Christmas Shopping/Purley Way/Croydon/Dog Poo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Balaclavas

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tuesday, Fireworks, Small talk, winter, hippos

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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