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.

Kenya –Everything wants to kill me – Part 1

I love Africa, I love Kenya, I love animals, there is a problem with this, Kenya doesn’t love me, it hates me, everything about it tried to kill me.

The trouble started in the Airport, arriving, I expected a brightly coloured new plane to be taking me and my ginger ex (who hated heat, light and seemingly nourishment, as was a vegetarian).
I wanted this holiday to go smoothly, so for once, I did not go through my ‘fear of flying’ drinking regime, which is essentially to get as pissed as possible and still be able to blag my way onto the plane using a faux drunk posh voice and over pronouncing vowels. Sadly this regime has seen me pass out, and even vomit on a mate on other flights. No, don’t sit next to me on the plane, if I’m not drunk I’m off my titties and bang on valium, a drooling touchy feely mess.
Not today though, today I was going to be Alan Whicker, and travel with grace and dignity (possibly having done a small pee in my own trousers).


The board showed up ‘delay’, I figured they were probably turtle waxing the wonderful huge cutting edge Boeing or Airbus, no problem, orange juice for me please. I went to the window near the departure gate on seeing the shadow of a large avionic beast being pulled up, and stared out of the window like a curious child….I gagged and my balls ascended through fear, this couldn’t be our plane, this plane was from the 70’s, no, this couldn’t be our plane, this plane was an off white colour, like a chain smoking pensioners ceiling above her parker knoll chair. I was afraid, I was outraged. Bring my fucking plane up this instant, a clean shiny one?
I’m not a selfish man, and I don’t especially look after myself, but my life is quite important to me as it’s the only one I have (unless you read my medical notes, which indicate a massive bi-polar disorder). I shook at the thought of entrusting my precious single life to this fucking remnant from the heady days of Led Zeppelin (this was probably the same plane they were on when they shoved that shark up that poor groupies fanny, look it up) and the days when they never even earthed electrical appliances. It was a mistake, no, this plane had come through a tear in time and space, and soon people would flock and watch in wonderment as people got out in flairs with big hair and garish shirts. Yes, this was the answer. Sadly, no worm hole, this was our Kenya bound flight. I wouldn’t even trust this winged cunt to get me to Kent.

The chain boozing began almost instantly in earnest, much to the disgust of my ginger ex, her colourless beady irritated eyes watching in semi despair as I guzzled duty free export rum out of small bottles of coke like an alcoholic Pirate, pacing and talking about dying openly and dramatically, a right cock, the boyfriend you dread being with, this was what was going to be inside her as much as possible in another continent, poor cow.
Eventually I was dragged into the plane like a more intelligent cow being taking into the slaughter house or Mr T when the drugged milk is kicking in.
Sitting in my seat and seeing that the plane still had ashtrays, I strapped in and waited dejectedly for my death. I hoped the plane would explode where we sat as the pilot hit the launch switch (one of about 5 old style flick switches which inhabited the 30 odd year old cockpit I imagined), at least my mother would be able to come and collect her crispy well-done offspring.
I looked at the flight crew for hope, I thought, like British Airways staff; they would be full of zest and zeal, and more importantly, life. Oh no, they looks drab, listless and most worryingly, afraid but ultimately resigned to fate. I still hadn’t accepted my fate and carried on drinking with zest and zeal. Even the pilot had a handle bar tache, flairs and a huge bag of duty free bag of spirits.

Eventually, with me now half cut, we taxied and took off awkwardly, like a morbidly obese person getting off a bed (for cake), fuck knows how, this metal twat was flying on instinct and old memories, like some sort of civil migratory aluminium tampon. Things were going as well as they can go in your soon to be coffin and then we got the in-flight meal, which was essentially a solid cold lump of what may have been (in the 70’s) noodles, they actually looked like a huge tape worm.

After what seemed like a drunken eternity, we landed, we fucking landed, I wanted to kiss the ground, well, to be honest, I wanted to fuck the ground, up all holes, I was so happy. And thank Chirst I had managed to get some sleep on the flight, about 7 minutes due to random clunking noises, I was about as refreshed as George Michaels arsehole on a Saturday night in Soho.

We was only in Nairobi though, we still had to get to Mombassa. This is where the real problems started and death first appeared with his bony thumbs up like a skeletal Fonz.
Navigating the terminals we were warned about robbers who prey on fresh arrivals. We got through and straight to the gate of the Mombassa flight, even older, looked from 60’s and was powered by two Hammond organs and a wah wah pedal. We got on this flight and strapped in, I now had bruised where all the points of the cross were on my body when you do that thing that Catholic old people do when you say cunt, fuck, balls or Satan in front of them.
The pilot hit the ‘thrust’ and we rocketed forward into the crazy speed needed to take off. It was at this point the plane broke, a clunking noise and some thumping and the pilot making a panicked announcement for stewards to doors please (while we were still doing about 80mph) I was beyond shitting myself, I think, in fact the turd was staying where it was and my body was shitting away around it, I was effectively being shat out by a turd. We got out of the plane my legs where like Elvis with Parkinson’s, and walked back to the tarmac near the departure gate and ‘engineers’ started ‘working’ on the ‘plane’ – a man tapping the open engine with a huge spanner filled me with no confidence at all. A man at the terminal, the sort of man you see in the paper, with all the other people who died in the crash (bland faced), told me, “Kenya Air do more checks than anyone” – “They fucking need to”’ I replied in a panicky voice.



Eventually they found a spare plane; we got on and I went through the same pre-death regime, told my ginger ex I loved her (again), took off. I was now delusional, chanting things like “even if we survive the crash, we will be eaten by lions”.
We got to Mombassa and after a blacked out windowed ride through some traditional Africa, painted coke signs, painted sprite signs, painted signs for condoms etc, we eventually got to our hotel, it was here I realised that there were probably no strokeable creatures in the entire country, the first spider I saw was about 4ft across and fired lasers and had a serving tray on its back, the apes had ridiculous fangs and opposable heads and knew Tae Kwondo, and every flying creature either carpet bombed you with insect wank and malaria, or they were Tse Tse flies or hybrids of both and introduced themselves by name before biting you and right aidsing you up.

After recovering at the hotel, and going for a walk down the beach where I was ‘encouraged’ to buy a shitty wooden sculpture by a man with a huge machete, we went on safari, a bumpy slow crawl across roads washed away by flooding, or the blood red earth, which is probably only blood red because every tourist ever to visit Kenya has probably died. Then all of a sudden, I saw something which filled my little mind with joy, wonderment and amazement, Zebra!! Zebra!! looks, it’s a fucking Zebra, I screamed, hugged my ginger ex, who was probably complaining of the heat or dying of mal-something or other. A fucking Zebra!! It moved, it ate some stuff and shuffled about, it moved around some more, it made a noise out of its nostrils. I had a look on my face like I was being felated, fucking Zebra!!.. Eventually, and after gradually seeing about 30,000 of these I wanted them to get eaten. “Yeah fuck off Zebra, you’re shit, you are a right between a horse and a pony, nobody rides, you, yeah you stripy cunt, go and get eaten, yeah I’m talking to you.


Part two I’ll talk more about how close I came to death more times on this trip, saw a the results of some haggard old English Nan’s after they tried to fuck some poor young Kenyan lads to death, and how I almost broke the plane on the way home through rage, and generally got bored of seeing my dull life flash before me..

Thanks for reading.

Never more than 7 Clicks from porn

Do you remember the days before the Internet? No, nor can I. I have a vague feeling of disgust of being about 17 and buying a porn mag from a newsagent as far away from my mum’s house as possible. I would never go back to this place again. That trouser rubbing dirty feeling of taking it off the shelf and looking at the bint of the front page and almost shaking at the thought of the ‘things you are going to do to ‘er later’ (in 2d), and vague plans to read the stories inside. Those days were replaced for me the day I walked into PC World and chirpily spent £2199 (on credit) on a compaq Pentium 1, 266mhz thing (with the intention of playing Championship Manager) and remember the first time it connected to the internet, it was Compaq’s bulletin board, it took about 7 hrs to download all the fixes to repair this piece of shit that was fucked from the moment it came out of the box and got its first virus from the air, it was so shit I think it was powered by real organs and got pneumonia or something.
With very flaky search engines at the time, AltaVista was in its infancy, I stumbled on some porn. This event opened my “third eye” to the realms and droves of porn that was on offer for free, regardless of relationship status. All males look at porn; I don’t care what they say, even blind people, you can see them pursing their lips as they rub their hands over Braille pictures of the woman from the Hello video taking it from Lionel up every hole (they only look at other blind people you know).

Nowadays with the swift move from 33.6 and 56k modems we move into the digital age where the entire series of Cum Dumpsters or Piss Drinkers 1-14 can be fully downloaded while you sleep snugly in your bed and will be ready in the morning for you to scan through swiftly going from the segments of attempted acting, straight to the beery FROTHY pissing on the poor lasses face, or the poor naïve girl who has effectively had the entire population of the world cock spat all over her once pretty face (usually Japanese).
In today’s super digital age, we should be downloading wonderful works of fiction and history from great civilisations, and connecting with people across the world to share views and find togetherness and make the world smaller, instead, men come in from work, sit and have a microwave meal, and then follow a link sent by a mate to a grainy video of an Afghan goat herder smashing one of his poor flock from behind while it bleats for a help that will never come. Anyway, off topic, bestiality is not porn, its just filth, its more comedy than porn, overall though, its just cruel, both to the animal and to the misguided usually German rubber muffed cunt hulk who is taking the entire stead, balls deep, and ending with a bad perm full of chew marks and hoof prints and spittle in her hair from it neighing. (I have never watched a bestiality video for the record, honest guv, I have however, watched the faces of friends who have, and the shock and awe was enough for me, thanks for asking).

Porn distorts the view of a normal relationship, young porn addled men will look in horror when a boob is “slightly” different to the other and gasp when a women gets naked to reveal a normal “warts and all” body and not in fact pneumatic porn tits, sparrows beak of a vagina and flawless skin and an arse like a space hopper, and this all while they stand there with their paunch and average semi flaccid wiener on show.

I canvassed some of my mates to find out the amount of time (or clicks) it takes for an innocent minded internet surfing session to turn into a distorted trouser removing one handed cock wrestle ending in a veritable geezer of pure life into the nearest receptacle, the answer surprised me. I had wagered about 7, (say Sky news, BBC news, for the truth, twitter, Facebook, other Facebook account for stalking, gmail account and youtube). It was actually about 3, this might speak low of the people I know, but I actually think it’s probably quite truthful.
It’s a sad time when folk no longer need to work for their porn, men have always had to work for it, back in the days when the original works of grot were carved into stone tablets (ironically, these usually involved bestiality) to grotty mags like Razzle, to now, where a click of a mouse will fill your sordid hard drive with enough cock to go around Birmingham, and enough volume of vagina to rescue the Chilean Miners.

Porn has its place, but if it takes over your life, you have a problem, as a guide, take a tape measure, and measure your wrist that you “pour a hand shandy” with, if it’s the same diameter as your neck, you should seek urgent help.

Vampire Programmes/Horror

Is it just me, or are there far too many Vampire based programmes on TV? Every new programme aimed at teens/young adults seems to feature these clean cut handsome (male) or sexy (women) vamps, (that is if you find pale vegan pallid aidsey looking types attractive).
These tampon sucking be-fanged fucks have crept onto our screens and into the psyche of young people. Since the original Buffy, we now have True Blood, Vampire Diaries, Vampire Hunters, Being Human, and Twilight, and lots of other blood spraying shit.

I don’t know why these plasma partaking piss pots have suddenly become sexualised and the new big thing. I’ve never even been able to give a girlfriend a cheeky love bite without getting a massive tut and a “for fuck sake I’ve got college/work/nursey tomorrow” etc. As far as I a can see, programmes that involve anything to do with night walkers, sun intolerant haemoglobin hoovering fucks will only encourage something none of us like, the Goth. Saturating our TV with fangy faddish fucks will make the Goth believe that they are a) Cool and b) required, they are neither of these things, make the sign of the cross and send them back hissing to their black walled bedrooms to stare at pentagrams and contemplate suicide, I don’t want to see them, walking with their black greasy arse length hair heads held high, in their ¾ length leather trench coats in the middle of an Indian Summer. No, don’t put sun block on and come out, stay inside doing online gaming all night drinking energy drinks and praying to Satan and fucking around trying to talk to the dead etc.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have anything personally against Goths, I just don’t want to see them out on the street in the day, the sun glaring off their cacophony of piercings. These programmes will encourage this. No, stay in and use messenger programmes to talk, or not talk about stuff. “Hey”, Hey, Like how’s it going? Ok, I guess. So like do you fancy like, hanging out? No, I’m like totally staying in and playing like some other life for like totally......You get the message.

I’ve calculated that by 2017, all programmes will be vampire themed if this trend continues. Even Eastenders. Poor Minty will head down to the Queen Vic for a quick pint and end up getting sucked dry by a now immortal and flying Dot Cotton, it doesn’t bear thinking. Heather, despite being transformed into a night walker, will use a pair of pliers to get the fangs out as they affect the speed and velocity that she can wolf Belgium buns and doughnuts. She will still come out in the day to go to Londis, the burning UV will take ages to affect her fat orang-utan face.

I expect as I write this a whole raft of girls will probably be having a good old frantic finger frig watching that weird looking bloke from Twilight, posturing on the screen with a tampon hanging out of his mouth like a sanitary James Dean cigarette. I can’t see the appeal myself, as much as I love Kate Beckinsdale, the thought of her fangy mouth round my old chap fills me with both fear and disgust. I’d still give her one though; I’d probably use her fangs to anchor her down on the pillow while I worked her from behind. I’d probably ask her to shower first, coming out of all that leather and kicking the shit out of stuff all day.

And horror films, again, ruined, sexualised, it used to be that you could use good camera work and psychology to create a pant pissingly scary horror film. Now its crud like Saw and Cabin Fever, where pretty College types are strimmered, batted, twatted, sliced, diced and cubed while the “sexy murderer” in the background gives themselves a breast exam and a smear test with a hand blender.

Shove the whole lot up your arse.

Experts!

If you've ever listened to our podcast you would know that quite a few things annoy us, one thing that gripes me possibly more than rush hour tube train travel, are "experts".

An "expert", basically a fucking Billy Big Bollocks on a chosen subject, most likely friendless tank top wearing bespectacled Jack of one trade uber saddo who probably cries themselves to sleep at night in a lonely small flat surrounded by books on their chosen subject, and plaudits and pointless awards from pointless bodies that seek to turn simple things into high science and complicate it quickly out of the realms of beer drinking dum dums and tabloid reading slack jawed corporate whore cattle consumer fuck dogs.

Prime examples of the overuse of 'Experts' are as follows. I frequently feel the hair stand up on my palms when ever a news article comes on that involves "travel", its a case of not if, but when "Travel Expert" Simon Calder is going to pop up like a big flailing train spotter to tell you, in his expert opinion, what is happening in general travel, and what to do about it, or what he would do. "Travel Expert", I can imagine him out and someone crosses the street diagonally and him rushing up to tell them, in his expert opinion, that it would have been easier to walk straight across the road and thusly save 1.84m of travel. Or at the airport, expertly traversing the check in desks, practically able to levitate to gate 36, banging on the pilots door telling him that it would be better to go to 37,000ft and da da da da. I have nothing against the man, in fact, when I see him I think of what it would look like if Stephen Hawkins climbed out of his electro-trolley, turned the speak and spell off and screamed "its a miracle". I've seen him cycling up near Shadwell enough, so if I did hold a grudge I could have kicked him off his bike (being an assault expert) but seriously, who gave him the title of travel expert? Fuck sake. What next, some cunt with a medal going out to Africa to be-title someone as a starvation expert, or an aids expert (aidspert?)

Another one who annoys me, although the title would describe her as not someone who is lonely, is "Relationships Expert" Linda Papadopoulos, who again, pops up on TV like burnt toast whenever some D list shit for a soul whore has been dumped by her pug faced footballer boyfriend, using her expertise to give us valuable insight into the mind of the moronic phone anal inserting more money than sense cunt bag of a cunt. "Well, I think by having intercourse with the pensioner, he was trying to say da da da da" fuck off, and fuck you too, so what if you have a degree in head-fucking from the University of Shaftville in Vaginia.
Only two things could possibly make you a "relationships expert", 1) You've had sex with everyone (No, that makes you a bit of a dirt bag) or 2) You've stayed with the same person your whole life and made it work through a raft of circumstances, in which case you have no place telling me how to deal with a break up or how to make my relationship better**? Again, I have nothing against the woman personally and I'm sure she is very good at her normal job, but lose the Golden Dildo award and title of "expert" that comes with it. Its an offense.

**I'm single, and I've let several relationships fly out of my hand like wet squeezed soap and resort to nights furiously masturbating like a sad angry Gorilla, an xbox 360 my only friend, any advice you can give me, gladly received?

Lastly, and I'm not even going to name the woman, but she is apparently an Australian "risk expert?" - "Excuse me love, there is a lion in my house, and I'm wearing a zebra print jacket, is it safe for me to go inside and watch Hollyoaks? - No. Thanks for that. This silly woman was on my telly last week pouring over a so called foiled terror plot in which Mumbai style attacks would happen simultaneously in Hamburg, Paris and London. A terrible prospect, yes, but she confidently pissed out that if this attack had gone ahead, it would have been worse than 9/11?!, erm....[awkward silence?]...[nasal breath sounds] I don't know if you saw any of 9/11 love, but if you didn't, I will give you a brief snapshot, TWO FUCKING PLANES FULL OF NICE PEOPLE FLEW INTO TWO MASSIVE FUCKING BUILDINGS AND BROUGHT THEN DOWN WHILE THE WORLD WATCHED LIVE, THEN ANOTHER ONE, FULL OF PEOPLE (apparently) FLEW INTO THE PENTAGON AND KILLED IT, THEN ANOTHER ONE FLEW INTO A FIELD AND KILLED SOME GRASS AND CROPS. It was hell on earth, we were all extras in a Die Hard film and thousands of innocent people died. I'm no terror expert (and nor are you love) but that, in my 'umble opinion IS GOING TO TAKE SOME FUCKING BEATING. 9/11 was the Asian Tsunami of terror attacks (by the way, the Asian tsunami was the 9/11 of natural disasters, just to be clear). Fear mongering fox news type nonsense. Anyway, I wont get too political about the nature of the terror/freedom charter in the world, but it just falls into my 'expert' rant, I fucking hate it, I'm not watching any more news, I'm putting my boot through the TV tonight and I'm going to smash my radio into tiny bits and stop consuming the vast waves of crap that are coming out of it.

I'll then get up Sunday and rush down to Comet or Currys and being without a radio and TV is a perfect excuse to buy another one, I'll get a nice Sony Bravia "the bollocks" 5000hz 4D 500watt more colours than the eye can see and a radio that plugs directly into your mind (using a scart type lead). I expect that while I'm there shopping, I will be approached by some Armand Van Helden bearded turdlette proudly sporting the badge A/V expert, on seeing this I'll pull my leg back until it touches one of my vast glute muscles and arch a kick as hard as I can into his balls (which are probably surrounded by a small line of pubes in the same manner as his face). Stamp on him, tear my shirt off, oil up, and scream like King Leonidis in 300 and tear the place up needing 12 officers to arrest me. I'll then get a custodial sentence and spend about a month in Prison where I will be penetrated by someone larger than me in for handling stolen goods, and it will hurt like hell. At this point I'll probably regret writing this blog and promise that when I am released I will change my ranting ways.
Eventually I am released and put into the hands of an ex offender counsellor, on our first meeting I'm told he is an "expert" at dealing with reintegration into society. I roar like a lion with piles and tear my shirt off and...........

Dick - Podcast expert.