Southend - The Jewel in the Anus of Essex

Its not in my nature to condemn an entire area, every area has something wonderful about it, even a just post atom bomb Nagasaki had a wonderfully intact Bento bar which did the finest sushi rolls in Japan, the fact that they carried enough radiation to power a large dildo for 4 hours (probably long enough to resonate some sort of sexual twitch through something as large as a Lisa Riley, Dawn French or just smaller, a Beluga Whale) slightly detracted from any chance of a Michelin star. To be fair, Southend does have something that fills you with a kind of warmth, something that will underline the memory, the fucking Train Station, Southend Victoria, iconic in the sense that when you are there, you know you will soon be leaving (praying that the metal hasn’t been stolen from the overhead power lines, or more likely the train has been stolen and is currently being joy rode like some fucked up episode of Thomas the Tank Engine).

If you are lucky enough to come in to Southend Central (you probably slept past Billericay), you will be right in the ants nest, a nest of single mums, twitching pre pensioners and orangy Essex folk looking like Oompa Loompas after a huge course of steroids. It’s like all the scum of England made for the sea and the boats which promised to take them to a better place (Davy Jones’ locker) failed to turn up. So they pitched up and made a go of it.
The ‘High’ Street is a shocking example of bad civic planning, or excellent planning if you think this is a good order of shops; Superdrugs, Claire’s Accessories, Superdrugs, Greggs, Superdrugs, Greggs, Greggs, JJB Sports, Claire’s Superdrugs, Accessorize, and just in case you have got to this point without managing to buy 2 for 1 shampoo, a pasty some butterfly clips or some hair bands to pull your hair back so far that your forehead is riding just above your arsehole, there is one final pasty shop, and then, a fucking Ann Summers? With the kind of ‘talent’ on display up there, laying a large sheet over that nights ‘fuck’ with a large picture of Susan Boyle on it would be considered lingerie. A romantic meal would, I imagine, consist of said pasty and 12 bottles of blue WKD, at which point the poor girls legs open up automatically like some kind of spunky Venus fly trap and after being fed and ‘watered’ by a man, the only thing missing to make it the kind of evening she dreamed of while reading and dreaming about being the new Jade Goody, would have been getting a massive jewellery assisted punch round the chops from Trev, or Tel, the local boy racer and dad of countless. Why work to get on the property ladder when you can just cock gag your way on it with a screaming confused unplanned baby as a down payment on a perfectly liveable council hovel, and with countless Mother and Baby sun bed sessions, Southend is a great place to bring a child up.

Down to the sea front, you have ‘Adventure Island’ the UK’s number 1 free admission theme park? You can’t actually do anything in there for free, so it’s hardly a chart position that Alton Towers or Chessington would be fretting about. A good theme park would probably be called ‘Town Land’, where for a day, people can experience what its like to live fairly, pay something into the system, give some children a hearty and filling meal for dinner, perhaps help them with their homework, great the Mrs with a hug and kiss and not a left hook or drop kick, and drive within the speed limit, they would come out feeling euphoric, and as though, briefly, transported to another world, slowly adjusting back to their own cathartic one.

Along the front, tiny little chip and fish places sell minute portions of tiny sprat and chips which are served in about an inch of grease, these are slowly dissolved in the motionless toothless mouths of what look like pensioners, but are probably around their mid thirties, a life of total caning taking its unsurprising effect, the real pensioners are long gone, swirling round the town like tiny whirlwinds, human talc long dead.

A walk back through the town (which is a must, just to check that the whole thing wasn’t a cruel prank) sees little gatherings of 12 year olds having overly complex relationships with people their own age (and of course Trev and Tel, the boy racers, who probably think that a ‘paedophile’ is an engine part or some sort of tool for dicking around with an engine) and just lots of giddy wayward people zig zagging their way down the shops with kill me written all over their poor simple mish mashed faces.

In summary then, I can only imagine that Southend is like receiving anal sex, it sounds like a good idea at the time, but probably really hurts, but people return to it when the memories of the back door gurning have dissipated. For example, I doubt somebody would return to Southend the week after, probably after 6 months, only to find out nothing much has changed, a bit like opening a dustbin lid which hasn’t been emptied for months and not being surprised by the maggots and stench.

I am of course only joking and had a wonderful day, and can’t wait to return, and the people there are lovely and no interbred at all, and I only wrote this because I was so sad to leave that its created a bitterness that only doing the above can sort out. Anyway, you wont be happy with me if you have read this because you can obviously read and are therefore probably planning to leave anyway, which is a real shame because like I say, it’s a great place. See you soon. xx

C**t!

We all know the C word is awful and there is no call for it in a modern civilised culture (except when describing Kerry Katona, Jordan (The c*nt, not the Country) that guy from the Credit Expert advert, or that horrible woman from the Halifax ad 'isa isa baby. However, there is a call for it and I have spend my time looking for new uses for the word, I'll add to these when I think of them.

Cunch - Used to describe a lunch with people you don't like, such as a work related lunch, something you wouldn't go to unless it was free or you had to for your job.

Cuntaloons - A really bad pair of trousers

Cuntstable - An unreasonable policeman

Cuntryside - Milton Keynes, or Harlow

Cuntageous - A transferable STD

A cunt of buses This is the collective noun for describing when walking to the bus stop and seeing 3 buses pass together like some sort of automotive conga, meaning you are going to be there for at least an hour, like some sort of cu...

Edible Clothes

I was in Battersea Park yesterday (18th April 2010) it was about 3pm, very sunny and I suddenly had a craving for a roast dinner, but I couldn't be bothered to move. It then struck me like an unreasonable Parent, edible clothes? Why has nobody else thought of this? Before you mention the edible thongs and knickers from Ann Summers, I cant think of anything more repulsive than eating somebodies more than likely shit stained sweaty undies, especially during a nice relaxing hot day in the park.

Giving it more thought than perhaps I should have, given the absolutely lovely company, I had a light bulb moment, a Eureka moment, all of a sudden I was up there with Bell (Alexander Graham, not -End), Einstein, and the other fella who forgot to put the milk out and saved trillions of people from death by flu, A FUCKING YORKSHIRE PUDDING SUN HAT, wear it all day, take it off and eat as the sun goes down? (Thats not a Sunday dinner you fat sack of pus I hear you scream), alright, calm down, for fuck sake, I haven't finished yet? To go with your snazzy Aunt Bessie head wear, wait for it, elbow length pork skin gloves, to keep you from burning in the sun, put them on raw in the morning, by about 4pm they would have cooked, peel them off and you have lovely crackling hands!!!!!

Erm, I'm still working on gravy and and a means to easily transport root vegetables about your person, once the entire ensamble is ready, I'll update you.

Pippin the Tumerous Schnauzer - Part 3

Could there be anything worse than a meek drizzling Wednesday in Ashford? Pundits would argue that an eternity in hell with a white hot curling iron inserted into a once efficient rectum could qualify, but for the anyone who lived here, they probably would have loved to be in the fiery expanse of Hades with the searing hair straightened up their pooper, any day. The day was further confounded by the unassuming gangly unfeminine Sue Brayer that was heading down the high street almost like a gas, her poor doomed doggie trailed behind her like a sled, but not one carrying a happy bunch of kids up to the top of a hill for a wonderful winters ride, but a whole truck load of pain and ills.
Sue shuffled past the Park Mills shopping centre, heading towards a discount book shop, her tiny 'fold up to the size of a tampon' umbrella was not doing a very good job in protecting Sue's dowdy hair do, she was clearly taking this out on poor Pippin who frantically tried to get traction behind her, desperately trying to pick up the pace despite having about as much latent energy as a wotsit. Sues silly perm was beginning to reach its limit for absorbing water as the omni directional mist defied physics and got everywhere. Her fuzzy barnet was beginning to seep at the edges and she begun to look like a recently sacked clown (who was also recently widowed). Village books was not far now, unfortunately the near skeletal Pippin was now dragging along the floor with his tongue lolling as the choke chain did exactly what it said on the tin. Sue, due to her high level of female anger hormone, was currently 15% stronger than normal and could no longer feel that Pippin was not travelling independent of her, the sight of this childless love-free husk and her bedraggled dog sliding behind like a shit Indiana Jones would have pulsated the pity gland on any creature that was evolved enough to have an entire gland devoted to pity. As she arrived at Village books she didn't even look at the poor wretched Pippin and tethered his lead to the soil and water pipe and went into the shop without so much as a see you soon pat on the head. 'Fuking c**t, mumbled Pippin, in dog, as her husbandless dido enthusing shell of shit disappeared into the expanse of shadow and bad literature, which was justified as it was generally up to 75% off, so must be shit?

Sue flitted around the romance section, looking for something, a peek through the slightly open curtain of what it must have been like to have a good man, or any fuking man, to hold you and make you feel good about life. She may as well have femininely inserted the book, or put it in the pub while the football was on, as this would be the closest she got to a man. Meanwhile outside, a now dripping wet and still dying Schnauzer was casting a sorry shadow, a lady walked past with a small Shitzu, off the lead, it paused and looked down its nose to pippin, 'My good, look at the state of you man, it said in a patronising tone, what in the name of fuk happened to you? 'Cancer', replied Pippin, 'childless cunt in there wont do the deed and let me go, lonely you see'. 'The bitch, my charge would have me injected for peeing on the carpet', replied the Shitzu, whose name was Gary, 'Well, your a lucky fucker then, still got your knackers an all, replied Pippin, now head down. They parted ways, in the manner dogs do (quick arse sniff) and went about their respected business, Gary, to go home and have a lovely dinner and lounge about, For Pippin, to go home and dream of 'that injection'.

Sue came out, smile of a mad woman on her face, bag full of books, she would have plenty of time to read them, still without looking at Pippin, unleashed him from the pipe and walked steadily down the street, now with both hands busy, her perm was now taking the full force of natures most annoying weather offering, within a few minutes she looked like a sea sponge that had just had the shit kicked out of it by some undersea bully, meanwhile, Pippin dragged behind, and eventually just used the momentum, turned on his back and went to sleep, dragging through Ashford, bumping up and down the kerbs like a hairy python, nobody stopped to tell Sue, nobody spoke to Sue, she just made her way home, unclipped the lead, made herself a large cup of tea and started reading her book. In the hall Pippin just lied there like a feather bowa that had been lost at the beginning of Mardis gras, and found right at the very end, after being trodden on by millions of gay dancing boots. A sorry site. Sue drifted away, lost in her book, that was strangely about Aikido, the afternoon fizzled away, the telephone mast did not hasten once in its job of handling thousands of pointless calls and text messages, and of course, dishing out death rays for its theton lizard god. Eventually, the sun, as it did every day, got bored of being usurped by grey clouds and set angrily over Kent, Sue left Pippin where he laid and retired to the lonely cotton expanse that was her bed. It was only 8pm, but there was no point in staying up, meanwhile on her street, every single other person won £10 on the mid week lottery, all but Sue, all but Sue, the final sound she heard on this grey forgettable Wednesday, was the collective smack of a thousand kiddies being kissed good night by their loving parents.

Pippin the tumerous Schnauzer - Christmas special

Pippin the tumerous Schnauzer - Christmas Special

It was Christmas Eve in Ashford, God never visited this place, it was on a flood plain, and for a good reason, but all the same, it was Christmas, Sue had put up modest decorations, nobody would see them, both her parents were long dead, probably just dust now, she had no children, a sister who had moved to New Zealand and never kept in touch, but all the same Sue would always get excited this time of year(as if by some chance Santa would deliver her a couple of bouncing Baby boys, no chance love, he might have knocked her up if she was the last delivery and he was rosy cheeked from all the whiskey and mince pies, his powerful hands forcing her face down o'er the bed driving her pugsy pale face in the mattress and blowing through that huge moustache and rocking the whole bed as he delivered it to her hard and fast before wheezing to a shuddering climax and delivering an old load right over everything and bellowing out the ending in the manner of Brian Blessed before adjusting his huge belt buckle and hoisting his comedy sized red velvet trousers up and over his tubby member. The fact that she had even thought this sickened her but she was lonely, old and desperate, unbeknownst to her, Santa would not be visiting Ashford, too many power lines, he wanted to give the gift of Christmas not spend his last days dying of leukaemia in Lapland for Christ's sake.
Sue had enjoyed a few glasses of port and had enjoyed listening to some old classic Whitney Houston and was really rather tipsy, Pippin was sitting on his basket, his little terminally ill drawn face peeping over the top of the basket and just watching Sue pom pomming along to the hits, even as a dog, he was really quite embarrassed for her, the moment skidded to an end when Pippin had a gargantuan convulsive fit and twitched about like an eighties body popper being electrocuted, and having an eppy, this was it he thought, a little bit of tongue showing through gritted teeth and fang. Sue ran towards her beloved pet with abandon but wrapped one of her spiny legs around the coffee table, it was heavy and rather dear and so sent the poor cow flying through the air like she had been shot with an elephant gun, and fouled by Roy Keane, her arms trailed woefully at her sides, she had to time to steady her fall, fortunately the only thing to soften her landing was the stricken twitching beast, her shapeless and ungainly skull cracked into the poor animal and made an embarrassing crack, she rolled over, every emotion was going through her, and she let out one of them wails (like in part 3 when the only chance she ever had with a fella ended under the wheels of a large car). Pippin had stopped shaking and convulsing, she was sure she had killed him and her face went up to the sky and contorted like a pre shit arsehole, she was just about to scream at god himself when the mutt came back to life, the unplanned face butt actually had stopped the fit and saved the dog from a horrid death, Sue was still shaking, baffled, was this to be the remedy to any future fits? She couldn't bring herself to touch Pippin, she simply stared at him in shock and disbelief. Pippin slowly came round, fixed on Sue and pulled a face like the Bruce Willis hard man face in Die hard and called her a fuckin interfering bi ped cunt, (in dog) once again, his journey to Canine Elysium was sullied by the clumsiest sexually devoid lump that was his owner.
After about 40 awkward minutes Sue returned to the sofa and poured herself a stiff port (this was to be the only stiff thing that came Sues way, not unless that darned mutt popped his clogs and went rigger on her lonely ass) Pippin had gone back to sleep, Sue had gone from Tipsy to a little drunk (or squiffy as she would no doubt call it) end eventually fell asleep on the sofa, Christmas Eve slowly twinkled into Christmas day, and hordes of excited little kiddies awoke to sacks of presents, couples rolled over for that extra special Christmas suck n fuck, and everyone in the world was happy, and united in the spirit of Christmas, armed East African machete wielding bandits downed tools and rejoiced in the togetherness of Christmas, nobody died, nobody got cleaved, bomb makers in the Yemen ceased their terrible trade and gave every infidel the day off, Chinese Snake head gangs put pillows in the backs of lorries for the hundreds of soon to be cockle pickers and made their hellish ride a little bit more comfortable and even piped through heart FM (where available), West End woofters thought twice about shooting their knowingly aids riddled sex piss up the poopers of popper popping confused young men, oh, and it snowed, all over the world, everywhere was beautiful, but Ashford, where a sad lonely syntactic fuck pig of a woman woke up with her sick dying dog and a huge bruise the shape of Eritrea on her leg.

Commuting on the London Tubes
I’ve travelled on many public transport systems all over the world from third class in South Africa to the wonderful Paris Metro, nothing however dangerous, rickety and smelly can prepare you for the London underground as a way to start your day.
From the ancient Indiana Jones thrill ride that is Met Line, a ride so jumpy in parts that you literally inadvertently leave the seat flying upwards sometimes up to the height of a small ewok, to the daily crush of the Northern Line, which I believe carries the highest rate of ignorant elbowing self centred self preservist commuters.
Survivalists, who would literally elbow a pregnant pensioner out of the way to get that seat so they can sit sweep their fingers all over their obligatory IPhone like an arthritic octopus, and the routine obsessed OCD types who will read their broadsheet and eat their over priced pastry and drink a scolding hot black coffee directly over your balls (if you are lucky enough to get a seat).
No matter what side of the bed you get out of, what your stars say, or how motivated you are for a day in the office, a tube commute will leave you feeling abused, angry and cheated, and can even be so packed that the crush will leave you questioning your sexual orientation, its never a good thing when you can happily draw a perfect genital recreation sketch of the guy who was recently squashed up against you like a hardcore version of Brokeback Mountain.

For anyone with the pleasure of living in Clapham, which I believe is the closest thing to heaven on earth, the wonderment ends in the morning, when the SW12 set become the poor relations of the Northern Line and it’s a struggle to even get on the train at all, let alone find a tiny space just large enough to enjoy a panic attack in peace. Thankfully, and given the organised manner of the people of Clapham, they have evolved into Tetris shapes, and as the train pulls in that funny Russian music starts and people adopt their shape and cascade towards the door ready to fill every nook and cranny, if four people manage to get on at the same time, everyone speeds up as the level increases, the women are usually the T shapes, men with big heads the large L, sadly, I manage to fuck things up by simply being an ill fitting blob shape and mess the whole sequence up. The looks confirm that I simply do not belong in Clapham.

If you were to describe the daily horror of the commute to work to a complete stranger, say one of those Amazon tribes who have never seen anyone outside of their tribe (apart from Bruce Parry, who no doubt has been there and gotten pissed with them on what ever they drink or inject) they would assume it was some sort of torture, the very fact that you have to pay the highest prices in Europe just to get to work and get hammered to spam on taxes, just adds to the whole degrading daily locomotive sodomy. The only alternative is to cycle, to dart your way through crazed buses, cement Lorries and School run mums like some lycra covered sperm trying to fight its way to the egg.

Something happens to people when they go underground, the caring emotions switch off, must be something to do with being closer to hell/Australia, even when somebody plucks up the courage to regain their dignity and wrap themselves around the front (and sometimes back) axels of a speeding tube train, the horror of the entire event is greeted with an irritated tut. Anyone unfortunate enough to faint, which happens lots because its generally 35 degrees c 365 days of the year, is stepped over with even less grace than a dog turd. We have all done terrible things on the tube, there should be a Hague tribunal for people to be tried for their crimes, I personally have elbowed a midget into the air and refused to get out of the way for someone with Muscular Dystrophy (I didn’t know until he told me, I thought he was trying to play chicken with me?) and been massively sick and cleared an entire packed carriage.

Help is at hand though and this hell will soon come to an end, a HUGE investment into the tube infrastructure is well underway, hundreds of millions of pounds of investment has resulted in years of 100% effectiveness, effectiveness being that most weekends, 100% of trains on some lines are not taking 100% of passengers to 100% of their destinations. A look at the tube upgrade programme brings hope (hope that death will come soon) http://www.tfl.gov.uk/corporate/projectsandschemes/10138.aspx
For example, the completion of the Bakerloo line works is due in 2020 and will result in an increased capacity of 57%, and an increased journey time of two minutes? That would assume you commuted the entire length of the track, unlikely and surely it would be easier to increase capacity by putting some more trains in service? Anyway, what ever they are doing, by 2020, we will probably be transporting like in Star Trek so they will be able to stick their 2 minutes up their warp holes. Look for yourself, yes the work needs to be done, but the expense to London business from people not being able to get from A to B is incalculable. You need to be the England Football team, or Bon Jovi to get the Met Line to run most weekends. Anyway, I could go on, it’s just a sad reflection on people of today, real men and woman laid these lines in far less time than its taking these privatised profit orientated firms to fart arse about and bring them up to date.