Thursday, December 18, 2008


American Irony

I went to a party thrown by some Yanks in London. It was good fun - the location was excellent, there was plenty of champagne, and all the Americans there were having an evening off from being boastful cunts, and instead, were trying their hand at self deprecating English humour: "Oh don't worry, we won't go on about how we got independence from you again" or "Not all our holidays are about seceding from the English, you know". And they were very keen to show off how much they knew about Britain: "Oh we love the Lake District!" one of the Yanks said. "We love your trains!", I heard as well - admittedly from a rather chubby, mad-looking woman in a large, grey sack of a dress, who grinned broadly and opened her eyes really wide, every time she spoke, displaying unequal sized pupils. Fuck me - I've been on an American train and it was like the Orient Express compared to the shit that rolls around the UK. One word for her - lithium.

It may have been the champagne, but I decided to ignore the toadying all the Yanks were doing to their British counterparts, and instead, put their sycophantic chat down to charming, if over zealous, diplomacy. My mood changed a little when the food came around. After the Quebec raw elk incident, at foreign parties, I always ask what exactly I am being offered. Like the Quebecois, Yanks are North American - so it is more than possible that what is touring the room, is a raw reindeer bollock smothered in cranberry sauce.

"Would you like some Stilton cheesecake?" said the waitress. "I'm sorry," I said. "What is that actually?" "It's Stilton cheesecake," said the waitress, patiently. "What - like cheesecake the pudding?" "Yes," she said slowly, "Except it's made out of Stilton cheese".

Fuck me, there's fusion food like peking duck sushi, or chicken tikka pizza, which is pretty avant garde, but at least it is a "savoury" alliance, not a mad mixture of main course and pudding. And then there is dirty old shit. Stilton cheesecake. The filthy swine.

One British man had taken a square of the cheesecake, before being told what it was. With the image of Mummy or Matron in his head, reminding him that gentlemen must eat what they touch, the poor man clearly felt obliged to down the thing. He bravely popped the stilton cheesecake in his mouth, his eyes swam with tears for a moment, then he swiftly drained the contents of his champagne flute. I followed the waitress with the cheesecake, at a slight distance, and quickly separated out the savvy Brits, who smiled and waved away the vile tray, from the dopey, florid men, who shovelled the cheesecake in, assuming it was some type of pate on a cracker, and then paused with an expression similar to that on the face of someone on the receiving end of an enema. I didn't notice any Yanks eating it. Happy Holidays, you cunts


Tuesday, December 16, 2008


Nuts - part two

I went to the zoo the other week and saw these lions fucking. The odd thing about it was that they were in the missionary position - the woman lion was on her back with her lower legs spread, the male lion climbed on, and with his back legs in between hers, pumped away quite vigorously for a few minutes, giving a quiet growl here and there, until he came. The woman lion didn't struggle or try and get away, she lay still and seemed to like it well enough. I was pleased for them both, the lions got the ride, and the next time some drippy girl at a party starts "endangered- speciesing" at me, I can tell her that the lions in captivity are doing their bit to keep the lion race going, and I have seen it with my own eyes. Anyway - the reason I am telling you this is because I was very disappointed with the lion's mickey. He had a large swinging pair of balls, lightly covered in a golden fuzz, but his cock was like a little red cone. I know that balls are the bit of the male tackle that provide the swimmers and therefore arguably are the most important part of the genitalia, but I still like a penis to look imposing.

Men talk about shaving their nuts a lot. Ball Bag dithered about doing it a while back, my friend Richard has just trimmed his mangina and my friend Harry regularly shaves all the pubes off his nuts. I asked him why he bothers - it isn't as if he has to strut around in a high cut pair of tanga knickers, and he explained that he shaves his balls thoroughly as he wants women to suck them, and thinks that smooth balls will be a great lure for the ball-sucking lady and she'll be elbowing the pussycat dolls out of the way to get her chops around them.

For the record, gentlemen, women never want to suck nuts - they just don't. They will do it out of pity, for money, to get the reciprocation, or to offer it up, but there are no women who wake up in the morning and think to themselves "Today, I would like to put a ball sack in my mouth". Never. Shaving the hairs off balls makes them no more enticing to lick, just less ticklish -it would not make the difference between nut-sucking, or not nut sucking, the reasons for nut sucking are the ones listed above - nothing to do with smoothness. Anyway most men don't have really long hair on their balls, and if they do - well they might enjoy having them brushed rather than slobbered over.

Monday, December 15, 2008


He Clearly Hasn't Ever Had Any Staff, The Fucking Pleb

Neil Young is a miserable bastard, second only to that po-faced gloom bard, Leonard Cohen. I don't know what it is with these men and their monotonous, tuneless, grim and melancholic songs - why can't they play something with a bit of life to it? Everyone knows music alters the mood and I cannot see why anyone would set out to make themselves suicidal, listening to those depressing old arses. Anyway - it's not only the melody of Mr Young's songs that is getting me down, it's his lyrics as well. "A man needs a maid." I don't fucking think he does, not without thinking the consequences through properly first.

People often think having domestic staff is great and a real help. Well it is in many ways - it is always great not to have to do your cleaning or your ironing - I can't fault that logic. However, having a maid carries with it a serious responsibility as an employer, and effectively if a man were to get a maid, then he would be responsible not only for her salary but also for her professional development, safety at work, as well as listening to any grievances she might have, thinking about Chrsitmas bonuses, dealing with personal problems that impinge on the timing/quality of her work and keeping an eye on his jewellery so she doesn't thieve it. It's all very well for these singers just scribbling down some old shit that pops into the head and setting it to a tune on three notes, and getting a whole load of mindless miserable people to buy it and drone along "A man needs a maid, a maaaaaaiiiiiiid" but it is very irresponsible indeed. Don't listen to him. Think hard before you get a maid, or do your own cleaning you lazy, filthy knackers.


Thursday, December 11, 2008


Non Gender Specific Virus Of The Orthomyxoviridae Family

I've been ill for a week. Before that, I just couldn't be arsed to update the blog, but the last week I've actually been chronic. Coughing up great pieces of stuff, hot and sweating like a bitch, I can't eat and my face has got all thin. My head feels like there are rocks rattling in it, and my naturally olive skin has taken on a paleness to give a ginger person a run for their money.

Given half a chance, I've been cocooned in my house, exhaling bubons and spores only at the walls, sparing the general public my germs - but I really had to go into town yesterday. I don't ever make a fuss about the tube, or all those shopping cunts, or any of the other things people whine about in London - it's always been shit, it's still shit, so doing central London ill, is not significantly worse than doing it healthy.

What I really do object to, in central London, or indeed anywhere at all, is people talking about "man flu". I've heard the phrase before, it's the sort of thing Nuts readers snigger about, in between droning on about naff cars, or dressing like toddlers. Or the kind of thing the Guardian does a hilarious piece on, made a little bit highbrow by some tame doctor wittering on a bit about "brain sex issues" and "male perception of pain", that ends with the crazy columnist either accepting defeat (if he is a man) and admitting that he probably does exaggerate his symptoms a bit, or making a funny comment about some other health-related gender predjudice , but this time in favour of the male sex (if the columnist is a woman). I don't know whether the Guardian have done that or not, but it's the sort of shit they spit out regularly. A little bit pop-culture, a little bit deep - the cunts.

" Ah - you must have man-flu!" said the man on the door of the building I was visiting, as he watched me blow my nose. I smiled, showing him a skein of light green phlegm, stretched across my teeth. Inside the place, a man I passed on the stairs winked at me, as I let rip a consumptive cough, spattering the walls with blood-flecked sputum, and said: "Thank your lucky stars you aren't a man. WE have to suffer Man flu - that can kill you, you know". A woman I was chatting to later, peered closely at my red, sore, upper lip. "You don't look well" she said. "I have the flu." I said. "I wanted to stay at home, but really had to come to today's thing". "Well" she said "If you had man flu, you really wouldn't have been able to make it - man flu is terminal I've heard!". I really fucking hope it is, for two reasons - the first being that when I am dead, no one will talk about the man flu, and all the people who have already talked to me about the man flu will have caught it from me and die too.

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