Dickie Does Rye/Scum

I’m finding this particular blog hard to write as I don’t believe in classes and don’t want to come across as someone who does, I‘m quite the opposite, I take an individual on their merits and class never comes into it (I do make snap judgements on people, which can be quite c*nty, oops).
What I don’t like though are ‘scum’ - You get scum in all classes, from the lower class Granny mugging crack smoking shit c*nts whose very existence is to impregnate as many council flat dwelling sprung action legged spunk mitt teen fallopian property ladder climbing shit whores, and when they are not doing that (rarely) they live to make as many decent hard working folks lives as difficult as possible by picking a discipline from the wide array in their anti social skill set.
Rise up to the top from this and you get the silver spooned cherry picked blood lined fucking rah rah fox hunting roller blind lipped Burberry wearing Oxford punt c*nts who usually hide behind some sort of title and who ritualistically abuse children in crazy underground crazy arthritic handshaking Satanist sex rings and happily go undetected or have sex with illegal immigrants while dressed as Rommel. Anyway, point made.

My experience of scum this week was when I ventured down to the historic town of Rye for a week to escape the smog, pollution and general Michael Ryan’esque rage that a long stint in London can drive you to. What I got however was the same, but with bells on. Rye itself is a lovely little place, twee little cake shops and delicate little antiques market selling all range of fancy crap, the usual Sussex fair, nice beaches, rarely populated by about 5 people, most of them locals walking their dogs etc. However, venture out slightly and you get to Camber. Camber in the summer, some sort of congregation for the worst of the worst, where scum from Hastings go to get away from it all. Children dressed in a mish mash of tracksuit bottoms, polo tops and ill fitting trainers (He’ll ‘ave to fakkin grow into thim) kids that have managed to escape the most important educational years and instead communicate with a series of Neanderthal grunts and chest beatings in order to explain to the mum that they are running low on either quavers or super noodles, the unleaded of scum kids.
I watched open jawed as fucking tattoo neck/fist dad looked the other way as his idiot kids littered the street (there was a bin 2ft away) and kicked the shit out of a bus stop (Dad was too busy trying to work out if he had time to have a roll up before the bus came) and Mum was just chain smoking away, probably about 36 but Alex Higgins white with suck marks on her cheeks from permanently having a Richmond Cigarette on the go. And the poor me rsi from having his hand out Dad moaning on the bus at 11am about child custody issues while sucking on a can of strong beer, what a fucking chump, and finally the ridiculous wannabe gangsta pricks walking round in hot sun with hoodies pulled up, walking in an arthritic manner, hoods up, music blaring out, it almost made me wish I had proper South London lad from Peckham to show ‘em how its done. I think the hive for this high instance of pikey was Pontins, there were some lovely families there too, being ripped off to shreds with the high season holiday prices, but the place was modelled off the worse council estates in England.

I know that life has always had its layer of scum, and in some ways, life would be dull without them, there would be no Jeremy Kyle for starters, no Lidl, no Primark, but I think as a people, we club together and grab these people, hug them, hold on to them, educate them, bathe them, clothe them (inoffensively) and show them that life is better when it’s all together, allow them to experience and bathe in the warmth of other cultures and the wealth of beauty and teachings that the world can bestow upon them, if they only opened their eyes, surely then, with that knowledge in their hearts and minds, the world would open up to them like a flower and they could share in the global community and the higher teachings that are given to those who reach out and shun ignorance?
Or gas the fucking cunts, I don’t care, either is fine with me, just get the fuckers out of my fucking eye line. Somebody do some thing, sterilise the cunts? Jesus (two words that should never appear together in a line, sorry big man), the amount of money we spend dropping heavy ordinance or poor little Afghans and we cant spare a few grand for some house bricks to humanely castrate these sick, inbred, scrounging, deadbeat grasping shuffling horrid, horrible fuck pigs?

It didn’t take much research online to work out what was causing the high instance of indigenous pikey in the area, bad diet, low access to employment, housing? No, the fuck off nuclear power station pumping death and disability out into the sea and air 27/7, I’d ignored some of the sights I had seen and some of the quotes that filtered through my overly judgemental mind, quotes such as “a child should never have a blow hole on its forehead” and “finally, someone who can appreciate an Ibenez 7 string guitar”. Quite simply, radiation is not your friend, it wont save you money on your bills, it will fuck you up, that and super noodles.

Dick does the Beer Festival.

Nothing seems right these days when its not Rant and Dick together, even sex, but there are some things in life that you can’t get Rant to do, find a long term solution to heinous foot odour, and stop being a massive cock after 4 pints. Good thing then perhaps that he didn’t come with me to the ‘Great British Beer Festival’ at Earls Court, this used to be a yearly event for me, but I’d given it a miss for a couple of years, mostly out of fear of becoming like the mainstay of drinkers there, but I’m on holiday now so I thought what better way to kick things off than erm… with a load of fucking freaks in a giant pub the size of Kent??…

Being an excitable human being whose enthusiasm for things is generally not reciprocated, especially relationships wise, I was first to arrive at Earls Court, my cruisy** Friday morning tube journey still littered with C words and barging (IS THE FUCKING TUBE EVER NOT BUSY) This reached its zenith on the all new Victoria line, when a train just stopped at Vauxhall and the magnitude of TFL’s corruption and incompetence hit home. The poor people in the packed carriage technically started to cook as it turned out that the all new trains (which were supposed to be cooler and more efficient) are not actually fit to carry live stock and are only good at blowing hot second hand silicon riddled hot air through themselves.
Boiling, and feeling sweat forming around my nether regions I begun to write the day off and get moody. [Shut up fatty, tell us about the beer, nobody is interested in your fucking journey there, you cunts cunt, in fact, don’t even tell us about the beer, just fuck off, get a life or at least sort this one out, Jesus, why am I even reading this crap, ahh balls, my life is a mess too, fuck, Dick, lets get (back) together?] Blimey, alright, I’ll fast forward to Earls Court.

Leaving the tube (the shitty ineffective, useless metal arse ramming cock of a tube, sorry I cant help it) at Earls court and seeing the sea, I mean swamp, of people gathering around outside I felt like I was in some sort of Zombie film, called something like 28 stone later, Army or Dorkness, or Dawn of the Dull, my first thought was “I had no idea the national sex offenders register was an event?”

I brought my ticket and went inside, alone, afraid; the Cub Scout in me was still worried about Ahkala’s wandering hand. I happily paid £3 for a glass giving me the security that if anything happened at least I could take one of these hairy blubbering fucks with me to hell in a glassy final act. I could see no women, no diversity; simply uncouth men, self dressed uncaringly and unloved walking around with faltering organs and dodgy hair without purpose, but seemingly gathered under the same roof as if by instinct, or should I say, drinkstint.
I got my first pint and then reached out to Twitter for ideas for a collective noun for sex offenders, I was amazed and repulsed by the answers, my faves were, a Grunt, a Crèche, a Glitter, but in the end I settled for ‘a register’. Still waiting for my mates to arrive I wandered round looking up at the bizarre names for real ale creations, Dribbles old fuck’ole, Mintys Blick Bastard, Fuzz Muckers Tiny Tit bristle, etc etc. A beer that certainly caught my eye was Beowulf (7.5%) and I decided that I would end the day on that, real blaze of glory shit.

I had yet to see another human being who wasn’t suffering with some sort of limp, lurch, keel, tick, spasm, amputation, skin condition or huge hair growth/loss, finally I saw a woman, and I believed for a minute that she had winked at me, on closer inspection it turned out her eye had been seared shut in some bizarre country side coming of age ritual (11).

Finally, my friends arrived and I was so happy I presented every orifice to them in sexual thanks, they were all turned down thankfully and we got on with the job in hand, to drink as much as possible, consume anything that was cheese or pig, and get out of Earls Court without having a callous riddled hand shoved down our trousers and the sounds of nasal breathing and grunting that usually comes with molestation. And protect our women from strange Somerset breeding rituals.

“I hate all beer though?” I hear you say, well, thankfully, the ‘Beer’ festival has chucked you a bone in the form of a cider area and some of them right faggy fruit beers which are just wrong, raspberry cider, fuck right off, the cider line ends at pear ok, stop fagging cider up? Anyway, the people serving the cider were as usual the hard core, too pickled to acknowledge their own demise (probably several years ago judging by the smell) and each with bits missing, from diabetes destroyed finger loss, right up to the “person” on the last pump who bubbled advice from inside a large sarsons vinegar jar like something off Doctor Who. They also had an actual bar where a cunt could go and get themselves a carling, I cant believe people actually drink carling?

The highlight of the entire day was standing outside having a cig and seeing the spittingist image of Ricky Gervais, a group were starting to suggest that he did ‘the dance’ he must have been there for a laugh and if he wasn’t and didn’t want the hassle, consider not slicking your hair back, having a goatee and wearing the exact some suit as Gervais wore in the office. Oh, and the other highlight was seeing the Hamsters play live again, I hate it when people just see a group of old men on stage and cant look past the bad clothes and pattern baldness and see what was probably the finest bit of live guitaring they will ever see in their miserable non guitar appreciating beer hating shitty lives.

I wish I could give you a more thorough run down of which beers I had and their hoppy fruity undertones, but to be honest, its Saturday morning and my head feels 4 times heavier than normal and all I want to do is drink tea, eat toast and watch Dragons Den, the only points I can remember are Welsh beers were very nice, erm, don’t drink Beowulf, and be nice to your girlfriend and women in general.
Right, time to put the kettle on.

I hope you don’t think that I am saying that the core of real ale drinkers are sex offenders and all the other things I have said, not the case, although I saw nobody that I would trust my child with, I did see about 13 or so people that I would have another beer with, the rest, ppppppppppffffff, sorry guys, I only write what I see, you might want to have a shave, pull your trousers down from around your throat and throw that weird gillet thing out with all the badges on it, just saying..

** I will never use the word cruisy again, sorry.