Christmas Shopping/Purley Way/Croydon/Dog Poo

Right, I know there is a recurring theme of misery and spite across my blogs, fair enough; quite a lot winds me up, my goat is perhaps to easy to get. But generally, I’m a happy chap who can light up a room (like a chip pan fire) or literally suck the life out of it when moody (not like that).

I was a happy chap yesterday, and then it hit me, I have to buy presents; I have to traipse around shops spending money on crap. And then Purley Way happened, and I was sad, and angry. In fact, as a shopping experience, it was like having a large calloused finger stuck up my freezing cold winter bum hole, with no semblance of a lube. Please, read on..

I’d been out late Friday, and spent yesterday morning pratting about trying to do something, anything, to put off the first limp attempt at Christmas shopping. When it passed lunch time I realised I needed to get my skates on, my options were simple, Balham, no shops, Tooting, awful place, about 3 practical shops, Streatham, no, too many reasons to list, Westfield, too far, too busy, too shoppy, Croydon, no Lord, please no, please don’t put me in a position where I HAVE to go to Croydon, the shitty little groups of hip retarded rude boys with half their underpants showing, walking up and down the high street, doing arthritic hand gestures to their “Breadbin” Trashy rude boy worshipping girls slutting up and down, with their greasy hair scraped back so hard their eyes sit on the top of their heads like toads, draped in cheap H Samuel gold, and then the dirty looking pikey men in Lonsdale tracksuits with black under their finger nails and cigarette yellow fingers, walking around with that desperate, I might beg, I might steal look on their faces, and finally the chip pan fat shiny faced most likely single mums using their uterus as a grappling hook to get their fat arses on the property ladder, dragging their poor hapless kids around pound shops only paying them attention to shout expletives at them for doing anything but drag behind them like Indiana Jones behind that train. No, fuck that, thanks though.

I decided I would go to Purley Way, avoiding Croydon center, I knew there was a Toys R Us there, and I could get some of my boys stuff, and there was some other stuff there so maybe Daddy could find some gadget to briefly make himself feel better about the shambles that is his life.

I’d only ever been there once before on foot and it was a nightmare, it had been snowing which had turned to ice, and because Purley Way shopping was designed only for cars, it was a fucking nightmare, not expecting any people on foot nothing was gritted and it was like Mohammed Ali on Ice, and a few times I nearly fell into the stream of cars.

I would plan it better this time; I could go straight to Toys R Us and then straight back onto the tram and home. I departed with this in mind, I never tagged in my Oyster Card, fuck Southern Trains, fuck them hard, and don’t even give them a cuddle after, cunts, I was going out of my zone, but seriously, fuck them, they make my daily commute an abject misery, so no way am I paying for a journey on their shambles train service if I can help it.

I then changed onto the tram and never tagged in again. I like the tram, I genuinely forgot. I got to Ampere Way and saw ticket inspectors, fuck it I thought, and walked past them undetected, only because they were already writing out tickets for about 3 people. Then I went through elephantine Ikea and into the Valley Retail Park. Again, this was designed with purely cars in mind, a token goat track for people ran through the middle, and once you are in, you are in. Another reason why you need a car here is because the shops are about 3 miles apart, and Ikea is about 4 miles wide inside, and you don’t use a shopping trolley, you just drive round with your windows and boot open, it’s the only store with fucking speed cameras and traffic wardens. By the time I had got to the first shop I had nearly been run over several times. I felt rushed and harassed and couldn’t remember where Toys R Us was and walked around the entire retail park trying to find a way out without having to go back trough Ikea. Eventually two blokes who looked like WW2 French resistance fighters told me of a “hole in the wall”; I got through and on a road back up to Purley Way to the next “outbreak” of shops where I was almost run over by gypsies in their cut and shut transit van full of scrap metal (probably stolen) en route to the intentional dump in the area, the rest are purely just through people happy to live amongst their own shit.

I went into Comet, just to see if it was like the advert, all the staff cocking about with the products trying to turn 30 George Foreman fat frying grills into a massive hot keyboard that they play with their faces, all screaming in different octaves. It wasn’t like that (unfortunately), just the usual, dour faced Armand Van Helden bearded twats skulking around in shirts and ties, with the lesser subordinates in polo shirts. Then, there is Argos (named after the Greek god of Catalogues), the concentration processing centre of shops, you have to stand around waiting for something you have never actually seen, apart from in a thumbnail sized picture in a catalogue, its good that you haven’t actually seen it, because what you get is a shattered smashed up with bits missing version of what you was expecting, this is because the low paid staff spend most of their time in the back playing keepy uppies or basketball with all manner of stock, you cant buy presents from here, you cant risk it, to see your nippers face on Christmas day when he opens his toy and its in pieces like Lego, but isn’t Lego and was never supposed to be..

Then it was on to the giant Sainsbury’s, a shop trying to be master of all trades, like Tesco actually is, but failing, a woeful selection of toys at unremarkable prices, same with games and DVD’s and then, finally, on to Toys R Us, which was rammed and I realised I didn’t have a single idea what to buy my 6 year old. I thought for a while about just going out with him and letting him get what he wants (up to a point) as if he is anything like me, I personally don’t like suprises in gifts; I would rather have money, something I want, or even nothing. I’m not ungrateful, I just don’t see the point of a jumper you won’t ever wear (even if it did actually fit), or aftershave that makes your skin come up in blisters. [Yeah, but it’s the thought that counts you ungrateful cunt] Yeah, I thought I told you that Lynx gives me asthma?

I eventually left Purley Way with nothing apart from a bad taste in my mouth and a good idea of what hell was like. The idea of taking my boy out for a shopping trip seeming more appealing. On the way back I had to go through Mitcham, a place so awful that Iraqi immigrants have begged to go home and the cry of “bring out your dead can still be heard on Friday nights), I don’t know anyone from Mitcham who doesn’t hold some sort of Guinness book of records for being a victim of crime, most muggings, longest knife ever held to a throat, fastest pick pocketing. I’m not saying everyone there is bad, but let’s put it this way, if it was consumed by a huge earthquake or flood, I think I’d pull that face, you know the one that you pull when someone really old and doddery dies, and it’s not like you are sad that they are gone, it’s more like a relief?

At Mitcham Junction station and with about 20 minutes until a train dared to come through, I realised I was desperate for a piss. No toilet on the station, probably stolen, no cubby hole to piss in, I wandered out into the nothingness and noticed a path into part of Mitcham Common, famous for its high number of male on male rapes and ventured in. I went down a little slope into a good spot for a long horsey piss and slid down, caught my balance, and slid again, catching my balance once more and undoing most of the work that weeks of physio have done on my back, I did a long steamy winters piss and then realised I had slid on dog or human shit, a massive shrine of it at that. It had gone over the sole of the trainer and up the back and the back of my jeans. For a moment I hated all dogs, but realised that I need to sort my shit out (literally) and started doing the 45 degree scrapes on all manner of things and made my way back to the station. Getting on the train (with the faint aroma of recently trodden on shit in the air) I was glad to be heading back to Balham, to pick up beers and chocolate for a night in, the bleak Flanders Field landscape of Mitcham quickly disappears and I made plans to make sure that at no point I would ever go back.

Balaclavas

I’m writing an entire blog about balaclavas (and ninja weapons), I just want to point out that this is not a bizarre fetish, and I am not some night crawling sex attacker or burglar. There is a story and a meaning here.

When I was a young lad growing up in Streatham, like all the other kids, I had a “cache” of weapons under my bed, ninja stars, tonfa, nunchucks, air pistols, cricket bat (with a nail through it) and best of all, my nuke, a full on Rambo knife with sewing thread in case I ripped my arm open falling of my Raleigh boxer. It also had a compass; I’ve never needed or used a compass in my life.

Sounds a bit odd, but we weren’t little fuckers like today’s heavily armed children, we just used to play “innocent” war games over the common, knifes between our teeth, making bamboo pit traps and building P.O.W camps out of logs, water boarding each other and making IED’s out of fireworks using dog shit for shrapnel, innocent Saturday fun fuelled by wham bars, dip dabs and monster munch, the child equivalent of mainlining heroin.

None of this was helped by the fact that Streatham had two armouries, a choice of places to go to stock up on all manner of weapons from around the world, with men who would happily take childrens pocket money in exchange for crude killing/maiming devices. We would hang around, while blokes tried out shotguns on a live firing range. Not like the little fuckers of today, walking around like they have osteoporosis of one hip, scanning back and forth for people who could potentially be disrespecting them, then quickly stuffing them like a pig with a horrid dagger and then running off in custom Nikes designed to give maximum speed from a new murder scene. Arseholes.

In my cache was an olive green balaclava, a lovely bit of knitwear lovingly designed to keep my large then beardless face warm, leaving only my talking lips exposed and my seeing eyes clear, brilliant, what a superb practical winter idea, I expect originally knitted by a Nanna long before rape and terrorism were invented.

I found it in a box when I was about 17 and sitting around my mums with my waster mates drinking and fucking around on SNES, megadrive etc, it was the middle of winter. I decided that I needed more beer, but the prospect of walking the ¾ miles to the Off Licence was too much and I thought fuck it, I’m going to see if I can walk all the way to shop, and get served in my olive drab coloured balaclava. My mates were wagering with me that the Police would intervene, I doubted this, no, I thought, they would surely know how cold it was and realise that any poor soul out in it unprotected would have a bitingly cold face, and drive on. I left in earnest.

I’d got about 150 meters, not even to the end of my mums road and a Police car pulled over, I saw then, but didn’t think anything of it. “Oy, you” – I turned around and replied to them cordially. “What do you think you are doing?” they said, changing the tone slightly. “I’m going to the off license to buy some beer, I’m going back home and play computer games with my mates” I replied in an honest, but ultimately matter of fact way pointing in the direction of the shop, and then back home. “What are you doing with THAT on” They quizzed, with, in my opinion, an absolute bamboozling lack of common sense, given that it was about minus 2 degrees. “I’m just keeping my face warm” I replied, in an informative tone, telling them about my cold face. “Don’t be stupid mate, take it off” they hissed, in a fucking draconian Naziesque manner. “But what about my cold face” I protested, pointing at the sky, trying to pin point the source of the cold, then gesturing back to my huge wool blend covered face. “Take it off, or I’m going to nick you” they cunted back at me from their mouths, taking the right piss out of my democratic rights (which, correct me if I’m wrong, include the right to keep my face warm?. “Yeah, but what abo..” I realised that if I mentioned my cold face one more time, I would be in the back of the squad car, and my mates would be back at my place, probably finding my stash of mint condition porn. I ripped it off my head and uttered “fuck sake” and they got back in the car and drove off. I was livid, not everyone in an army shade of green 3 holed balaclava is an IRA terrorist, rapist or burglar, I was using it for the reason it was intended, to shield my fucking frequently mentioned cold face.

This has always narked me since then, and I’ve decided to bury this demon, to dispel this chink in the armour of my democratic rights and PROVE once and for all, that a balaclava, is a practical garment which has a real use in this biting cold weather. [How you going to do that Dick?] – Well, I like a pub crawl, I love London, I find balaclavas practical, so I’m going to combine the three. I’m going to see just how friendly London is to a group of people in different balaclavas, and record the results. [Fucking hell Dick, you are 36, this smacks of a mid-life crisis, and attention seeking desperate act from a very single hopeless man crying out for someone, any cunt, to pay him some mind, even if it is just helping him to fill up the form on the public order offence that’s just been committed] – Well, you are sort of right, but the main point is, to show how ridiculous some laws/views are, and my right to not bear my large cold face to the world in winter, and to show how widely we are afflicted by ignorance and paranoia (without turning it into a forum to get into the “Well, how comes she can wear that Burkha” and stuff like that, because I genuinely don’t give a fuck spit about all of that).

I’d like you to be there when I do this, if you are, I also just want you to be aware that you might get shot several times in the face by excitable Police officers from the elite firearms division of SO19, you know the ones, they shot that Brazilian guy 14 times at Stockwell because he was running for a train because he was late for work, and they shot that pissed Barrister bloke in Chelsea about 40 times because he was drunk and missing his ex (and waving a shot gun out of the window).

You can go as far into it as you want and protest the stupidity of some of the places that will refuse to serve you. I’m personally going to try and get a police officer to commit to promising that I can leave if I take it off, and then watch his face when I reveal an auxiliary one underneath. Or you could draw one on, I don’t know, use your imagination. You will though, experience alienation from society, and will know, briefly what it feels like to be a leper, or a male with really ginger hair.

Anyway, this is not to waste police time, I wouldn’t dream of doing that, I know how busy they are defending our country against erm bad drivers, litter louts, and errant dog owners with their anally anarchic dogs shitting hither and tither (?)**

It’s heartening to see that Amazon.co.uk has 4 pages of balaclavas, starting from £2, you could also, if you wanted to look less conspicuous, wear a leather gimp mask, remembering to unzip the mouth piece when you speak, even if it’s just to say OW, when you are cracked over the head by a truncheon.

(This is actually me at about 12 with THAT balaclava on, the gun isn’t real…)

Trains, no planes and erm, elephantiasis of the balls?

Right, it’s Monday 15 November and I’m peed off again, more than usual. [Why you fat useless cunt?] Well, let me tell you. I was cruising along nicely last week, lovely weekend with my son, everything ok. My shit week started on Wednesday when some absolute chump of a bloke practically rugby tackled me in London Bridge station, we were both rushing, but he was just being a fucking cunt. Probably an angry single failure in life, a manlette who likes to take his frustration out on poor unsuspecting people who probably wont fight back. [Much like me!] I wasn’t in the mood, weeks of frustration from travelling on the sub third world Southern Train service had left me pent up though.

I looked to this bloke for something, an apology, a nod of the head, just a simple sign to acknowledge that he had been a complete cunt, all I got was a “fuck you” I had my walkman* on, so I shouted at him, “You fucking cunt” – He turned around, and I got a few tuts from other commuters, he said “what”, then saw the madness in my eyes, “You fucking cunt” I replied, a little bit louder. He thought about it for a while, and turned and walked. I had won the most pathetic battle of two minor rutless stags in the field of life. Our tiny antlers almost locking, I watched him walk off and saw a major patch of male pattern baldness, and it crossed my mind to bring this to his attention loudly, and then add that I expected he wanked off over borderline child porn. I could have just walked away, but instead, a little bit louder, just shouted “YOU FUCKING CUNT” – a few more tuts, I never looked back, I wouldn’t have been able to handle the embarrassment had he come back.

I don’t know what would have happened if me and this other prick had come to blows, I’ve never had a proper fight as a fully grown adult, I’ve had a few drunken wrestles and I grew up taking punches on the face and eyes from my Lennox Lewis sized brother. The thing that troubled me about this was the reaction of my adrenaline gland. It goes two ways, turns you into a village pillaging rock of pure meat, or a trembling hand-tard, a fighting sponge. I think this is your body preparing for a beating instead of being the beater.

A lot of my rage, as I say, comes from travelling with Southern Trains. I wouldn’t do this but for the inhumanity of travelling on the Northern Line. I’ve blogged before about tube travel, so search for that, I won’t go into it again. Southern though, are a bumbling shambling stuttering teetering demented excuse of a company. How they got a rail franchise is beyond me, they are the Lenny Henry of rail travel, they are the Audley Harrison of commuting.

Anyway, the only saving grace is that there is a level of dignity on the train I catch, mostly because no cunt who gives a rats arse about their job would trust it on this fucking Sunday steam hobbyist farce, which leaves it sometimes blissfully empty, albeit pathetically late each day for a string of pathetic reasons, leaves, wind, drizzle, a rare fox near the line, etc.

On these protracted rage inducing train journeys I always encounter some of the things that fuck me off, firstly snifflers, people with a drip of snot perilously between a sneeze and sucking it back up, it just hangs there in nasal purgatory, with regular pathetic snuffs and sniffs, the snuffer/sniffer oblivious to the small pockets of rage building around them.

Then, and possibly worse are people who turn the pages of their newspaper really hard on the train, they know they are doing it because they look around every time when they do it, then they lick their finger in an exaggerated manner before doing it again, ahhhrghh, they should, once a month, sound a klaxon on the train and the invincible super Mario music plays and I can run around the carriage with a HUGE plumbers mallet, smacking the fuck out of everyone who has even remotely annoyed me, 45 seconds later, the music stops, the mallet disappears and I look open jawed at the twitching and shattered bodies, disjointed skulls with bits of brain coming out the available holes, and then, I regret my rage and flick into first aid mode, hoping to unfuck some of my murderous rampage, just as I do, the cunt with the sniffle tries to sniffle his fucking brain back in, and it begins again. Dud dud daa, dud dud, da la la laa… etc…[I might need help].

Another thing that annoys me, but is not restricted to my daily train hell, are thick people, thickos, dumb dumbs, skulltards, divs. They are everywhere, and don’t get me wrong, they are important, man wouldn’t have discovered most of the poisons on the planet if it wasn’t for the thick skulled knowledge numbed fucks.

They also serve a purpose as mates, checking if the ice is thick enough to walk over on the pond etc.

In certain situations, thick people can be infuriating, and example of this was when I was watching the cube the weekend just gone, a quiz show that basically takes the fundaments of basic cranial development and gives the person the chance to win money for completing tasks such as counting to five, or walking 10 metres with no eyes. This woman was on, she had scarlet red hair and huge eyes, save the hair, she was actually quite cute, but I watched her, open jawed, as she repeatedly failed to be able to count to 5, finally getting it right with one life left, and then going through to the next round to try and walk across a beam, falling off after the challenge of putting one foot in front of the other proved to be too hard.

Shocking, it made me wonder if big eyes were actually a sign of dumbness, a chance for the thickos brain to interpret things in more detail giving them the best chance of survival and another day to hopefully be impregnated, or indeed impregnate someone of a far higher intellect. [A car, a car is coming, it’s a car, it’s definitely a car, you should do something, do something, it’s a car] The drooling wally getting a valuable heads up to finally work out that the car will not pass through their body like a gas. Bless this girl’s heart though; she was probably just put on the show for a giggle. She is probably outside her house right now staring at a handful of keys, and then the door, then the keys, then the door, slowly getting hypothermia.

To add a nice topping to my rage cake, I almost lost my job last week, and still might, It was shocking and humiliating being lined up against the wall and made to wait 24 hours to find out if I still had a job, I have, but I’m not sure if I want it now, I’m a very principled person with a strong sense of loyalty, if that’s tested then that’s usually it. Anyway, what’s the point? Well, I’m looking for another job now, and my computer at work is being a fucking cunt. I was looking at a job online at and half way between doing something to apply and my boss walked in, I went to shut it down, I tried clicking like I was playing track and field and the fucking thing asked me if I was sure I wanted to do that? Like fucking Hal from 2010. Of course I’m fucking sure, my boss has just walked in?

Another time this stuttering inhumanity of computers nearly cost me dearly was several years ago, I was bored, but busy, and my mate had sent me a PowerPoint slide-show, I couldn’t tell what it was, normally the office spam wankers are kind enough to give you a hint in the text, nothing, I usually just delete these, but given my heightened state of boredom I clicked it open and begun the slide show. It wasn’t porn, as a very small part of me had hoped, but was in fact a collection of genital mutations, cock and fanny Frankenstein’s, I slowly clicked through, disgusted, but intrigued. Suddenly, my old boss, who just happened to hate every cell in my body, stormed in the office and towards my desk, I had about 3 seconds to act, I just pressed my hands down on the keyboard, nothing, I tried to decide if it would be a good idea to just turn the monitor off completely, sadly 3 seconds is not long (as my ex will confirm) and my boss closed in on me, the screen was frozen on an Ethiopian looking man with elephantiasis of the ball sack.

The only decision I had to make now, was to explain to my boss why the space hopper balled man was on my screen, I ran through the options in my head including just dropping the sender in it (not my style) or a virus (I don’t know enough about computers to explain how it happened, erm, I was looking at porn and this balls man happened). Instead, on seeing her open jawed bulldog chewing a wasp face starting at my screen, I simply blurted out, like fucking Del Boy, “that’s awful that innit”. She walked back out of the room and I awaited my fate. If computers were more humanised they would shut down when every key is hit, the only reason this ever happens is through sheer panic or the user dying and smashing down on the keyboard, either way, shut down, if it is a cadaver, the last thing you want to do is saddle the surviving family with a big electricity bill.

Are you reading Microsoft? I’m a computer, I am windows 7.

* Any device that is portable and plays music directly into my mind is a walkman, ok?

Tuesday, Fireworks, Small talk, winter, hippos

Oh, it was firework night, ohhhh, wooooo, waaaa, ahhhhhhhhh-rsols. Yes, arseholes. I despise firework night and have done since I was a small child, memories of my late Dad talking me over tooting bec common, duty bound, while I stood there watching the crest of the crowd, willing an errant firework to cascade into the wooing and oohing fucking gawping open jawed bang happy fawke faces, thanks Dad, I would have rather stayed in, watch you get drunk and smash the kitchen up, wooo, ahhhh, fuck, 999… I got my wish one year, a HUGE firework went off in the crowd, I rubbed my little 8 year old hands. Cheers.

I don’t get why we ‘celebrate’ failure, failure to blow a bunch of lying grasping cunts up. We should be lining up to do this today; the party would be immense if someone did the money shot, and blew the fuckers up. I’d rather have the army in charge than these out of touch thieving lying slippery fucks. It’s like celebrating the failed attempt to blow Hitler up. Another cunt.

Home displays, a wretched attempt to bring the family together, standing in the cold with your Asda £20 box fizzing and ejaculating tiny little poofs of colour into the sky, and all while your red letter final demands build up. Then, you get the wanker families or house sharers who don’t generally care about anyone else, who start their display at about 1am, the latest firework this year that woke me up was 5.15am, it was either that, or some poor soul finally finding the courage to spray his grey matter all over his ceiling.

My own experiences with fireworks as a young lad were fun I guess, they seemed to be bigger then and more dangerous, you know you have bought good shit when it has a ‘megatonnage’ on the packet and a picture of post mushroom cloud Hiroshima.

We would make IED’s out of these and dog shit, a couple of old school bangers were enough to send a reasonably large fresh Alsatian shit about 3ft into the air, blowing fragments of potentially blinding turd shrapnel into any watching child's eyes. We also used advanced aeronautical techniques to get them to fly horizontally like R.P.G’s and attempted to blow the office of Tooting Bec running track up, the guy inside diving to the floor and the look on his face as a display class rocket exploded on the window leaving us sprinting and laughing at the same time.

Another time I watched in horror as a ‘mate’ blew his eyebrows clean off while setting fire to the innards of about 20 fireworks on a breeze block (while shielding the powder from the wind)... When the smoked cleared he looked like Art Garfunkel on strong Chemo with his new permed fringe which started half way over the back of his head.

Now as a proper adult, the type who tuts at the mere sight of groups of youths, I meander through streets as little as possible, gliding through the shadows like one of the Frank family in WW2, avoiding this time of year as much as possible, while gene restrained fucking pot faced greggs eating idiots do far worse than we used to, and combine the explosive burning properties of a firework with the surgical accuracy of a blade during ‘Harry Potter’ style muggings with the magic of fireworks. Ban it, ban fireworks, ban ill conceived uneducated children, clear the fucking streets for me on November the 5^th.

While we are at it, another thing that’s really flicking my ball sack at the moment is small talk, pointless chatter in situations that are seemingly too awkward for certain types of people, lifts, entrances, smoking areas, train platforms, queuing etc.

I don’t feel the need to talk to other humans at the best of times (unless I have had a beer or some sort of sexual encounter with them at some point).

Most chatty strangers are either high on drugs, usually on the up from anti depressants, are angling to rob or rape you, or take advantage of you in some way, chat your pin number out. Ok, some might be genuine, but being forced down eating a mouthful of grass on Clapham common while your poor arsehole is being pummeled by a burly turker is no way to find out that you have literally been taken for a ride. No, fuck off, don’t talk to me, I’ve usually got my headphones on, or I’m reading, or I’m thinking about a film idea, or I’m thinking about an ex finding out she has the worse type of herpes, or I’m imagining kicking an authority figure in my life through a solid wall. One of those things, please don’t feel the need to bond with me because the train we are both waiting for is late again or we are both hopelessly sucking on a cigarette because its an excuse to leave work for 5 minutes.

The worst type of small talk is when you get in a lift from a rain storm when you were the only cunt out without a brolly and some prick has to say it, ‘Ohh, did you get wet’ or ‘Nice weather for ducks’ – Hold it in, for fuck sake. After a Tsunami, oh did you get wet, did you lose everything, your children, all your possessions, tutting sympathetically.

Fuck small talk fuck human bonding, the time for that has gone, end of days, the cycle to zero, the rapture, everyman for himself, judgement day, call it what you like, but don’t start trying to be ‘one’ with me now, shove it up your arse, society has gone to rack and ruin, I’m in my trench with my tin hat on, so fuck off. In fact, the next prick who tries to small talk me, I’m going to explain the above with the end of the world scenario. (Erm, this doesn’t apply if you are a nice girl, talk to me about anything, periods, I don’t care) (Oh fuck it, talk to me, I’m just a miserable old fucker, I’ll appreciate it) (Unless you do want to fuck my bum on Clapham Common)

Changing the subject massively, thank god. I recently wrote a 3 part blog about my trip to Kenya. I recently got my pictures back from an ex, and going through these I realised how close I got to Hippos/death. Leafing through these I realised just how hard a Hippo is, a Lion will kill you and attempt to eat you, same deal with a shark, but a bear will usually chew your face/hands/feet/balls off, but then, keep you alive using advanced surgical techniques and go off with its paws in the air pleading its innocence like a bad footballer, while you are left to appear on American chat shows looking like a burger bun, horrible.

A hippo though, makes a bear attack seem like a knock down Ginger. Hippos are masters of pain and torture, they will dance around you like that fucker in reservoir dogs and keep you alive for ages. Juggling you up and down on their god awful tusks, moon walking up and down your lower body, stopping to administer life saving drugs to keep you alive for the next bout of torture. Eventually leaving you looking like sausage filling. Even your dental work is ground into a paste, the DNA is shattered, you look like quorn. The bereaved family not knowing whether to have an open casket or serve you up with Ragu.

Such a terrible creature packaged up in such a cute body. They are the face of hungry hippo’s and of course hippopotamousse. If they knew this, if they found out, they would get on planes and hunt the cunts down, probably applying a thin layer of lipstick and standing on street corners like hookers, getting the Chambourcy marketing cunt in a motel room and then revealing their true beastly identity, smashing their human body into crumbled disprin. Right vengeful cunts. I think they deserve the accolade of most hard creature on the planet. They have no enemy, even Crocodiles fear then, they would kill a lion, shit it. The only time Lions have attacked a hippo is when it was coming back from a night club after a massive bender. Cowards.

Its Tuesday, and I am drinking whiskey, the best kind of whiskey (free).

Un-themed general fuck offery

Bad mood today, sorry in advance.

Certain things really fuck me right off, but I still keep coming back for more. Relationships for starters, I’ll not lie to you, I like women, but I hate the rigmarole involved in trying to get “Indiana Jones into the cave” all the dates, and mindless fucking chit chat, its like a job interview for your cock.

I’m not, or course, talking about an intelligent girl, the sort of girl you marry or bring home to your Parents, not the kind of girl who has a job to be proud of, funny, strong willed, independent minded, no, I’m talking about the type of girls I meet…(If anyone I have ever penetrated is reading this, I’m only joking, the only girl it could remotely apply to, is far to ‘fick’ to log on to the internet, and if you have done so, good on you girl, you’ve done well for yourself, oh… but to anyone who is intelligent, and HAS STILL allowed me to penetrate them, two points, erm, shame on you girl, shame on you, and two, generally, I didn’t enjoy our time together. I would switch off when you spoke to me about any subject. And when I did that thing where my left eye went slightly bossed, it was because I was thinking about the next episode of the Nigerian version of Bergerac that runs in my mind every night, or an idea for pork tobacco, or some other shit that was runefully* more important than the crap you were spouting**

* Made up word, but means mystically/magically so

**Sorry, My balls directly dictated this to me and made me write to verbatim.

Something (other than one of my ill conceived relationships) has gone tits up, one of the loves of my life. Borough Market, I used to go there years ago for a pint of cider, pie and mash and a sing song. Ok, it was always a bit “cheekily” priced, but it goes with the love and care and clean produce that you are duped into thinking goes into its wares. Now however, the place has gone from a lovely girl next door type, to some whored out botoxed fuck dog being jack hammered up every hole.

I still visit, at least once a month, the jostling has got too much, I wouldn’t mind if there was a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, but it just seems like mostly fucking idiots with too much money to spend, hypnotised into queuing for 10 minutes to buy some wanky tomatoes on the vine, grown on the grounds of an old concentration camp, or a small falafel wrap, for about a fiver, fuck off mate, I don’t care if you are a sixth generation falafel roller, a fiver buys you a termite mound of falafel, its fucking saw dust and water for fuck sake?

Or a bag of dried ostrich eye lashes or some thinly slice guilt, bagged up directly from a children’s home in Jersey. I sat eating a massive £5 sausage bap, ok, it was seal pup sausages or some shit like that, I was a bit hung-over, but I just sat and watched and saw “ugly” people in a zombie like state with money burning holes in their pockets. Rich Russians with puckered up wives and toy dogs in expensive bags, herds of “dickheads”, boyfriends so meek that they haven’t the strength of character to tell their silly girlfriends that their oversized dayglo coloured lenseless glasses make their silly Ellie Goulding face look even more like a crescent moon. You can imagine the bloke in the relationship, standing in front of a retro mirror trying to place that silly angler fish bit of hair in the right spot, while the girl does everything she can to look like the sort of person who would get the shit kicked out of them in the 80’s playground [Hey, wait a minute Dick, you fat fuck, its good for people to take care over their appearance, just cos you let the weather style you and still dick around like a fat cousin of one of the Gallagher brothers and have done since 1995, and what’s wrong with freedom of expression, why cant you just accept people for how they are, why should you even care man?] Fuck off voice of reason; I’ve had a bad day, Jesus, who would read your blog? Straight up accepting fucking inner bleeding heart lefty fuck, fuck geek chic, fuck Hoxton Twats, fuck Borough Marker (not the cider bloke, I want him to be my new Dad), AND FUCK YOU [Hey, fuck off fatso, enjoy sleeping alone tonight].

Another thing that annoys me (today) are titles that are not warranted, Great Yarmouth? Erm, nothing great about it, apart from when you are leaving, unless you like sand, and turd in equal amounts.

And “Fun Fair”, no, the fair ceased being fun when it was too dangerous to have arcades, kids getting stabbed over street fighter 1, and since the internet when your various cons where uncovered.

I took my 6 year old son to Brighton the weekend and we were on the pier, I watched his little face as he pumped 2p’s into one of them shove machines in an attempt to win a valueless piece of made in China choke hazard toxic shitty key-ring in the shape of a football. His little body shook with excitement and his fists clenched as the coin dropped down, sending, occasionally a tiny cascade of one or two coins onto the next level, again, he shook with excitement and anticipation only to see his coins crushed into the pile of coins that were defying physics and probably held down with an industrial magnet. I’d worked out it would have cost £78 in two pence coins to bag this key fob [Years later: So, tell me how your gambling addiction began, well, I was in Brighton and…]

The other thing that fucks me off at the fair are then silly machines with the metal feeble Grannies arthritic hand of a claw, 50p a go and its supposed to pick up a 4ft Buzz Light-year, or some other oversized physically impossible toy. The claw will, when the counter inside says its scoffed enough coins, pick up the toy with a half ounce of strength and then attempt to move the item to the collect tray, only to drop it with the same effeminate lack of effort as Mark Almonds hand grasping round the 10th or 12^th cock during that legendary urban myth group cock suck that hospitalised him (allegedly). The other thing that annoys me about fun fairs are the rides, and people, the lights, the music, the bad paintings of celebrities on the sides of the rides, everything, humbug.

Another thing, which promises so much, and then is a complete let down, are the following stores, TK Maxx. I am a regular frequenter of TK Maxx for the simple reason that some time ago I brought a pair of Adidas shell tops, special editions for about £15, they were great, I realised some months later that they were on offer because after a month of wearing they would start to smell like bloated war dead. Oh well I thought, if you are that close to my feet and you are not sucking my dick, then fuck you. (I didn’t really think that, but it sounded cool inside my brain). The trouble with TK Maxx is, although the offers are great, a genuine good offer is hard to find, its like a labelled marshalled massive jumble sale, nothing is where it should be. I was at the trainers at the size 10’s and saw a shoe there, in the 10’s that was about the size of a two man canoe. I still picked it up and checked the label, because I am a complete fucking idiot, but it was in the 10’s so as far as I am concerned it was a 10, in the end I found a decent 10 in the 6’s etc. I guess it comes with the bargains, to expect anything other than abject anarchy would be taking the piss.

Another store I love, but then hate, is Sports Direct, a fucking mish-mash of bargains and mostly a queue of about 400 generally Eastern Europeans, stocking up on tracksuit tops and clothes generally worn by that bloke in Grand Theft Auto 4.

The final store that I hate, and just hate, is Currys, I am including PC World in this too as its owned by the same soulless bunch of cuntlings. I don’t want this blog to run too long, so it’s going to be hard to summarise my hatred, but price fixing, bogus sales, biased sales staff, cockiness, smugness. You go into a PC World and see if you can get some sales assistance in less than 45 minutes. 45 Minutes sometimes to get some thin chinstrap bearded fuck hole to open a cupboard for you, only to tell you that the sale item is out of stock, surprise surprise.

I’ve had run ins with them for years, I was even 15 and had it out with the manager of the then Dixon’s about the consumer act. He was surprised at my geeky knowledge, but the louder I got in front of the other customers, the quicker he replaced my product (It was a Snes!), that he had previously said was not in stock. Fucking little cunt, I hope this bloke is in Prison right now, the only stock being checked are turds in his arse before his cell mate, who just happens to be endowed to almost equine proportions, inserts a small piece of wood into his mouth and buggers him until he tears.

Right, I’m done now, Ps, I was only joking about my ex’s, you were actually ALL cunts*

*I’m only kidding

No I’m not.

Kenya – Everything wants to kill me – Part 3

We were absolutely knackered back at the hotel for the final part of our holiday, lazing on the beach (if we could break the looky looky men, and sitting waiting to find out if we had contracted Malaria by inadvertent sweating which would probably be indistinguishable from the other inadvertent sweating I was doing.

When we booked the trip we realised we would have to have inoculations, there isn’t one of course for Malaria, you are faced with two simple tablet choices, tablet 1, this does prevent Malaria, but causes massive schizophrenia in the majority of people who take it, or, tablet 2, which absolutely doesn’t work, but does cause upset stomachs, but no long term mental illness, weighing up the options, we both went for option 2. I’d, being a cunt, had given up taking these after day 2, but the ginger ex had regimentally stuck to the tablet taking and thankfully the drab Kenyan hotel food was not spraying out of her like that owl necked bitch in the exorcist.

In keeping with our efforts to not catch Malaria, we had sprayed deet and insect repellent around the room, about a can of each every night, and although we would most certainly at some point die of lung cancer, but should hopefully now not catch the dreaded Malaria. With the amount of chemicals we were spraying each night it would have been a miracle if anything had lived in that room.

We went down for our evening meal. In the first week we were there, we had noticed these old hags sitting around, drawn, gaunt and colourless ugly hybrids, a perfect cross between the greyness of Pauline Fowler, and downright haggardness of Dot Cotton, and the age too.

The chain smoking suck marks around their cheeks indicated the type of people they were, probably all on about 100 a day, they were down, in their “glad rags” and were “entertaining” some rather young, worried looking nubile and virile Kenyan men. I don’t know what the deal was with this group but when one of the old slags urged one of the Kenyan lads to “eat up, you are going to need all your energy”, I almost puked my soul out.

An attempt to make eye contact with the group was futile, they were too busy looking at each other and giving faint signs that whatever the bounty was for what was going to happen to them, was probably worth it in Kenyan terms. To put this into perspective, I could not have spent the night pumping one of these lifeless whore husks and the thought of their sun blushed leathery labia spread out in front of me, and the probable use of foul sexual language that was bound to accompany an attempt to send a derisory pleasure signal up one of these nympho nannas would cost the equivalent of one hundred grand. No less.

Finding it hard to swallow, we finished out meal and went back to the room, waving through the chemical fog, tears streaming (which wasn’t unusual for her), and had routine sex.

Waking in the morning we went down to the breakfast room, no mosquito bites, another day we had fought and won with our chemical shock and awe tactics (and probably the sight of my arse cheeks pumping away on the poor ginger lass were enough to put any beast off, save perhaps a Hippo that could have quite easily mistaken my rear for that of a potential mate).

On entering the dining area, we were greeted by the same group of pervy pensioners and the same group of young men, but looking decidedly different, and a great deal of d words, distressed, dishevelled, done in, degraded, disenfranchised, drubbed, and defiled. The look on their face was something that I have only ever seen shortly after the green house scene in Scum.

The lads ate their breakfast fast, probably to replenish the vital juices sprayed and sucked out by the biddy bastards, and probably, also to get the taste of cigarette smoke and old hag minge out of their mouths. Again, they could not make eye contact with me for more than a fraction of a second, the international bond that exists between all men world wide had been broken here, nobody should feel forced to fuck Miss Marple, not even for money. Poor fuckers, where was amnesty international on this breach of human rights?

On further research we found out that Male prostitution is quite a fair trade in Kenya and these young men can make a quick buck driving Miss Daisy (literally).

We were going out on a day trip into Mombassa centre, I was really looking forward to this, I get a buzz out of just doing really mundane city things in any city that I am in, to be transported into the mundane day to day life of the folks whose country I am visiting. We were going to get a chance to go around the town, but also visit an old fort, touristy bollocks.

We waited outside the hotel and I was charmed, and drawn in by two hanging oriental style hanging lanterns, I walked towards them, to admire them, as I got close I realised just the magnitude and breadth of my absolute committal to being a naïve fucking idiot, when it turned out these “lamps” were in fact two huge and venomous spiders with the biggest indication on their backs that they would send me into a drooling tetraplegic mess, the red marks on their backs said the same thing in every language know to any inhabitant of earth. “I will fuck you up” – Despite this I still managed to taunt them both with a stick and force them to bear their Ken Dodd teeth and charge their laser weapons and go to def con 1, I brought a platinum membership to the cunt club and I was going to get my moneys worth. (I’d earlier, on the safari, come close to jumping out of the Toyota to punch a sleeping Lion on the ball sack, to briefly claim the title of king of the beasts, I was quite angry that this lazy creature had been handed the crown and had not proved itself against all beasts. A hippo would fuck a lion up, no argument or debate, thankfully and due to bad planning, I didn’t go ahead with this mission, I do plan to return to Africa to claim my title, while David Haye and the like contest the heavyweight boxing title, I’ve always aimed higher, Lion first, Polar bear after, fucking complacent cunts).

We returned to our hotel room to find an invite under our door to a celebration of Kenya evening, we decided we would go, it was that or table tennis. It turned out that these invites were handed out randomly to hotel guests across the area, like Willy Wonka golden tickets, but shitter. We dressed up and got on the mini bus with the other couple of couples from our hotel that had got a ticket and set off to fuck knows where for fuck knows what..

It wasn’t long before the Northerner couldn’t hang on to his racist stereotype of Africa, and started bleating that we would get out to the middle of nowhere and be killed and cooked in a huge pot by men with bones sticking out of their noses and started quoting lines from ‘Zulu’. This thought had not crossed my mind. I did start to wonder about our safety when after about 45 minutes the van was driving with the lights off in the middle of nowhere.

Bumping away we could see the lights of a distant fire and the van pulled over and we all got out and walked towards some deep chanting. It suddenly went a bit “Indiana Jones” and I hoped that they would eat my ex first and be happy with that, unlikely as she was vegetarian and quite slight.

We went into a clearing and were greeted with an amazing sight, Massai Warriors lined up holding spears aloft. Shitting ourselves we walked under them, my amazement thankfully outweighed the fear and we found ourselves in an amazing outdoor area with stages, seating and local delicacies being cooked around us, dancing and traditional Kenyan song, it was quite amazing, and I felt honoured and indulged myself into the evening. I made my way round the food and my vegetarian ex was catered for. Sitting down and enjoying the various entertainment I was suddenly interrupted by the sound of my ex making a strange noise. She suddenly vomited Kenyan delicacies out of her nose and mouth at the same time. I grabbed my plate and spun out of the way like a culinary Neo, seething the words, “for fuck sake” and looking at her with disgust. It appeared it was at this point that her body decided to reject the mosquito medicine.

The next day was our last and we had decided on two things, we would walk down the beach and challenge the looky looky men and the drug dealers; we would also get spectacularly drunk in the evening.

We walked down the beach and within moments I was approached by a “dealer” – The trick here was to fool a western tourist to buy some weed, an awaiting policeman would make himself known and threaten you with arrest unless a HUGE bribe was paid. The prick came up and started his patter, I told him I didn’t want to buy his weed, he asked me why and I told him I was a copper in England, the guy literally shat himself and ran off, telling as many of the beach pricks that I was a cop. I felt really good about myself, until I suddenly realised that I was never more than 2ft from a razor sharp machete. I quickened my pace, ready to use my ginger ex as a staff to block any swipes from machete. We made it back to the hotel and down to the dining area to commence the mission to get mega drunk.

We decided to be as local as possible and begun drinking the local Papaya wine, which was nice, a bit like sour and out of date Rubicon. We moved onto beers and spirits and eventually had hit our target of being incalculably drunk. We tried to play table tennis and entertain ourselves with the simple hotel facilities but ultimately went back to the room to try and use my “simple entertainment facility”. We had been through our regimental crop spraying of the room before we went out thankfully.

We entered the room, and feeling the effects of copious amounts of booze I decided to do a “romantic” somersault onto the bed. I ran, and did this, my legs flailing in the air; I caught the mosquito net mechanism and tore this completely out of the ceiling. We tried to fix this but it was not possible, it had completely ripped out. My ex was having a go at me, but we just had to spray more chemicals under the door and around the windows. How bad it would have been to have got this far, and then got the Malaria. It would have been the most costly somersault since Christopher Reeve did one off that horse…

We had made it through Kenya without being bitten, stabbed, shot, eaten, trod on, raped or murdered, we were also unaffected by humans which was cool too! The final hurdle was the fucked up seat of your pants 9hr flight back, even the Wright brothers wouldn’t have boarded this cunt. We got on and I stared to routinely tranquilise myself with booze. No possibility of sleep on this flight. We eventually got back into British air space and I started to get ready to do my cocky thing on landing in which, when I can see a car or van, I assume I can survive the crash and get all confident and complacent, no realising that a plane crashing on any height is almost certain death, especially aboard this 70’s farce.

We started to circle the landing zone of Heathrow waiting for a slot to bring this retro piece of shit down, around and around we circled, the pilot giving us reassurance that there were problems at Heathrow and not to worry, we would not run out of fuel. This to me meant surely that we were low on fuel and I started to panic, I looked out of the window and could make out Richmond Park and Wimbledon Common, given this, I scaled things through and was looking basically right where I lived at the time. Circling endlessly, I lost my rag and grabbed a steward and pulled him down hard to my seating level and demanded, in a growling drunken Oliver Reed voice, “Land the fucking plane!”, my ex gave me daggers, I looked and her, stared and grabbed the seat handle so hard and pulled on it that the cover broke off to reveal wires and the gubbings from the headphone socket. My ex gasped in shocked and told me that I was bound to be charged for the damage. “Fuck it”, I hissed, “The plane is a fucking write off”.

We landed and I left the plane cursing. We got home and despite a lovely “eventful” holiday, the relationship was on the ropes, I’d recently lost my dad suddenly and was having a reassessment of my life, to have had run ins with all sorts of beast, and, in my mind, near death experiences, including two weeks after we returned a Kenyan air internal flight crashed killing all on board, I didn’t have the heart to check if it was our flight that broke down on take off. All in all, it made me realise the fragilities of life and decided to start afresh. (We got Prague in first before it ended though) bless her little heart.

My love and thirst for Africa was slaked for now, and in the words of Arnold Schwarzenegger, I declared to the continent. "considah this a divoooorce" – Not really, I meant of course, “I’ll be back”

Kenya –Everything wants to kill me – Part 2

Me, and my ginger ex are on a Safari at this point, battering and twattering around Kenya in a converted Toyota van, a vehicle so tough, that it would survive a nuclear holocaust, (along with G shock watches, scorpions, rats and old hard drives). The driver was very old, and one of the most experienced tour guides, I didn’t give a shit about this, his Morgan Freemanesque old face meant one thing to me, more likely to have a heart attack and leave us stranded in Wildlife on One without Attenborough and subsequently eaten and raped by all manor of beastage

After several miles of rickety off road we stopped and the driver calmly informed us that we had a flat tyre. Because of the searing heat we all left the vehicle and were milling about in scrub land, I was suddenly hypnotised by some small swirling little dust whirlwinds and moved away to try and take a picture. Eventually I got about 50 meters from the vehicle, and then turned to watch the guy changing the tyre. Suddenly I realised I’ve got bush behind me and had a horrible creeping feeling that something was coming towards me, to either eat me, or mate with my bum, the feeling was unreal, I was too scared to turn around. I walked fast back towards the vehicle with my arsehole chattering like Dot Cotton overloaded with service washes, the fag hanging out of this mouth for the sake of this analogy was a turdlette. I’ll never know if something was coming for me, I don’t want to know, but that feeling was unreal.

We got to our first stop off, the wonderful Salt lick lodge. A bit posh for me, but I wasn’t going to complain. We were told in advance the wonder of this places watering hole, creatures would flock from miles around to drink. I was excited and my child like brain was conjuring up Jurassic park images.

We went to the bar and then eagerly made our way to the watering hole, the Brummies, that had booked on to our trip were starting to irritate me with the drooling accents, hanging on vowels like they were precious objects, “eye wunder ef wye wil see an ippopotimoose?” etc, bless em. We got to the platform around the huge watering hole and I think I was the first to say it, “What the fucking fuck?” there was nothing there, tell a lie, there was a couple of ducks, normal ducks, white ducks, yellow beaks, standard fare. I was gutted, thousands of miles to see a fucking standard average run of the mill plain Jane hum drum duck, I imagined its beak as I squeezed the life out of it and my ginger still un-tanned ex whipped up some plum sauce and we shredded this now roasted cunt into little wraps with cucumber.

In my disgust I turned my back on the watering hole, and started doing what I normally do when I am disappointed, power drinking (well, that or wanking). We all chatted with our backs to the now disappointing watering hole, which was now technically a pond in Wanstead, and drank, and we all talked about our lives. A little while later we heard a twig snap behind us, but thought nothing of it being pre-unimpressed with the fucking duck, then, eventually that feeling came back, that something was behind us, slowly, turning around, we all simultaneously “fucked me’d” – There was about 30 Elephants all round the watering hole, drinking and starting to bathe, cutting through the obvious wonderment of such a positively packed posse of partying pachyderms, I couldn’t help but feel a bit shit that they had managed to creep up on me, the largest beast on land, I felt like a bit of a cunt actually, and felt my balls shrinking as I lost about 25 man points and instantly started to ssslur my ssss’s, like Dale Wintonsss.

Phase 2 of the safari saw us bumping bumbling and blundering up towards the Tanzanian Border, where the guide warned us that groups of Bandits were rife in the area, and were known to strip idiot tourists to their boxer shorts, and leave them in the middle of nowhere with nothing. Great, I thought, as my sad life yet again flashed before me, this would be it; this would be how I died. I imagined that the bandits would shoot us for sure because of the annoying Brummies, their accent and general man-handling of language is offensive the world over, even to those tribes for whom a clicking noise means about 300 different things. Lenny Henry, I rest my case.

We drove up to a checkpoint. It was rickety and looked like something the A-Team van would smash through on a Saturday night while I watched with my nanna. It was a bandit checkpoint I wagered. All of a sudden, men came out of the red dusty mist, armed to fuck with AK47’s, the weapon of choice for Bandits and hostage rapers the world over. Fucking hell I thought, I moved my ginger ex in front of me, holding her almost like an offering, take her a-cups, take them, and do what you will with them, but don’t hurt me, I’m born to do great things, like sit on twitter the night over peddling some shit for soul blog to any poor cunt (you) that reads it.

Our guide, and the first guy to approach started exchanging heated words, and lots of finger wagging, the guy walked off fast towards a hut. I couldn’t hold it in anymore. “Are we going to get killed?” I said, our guide said no, they were Police. I was relieved, but confused, they were all in 80’s clothes, I saw a global hyper colour t-short, old kappa stuff and was quite amazed, this must be where all our clothes go when we put them in the recycling? – The crown cleared suddenly and the ‘big boss’ came out, and strode towards the van with intent and purpose. I looked at him, and well, I just snorted with laughter, which started to become a proper chubby chuckle fest. He was wearing, in about 35 degrees C, the red leather jacket from the Michael Jackson “Thriller” video, it was hilarious, the arms were rolled up too. “Cunt”, I thought, I bet they think you are well cool with that. I was careful to not vocalise my thoughts, he did have an AK and we was in the middle of nowhere. More finger pointing and eventually we were assigned an ‘escort’ to take us the rest of the way to Amboseli national park.

The guy, who was about 18, sat in the front of the Toyota, the AK47 was between his legs and the barrel was resting pretty much under his chin and his hands were around the trigger area, the van was bouncing up and down like a porno, I watched the back of his head open jawed, waiting for a 7.62mm bullet to come tearing and spinning out the top, followed by a suction of grey brain matter and ribena coloured brain blood and the crackle of brain fragments. Thankfully this didn’t happen.

We arrived at Amboseli and after some rest we went to the bar, a huge guy was serving drinks, and I got stuck in to the Tusker, or whatever the local lager was (It’s a tradition with me to drink the local brew, even if it is wizards piss). Upstairs, in the dining area, there was lots of banging and crashing. I asked the barman what was going in, he said “monkey” – Cunt, I thought, upstairs, smashing plates up, you’ve not even evolved yet, holding my palm out to the barman (who was about twice my size) and as I’d had a couple of pints I said, “I’ll deal with this” – I strode up the stairs to the dining platform and this monkey was there, smaller than a chimp, about the size of a baboon with a growth defect, and was sliding plates off tables and just generally running amok. “Cunt” I reaffirmed and edged towards it, I didn’t have a clue what I would do if I got to it, and I just assumed it would fuck off when I got close? I edged in and this fucking arse scratching tree residing fucker just carried on its mini rage. “OY” I shouted, it turned around and looked at me blankly, “Yeah you, little fucker” I took a couple of steps towards it; it was frozen staring at me curiously. I thought about what to do next, I could punt it, but that would just be greeted with distain downstairs, people had travelled to see little fuckers like this. I decided to stomp really hard and pretend I was rushing the beast, a concoction of sound and movement would scare any creature. I raised my mighty leg and stomped down hard, moving forward and spreading my arms and shouting “ahhhhhh” at the tiny king konglette.

As I did, it rushed forward and sprang at me arms and legs spread, we had rushed each other at pretty much the same time. I’m not a lover, but I’m not a fighter either, and the film Outbreak with Dustin Hoffman had not been out long, and, I’m ashamed to say, shat myself (saw my dull life flash before me again) and turned and did a 100m sprint style run down the stairs. The barman, on hearing the commotion, was already throwing ice cubes at the monkey and it withdrew screeching. I left the bar and went back to the lodge with no explanation to my ginger ex for my cowardice. I’d have to suck it up.

We sat in the room and I drank some of my duty free gin and got merry, returning at about 9pm to the bar. As I walked in, I saw the huge barman talking to someone else, his frantic arm movements and impression of an effeminate scream could only mean one thing, the cunt was talking about my monkey mistakes earlier, in mid tale he saw me and bowed his head. I went to the bar and said with honestly, that he was right to ridicule, I was a nutless fuck.

A few drinks later and people gathered outside to see something amazing, not a lion, not a cheetah, a Jaguar, the shyest of the big cats. A large slab of meat was hung over a dead tree near the bar and people waited, and waited, and fucking waited. I’m half cut, so I have no patience at this point and am getting restless, plus a fact, now I’ve had a good drink, I want to make up for my monkey malfunction earlier and either have a shoving match with someone, or hump my poor ginger ex.

About 45 minutes past, fuck all, no Jaguar. Suddenly a muted joint show of amazement, like as silent gasp, a claw appeared from the scrub, a Jaguar paw; everyone readied their cameras, awaiting the appearance of this shy beast. A whole leg now protruded from the bush, over an hour had past and its meal was right there, no killing, just turn up and eat. A high tech camera made a bit of a noise that was too much for the Jaguars liking and it retreated back into the shrub like the French. I was fucking furious, over an hour I had waited for this feline fuck.

What seemed like ages past and my relay runs to the bar for top ups were more than taking their toll, I had lost interest in this beast, and my ginger ex, who had been standing with her camera ready for more than an hour.

The claw and leg had slowly reappeared, and people were even breathing silently. Eventually a head, then half a torso stuck out of the bush, this panicky cunt was edging out at a speed that was just too frustrating for me in my drunken nasal breathing state and I couldn’t keep it in anymore. BOOOOOOOORING, I roared out like a young Oliver Reed. Needless to say the beast disappeared like a bad erection.

The crowd turned to me and simultaneously tutted, sighed, huffed, and be-cunted me, I merely stood and rocked back and forth breathing heavily out of my nose like a flameless dragon, feeling justified in my statement. My ginger now soon to be ex, turned to me and said, “You know what, you are a fucking cunt” – I huffed off to the bar and sat like a bad Bogart movie with my muscle bound piss taking barman from earlier drinking expensive spirits. Time passed and eventually I went back outside, now steaming, to see this Jaguar eating, and practically posing for pictures. Attention seeking cunt. I wanted to kill it and wear its pelt home as pants. I didn’t have sex that night, and rightfully not, I was a nutless turd.

The safari eventually got worse. Lions are child minders compared to our river close encounter with a hippo, now these cunts, as cute as they look, will get you, moon walk up and down your body and fashion a cheese grater out of your vehicle and fuck you up so your parents or family will never recognise you, you will be buried in an A4 envelope if these flicky eared fucks get you.

The safari came to an end, it was amazing, but tiring, a bit humiliating, but overall, worthwhile. The argument I had in the middle of it with my ex (ginger) was a killer, I’d accused her of acting “posh” after a collection of words spoken with like 5 syllables, and told her to “talk normal” I never knew how to phrase it to her, but eventually it just came out, “Why are you being such a fucking snob” – She just cried, and I felt like an even bigger cunt, I was the Godzilla of cunts, no, King Kunt, up the top of a building, alone.

We arrived back at our Beach Hotel in Mombassa, knackered, but determined to get on the beach without being harassed to fuck by looky looky men and drug dealing Police bribery inducing deviants and the general becuntary that ruins a holiday to the overly polite brit.

Fuck sake, I’ll have to run this into a part 3, some bad stuff happens in the hotel, I mistake a spider for a decorative lantern and nearly get paralysed, and the Granny gang who almost fuck the local lads to death incident happens, and the flight home where I almost hijack an Kenyan Air Airbus.