as you might have guessed, it is still an incredibly sore point with me, and she said to me: "What is your favourite food" and I said "Chips, in french that is frites not chips, french chips are crisps - they call our chips french fries in american". Such a palaver communicating with these people. "OH" she said "Then you will love a very famous dish we have in Canada, it is called Poutine". "Is it a form of chips?" I asked, as I am extremely fond of chips. "Oh it is better than chips" says the Canadian. "You haven't lived until you try it. So just today I found a restaurant giving out about how it makes this dish, this "poutine" thing and I ordered a bowl of it. Dear God, I would eat six shots of mustardy elk rather than one mouthful of that shit. A cereal bowl, filledto the brim with HP sauce, full of soggy chips with cubes of half melted edam on the top. Like a runny turd with huge worms and stones in it - just fucking rank. I don't know if the Canadians have it in for me, or if they have no sense of taste altogether on account of the cold but they are unmitigated cunts when it comes to cooking. Take sandwiches if you go there, they are entirely mental.

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