Modern life sucks balls/Vision for London – Part One.

Today I begin my vision for London and the build up to me running and winning a mayoral election, and sorting the fucking heaving mess out that is our crapital city (straight after I have finished approving my Canary Wharf sized statue of me that will look over every single Londoner 24 hours a day, a protecting effigy keeping an eye on everyone, on the streets, in the bedrooms, and the changing rooms.

London, its pretty fucked isn’t it. Every days tasks and challenges are met with abject tedium, the tedium of the pathetic obstacles, from the daily morning greasing up, just to be able to get on board a packed out of date stinking third world mode of public transport, being satisfied with a tiny corner having to adopt advanced Yoga positions just to have a semblance of space to yourself trying to read a tiny section of paper with one of your legs wrapped round the back of your head. The daily tolerance needed just to leave the neck unsnapped of the various annoying people that make up the locust swarm of the daily rush hour, where cunts will literally stab a nanna just to get a better position on the train or push past you like ice hockey to get into work a few seconds earlier to get their tongue jammed up their bosses arsehole like a lolly stick, the joke on which is you.

Then, on to lunch where horrible soulless little shops with smug names peddle £4 sandwiches, vine ripened tomatoes, ethically sourced cheese on artisan bread, to the ludicrous salad wrap, which is exactly what it says, salad leaves wrapped in a rizla of bread, oh, don’t forget your £3 coffee put together with abattoir care and attention by some chatty European gap year gap toothed gap wearing cunt (prêt).

You pay for this because it briefly elevates you above the feeling of utter futility of what probably amounts to shitting out pointless work for someone else’s benefit, your years of toil literally forgotten about just hours after you bugger off with a fake hand shake and retirement whip round of about £87 quid, rushing home to sit on your parker knoll chair and curl up into an arthritic cancerous pain ball. (Don’t worry, it gets cheerier!) Dying to the tuts of your rough handed NHS carer and inconvenienced family.

Right, now, you’ve finished the daily dry chipped nail fingering that is work, what now? Rush home to lethally inject your intellect by sifting through the SHIT that is telly, or to the gym to have some roids riddled prick “personally train” you, which amounts to him putting you in impossible positions, and trying to fuck, or humiliate you if you are not up to his standards, or to the pub to marinade yourself into a babbling fuckless bollock with limbs, eyeing up every girl, mentally going through what you would say if you could cough up the courage to actually talk to her, shuffling onto a late night shame train back home, open jawed red eyed and heavy breathing, bouncing into a cheap KFC rip off place for 3 bits of chicken and chips even though you ate in the pub earlier, the feel of hot chicken fat, soggy greasy coating and dry old meat giving you brief feeling of happiness before going home to jerk off over the thigh master infomercial? Or if you are really lucky, you have a hobby, but you don’t actually enjoy this though, do you, (It gets cheerier, honest!)

Then, after 5 days the above, you get to the weekend and either over plan it and sit head in hands while Saturday turns to Sunday and before you know it, you are back on the train like a fucking organic Tetris block, just trying to fit in…You poor cunt?

You still here? Take that knife away from your wrists, here comes the gift, my vision for London, something to make sure that none of the above happens to anyone of you, (like it did me).

Why do most Londoners walk around with that look of impending doom engraved into their face? Because they have no REAL challenges in their life, just the misery of above, which, apart from some jobs, amounts to no more mental challenge than potato prints. People are literally mentally falling apart because there is no challenge in their life (Oy, fuck you cunt, I forecast a 7.22 index on a foreign oil/gold/ fedex long point, blue chip, turnover, wotsit do dar?) No, not like that you unethical banker cunt, Humans were not meant to be sitting around coked out of their mind tits in front of multiple computer terminals. No, proper living, how it used to be, you don’t get whinging Inuit’s, or Amazon rain forest people do you, just crumbling fucks sitting each week for counselling, ohh didums….

What London needs is some proper excitement, and I have a plan, If I was Mayor, every day at 12.30pm a klaxon would sound and I would have 4 Chinook helicopters fly over and slowly lower Hippos and Brown Bears into Central London, 3 beasts on each flight, that’s 12 angry fuckers to turn lunch breaks from a pointless pricey bread fest into a primeval fight for life. (Oh, to make matters worse, the bears haven’t eaten or mated for 2 weeks, and the Hippos have large elastic bands around their testicles, and are fucking angry anyway).

Lunch breaks would become a two hour adrenaline rush, people would be on the phones, or chatting over a coffee, before hearing the klaxon, the sound of a winch and the nasal huffing and puffing of irritated bears and bollock bound river bastards looking around anxiously for the cunt who lashed their testes with elastic.

Conversations would end, fingers would point and a collective scream would sound out as people ran to find vantage points against the multi terrain traversing terrors.

You can’t climb a tree, because the bear can, you cant jump in the Thames, the bear and the hippo can swim, you can get on the tube because both animals have zone 1-6 oyster cards on their snouts or equivalent. If you are underestimating this because you have been fooled by a little duffle coat donning cunt called Paddington and have seen the Chambourcy Hippopotomas advert, let me give you a bit of background. A hippo doesn’t just kill you, it M and S kills you; it ties you to a chair playing “stuck in the middle” pours petrol over you and cuts your fucking ear off. A bear will call your parents or partner and make you cry down the phone to them. A hippo can drive a fucking motor bike with the bear in the side car for fuck sake, if you are unlucky enough to be picked, you will get got, they will dress as a fucking electricity meter man, trick their way into your home and then walk you into the carpet like a sausage roll at a shit party.

At 2.30 when the beasts have been recovered everyone will return to work, apart from those who have been escalloped or half eaten like a bad sandwich, everyone would feel energised, euphoric and relieved, they would go home and appreciate those around them, and eventually sleep, just happy to be alive. (I thought about killer bees on the tubes at home time, but thought it would be ripping the arse out of the idea..)

“What else, what else, and how do I vote for you now?”, I hear you yodel from your wide eyed excited new self. Ok, I’ll summarise some of my other polices.

Maternity: This would be for everyone, even the childless could apply. People could take a 6 month break from work to go off and bring themselves up properly, making up for the shambles job their parents did. You would have to qualify for this by being a bit stupid or immature. This would be called Me-ternity leave. You would be expected to come back to work a bit less of a fucking idiot though.

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Speed cameras: The focus of these would switch from the cars and onto the pavements, to pick up the most annoying of them all, the cream of the crap, the shufflers and dawdlers. Anyone walking under 2mph would set off the camera and a PCA (pavement continuity agent) would hit them with a stun gun to speed them up, anyone caught walking slowly while reading a book, or eating breakfast or god forbid both, would have their trousers and pants pulled down and be surrounded by no less than 6 PCA’s and have their cock mercilessly laughed at for no more than 45 minutes. If it’s a girl they would have their hair done by a top hairdresser and then have cold water poured straight on it while the PCA’s laugh in different octaves like an ensemble vocal harmony group .

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Wanky Shops/Bars: Trendy sandwich shops and wanky bars would be destroyed in a real life version of angry birds, frozen turkeys would be fired at the shops from medieval catapults until they are destroyed, while the greedy owners cower inside like the smug robbing pigs they are. These shit holes would be replaced by reasonably priced pie and mash shops, fish and chip places; you might even be able to get a kebab for lunch or shops selling cheese sandwiches on normal white or brown bread. If you want something healthy, like Israeli cous cous or quinoa, sure, bring it in, but eat it out of sight, you nauseating nibble needing nutsack

Pubs would return to take pride in the city, hearty frothy pints served by real women and the sound of real men sucking beer from moustaches and wiping obligatory beards. Anyone who comes into the bar and tries to order a coffee will be at the mercy of the PCA’s (pub continuity agents), yes there is cock mockery, but only for 15 minutes as coffee is ok, just not in a pub?

Crime: I am against all crime, anybody found committing a crime would be at the mercy of the PCA’s (prison continuity agents) there would be lots of penile pointing and mirth.

To be continued. (If I’m not sectioned beforehand)

Umbrellas, Darwin Awards, Near Death, Amsterdam, Pregnancies.

All the things in this title link, trust me, maybe not in the order, I could probably write a whole blog about umbrellas, because they are my kryptonite (them and slippers), I’ve come close to death because of one, and almost been blinded several times. (How do you die by brolly?) I’ll tell you. It’s fucking embarrassing, but I’m here to tell the tale.

It was 2002 ish and I’d not long met the woman I went on to ask to marry, and who gave birth to my son. We’d kind of become “official” but I’d already booked a long weekend to Amsterdam with a mate, a mate who hadn’t even smoked a cigarette in his life, or done any drugs, well he was fucked then.

We had a tradition in my group of mates (I say had, because most of them are just plain old cunts* now (*Curiously Unexplainably Not There Socially), or just normal regular basic bog standard cunts, anyway, this tradition was to drink like you was never going to see the person again if they were going on a plane, even if it was an hours flight.

Me and my mate got ready to go “out out” in Streatham. We went to leave and noticed it was absolutely pissing down so we nicked a couple of my mum’s antique umbrellas from her antique copper thing and hoofed it up to the pub. Cut to several hours later and we were both practically unable to speak and made our way back from the pub, brollies up I stupidly suggested in my heightened agitated whiskey sozzled state that we were not a pair of pricks, but in fact Knights of honour, and would fight our way through the housing estate to get home. We basically threw all thoughts of honour and chivalry out of the window and started trying to beat the fuck out of each other with the brollies.

As we got mid way through the estate we got to one of those jobs worth spoilt sport metal things to stop people on bikes from having fun. I decided with all the imagination I could conjure that it was some sort of dragon, and tried, (in my drunken honourable knight of the realm way) to ask it to move aside. It didn’t, it was cemented in for fuck sake. I asked again, more assertively this time. Again, being bedding into a tarmac path, it didn’t budge, nor would it have. I ordered a charge, to myself, being the only fuck wit who was living out the metal dragon fantasy, my other mate was just standing open jawed, drunken heavy breathes watching me, slightly more sprightly but still heavily dumb from beers and spirits. I ran as fast as I could and brought my “Broadsword” down on the “beast” several times.

I heard like a twanging sound, and thought nothing of it, and then realised that I was seemingly sweating profusely from my neck, which was odd. I dropped the brolly and reached up, realising that one of the spines from the brolly was sticking in my neck, I pulled it out and then realised that I was bleeding heavily from a puncture wound on my neck. Thankfully and due to my drunken state, I never panicked. I never did anything. I just stood feeling blood pumping out of my neck and my friend’s perplexed face, impotent to assist due to his drunkenness, and probably the sheer randomness of it. I took my shirt off and held it tight against my neck and made for home (which was a bout 800m away). Don’t get me wrong, this wasn’t like a samurai movie where the blood is misting out like a garden sprinkler, or like a horror slash and gash movie, heaving out like someone has struck oil, but it was coming out at a fair rate.

I got home and into the kitchen and took the shirt away, the blood was still pumping out with every heart beat. It was at this point, that the stupidity of the whole thing, paved way for a whole new level of stupid, and I decided to call my girlfriend and tell her exactly what was happening.

The phone rang for some time (as it does when someone is fast asleep) she answered, confused, but asked me if I was ok. No thought for my own safety, I just told her as it was. “I’m bleeding, I’m bleeding from my neck, I love you, I just wanted you to know”- At the time, I think I must have thought that saying this would be quite romantic, and that if I died she would at least know that, what it had actually done, ringing someone who was 40 miles away, was highlight just what a complete unabridged tool she was now going out with. “What happened” She enquired. I was confused, if I told her the brolly story verbatim, I’m single, I can’t lie to her though, I settled for the bare physics of the event, the brolly exploded, which technically it did, she didn’t need to know that I was the “chemical agent” in this explosion.

I can’t remember what happened to the call at this point but it ended quite soon after this. I managed to stem the bleeding; it took a while of just sitting still, and calmly. My dopey mate had sat the whole time looking perplexed and open jawed. I hadn’t helped by giving him the frankly ludicrous instruction of only calling an ambulance if I passed out.

Once I had confirmed that bleeding had stopped by touching this flappy cap of skin I looked at him across the table with completely burgundy hands and a shirt looking like I had just got in from the tomato fight in Spain. I washed my hands and asked him if he wanted a bacon sandwich, he didn’t. I went to bed and slept in a drunken but relieved way. I woke up embarrassed and had to salvage the relationship and get myself together for Amsterdam.

Right, just to be clear, this event was a one off, I’ve not had a single other episode in my life where I have drunkenly professed to be a knight and nearly killed myself with a brolly sword, I hate knights, ok, I don’t even know why I did it that one time. Are we clear? I’m not a fuck wit ok, I’m actually quite sensible, I nearly died in a shower and by choking to death on a family sized swiss roll in a car park in Croydon while bunking college, but that’s it, I need to be clear that by publishing this, you discount me as a fuckwit, it was nearly 9 years ago and the swiss roll thing was almost 20 years, are we good? Cool. [What a fuckwit?]

(a fuckwit <<<)

Sadly, and unbeknownst to my now ex. I went to Amsterdam with the zeal and vigour of someone who had somehow “cheated death” (and not just stemmed the bleeding of a reasonably bloody neck wound), and a fucking Darwin award, and so, given this bonus of extra life, would go shit or bust in Amsterdam. If I was destined to be a Darwin award, I’d decided that it was going to be the first human to legitimately overdose from cannabis. Fuck it.

We arrived and checked in to the cheap hotel, the room predictably by the fucking 6am laundry shoot, and the outlet for the 6am chip fryer on the ground floor. We dumped our stuff and went straight out, and straight to my coffee shop of choice (after looking bemused at the small men looking at the 25 stone Nigerian hookers in windows). We arrived at Homegrown Fantasy, and went through the predictable warnings of how strong their stuff is, it really fucking is, its not just weed, it’s the whole science behind it (a flash back to the first time I went to Amsterdam and spent an evening clinging onto the side of a military camp bed in a £12 no star “hotel” believing I was going to float out of the tall Dutch window and to my death) I nodded, in an attempted learned fashion, and we brought two large slices of hash cake and some shit called desert eagle or something ridiculous and headed back to the hotel room.

Ignoring the warnings to have just half a slice each, we wolfed them down with tea and then had a few joints in the hotel room. Given my mates utter drug virginity, when the stuff kicked in he started to tremble and quaked a bit, slowly rocking back and forth as he went from a reasonably competent cognitive human being, to something with the intelligence of something from the salad cart in Harvester. My concern turned inwards when too, I started to shut down like an infected Windows XP on a slow laptop. As I felt the swirliness of the hash cake kicking in, I bid my poor mate farewell and went into emergency shut down, my final vision of him was convulsing on the bed, like John Hurt in Alien, and he was whiter than a KKK member’s uniform after a Persil boil wash.

Several crazy dreams later I awoke to find it was the early hours of the morning and I couldn’t move much, I turned to see my poor mate exactly as I left him, rocking slowly like a mad Nan, I asked him if he was alright, but he answered with about as much info as you would get off a caeser salad. I tried to get up to piss but it took me about 20 minutes to get off the bed and to the toilet (which was at the end of the bed pretty much), then it was like trying to pee out of a hypodermic needle. In the actual morning, I told him I was sorry, and asked him how he had felt, he said it was “different” and not entirely unpleasant. We went for a walk, and then back to the Homegrown fantasy for more of the same. It was that night I attempted the pointless overdose which of course failed, you can’t overdose on week, you can only get long term mental illness, paranoid schizophrenia etc (shit). Anyway, I’ve admitted a lot on here, sorry it wasn’t full of stories of prostitution, fruit insertion, vaginal table tennis etc. Not my thing I’m afraid.

This story started with an umbrella, so it may as well end with one. I’m not a fan of them, I have to run the gauntlet of the different sized people rushing through drizzly London with them arched forward like a medieval battle, and the blokes with the massive Corporate ones which are wider than the pavement whishing around like a cunty capitalist be-suited Mary Poppins and the worst of all, the fucking older pratt with the shit perm, which is guarding her hair with her life. She is practically deflecting the rain, and she doesn’t care about your eyes, she is protecting her “do” with her life, looking like a shit Willy Wonka with a thin layer of lipstick she actually looks like a poodles rear end, but it doesn’t matter, everyone has their OCD, and hers is getting water on her shit barnet. I’ve had my eyes raked by an errant brollying before, it was like a drive by. I went nuts.

This morning was like the Chariot racing scene in Ben Hur, it was coming down hard, I had a brolly for once and smashed someone else’s out of the way, who was about 5ft 5 and didn’t seem to care for anyone else, as long as he was OK, I managed to slip a “you fucking cunt” in. My inner dialogue is getting louder, and my mannerisms more obvious as I get older. For example, me, a 36 year old dad should never walk behind a fucking faux fat Eminem rude boy prick walking along the train platform with that ridiculous bowl, as if they have recently had a hip replacement, not only imitating it, but pulling a School Yard “spaz face”. I’ll get caught out one day and probably punched up a bit, but I’m getting older disgracefully and things get on my nerves and I CANT KEEP IT IN...

Getting older

I’ve finally acknowledged that I’m getting older, and I just wanted to leave this marker on the web in case I ever get the urge to do anything stupid.

I’ve never really given getting older a second thought, until recently, a pretty innocuous sledge crash left me feeling like I’d been in a cage fight with a randy beard loving hippo (I never injured my anus, but I was pretty mashed up).

I’ve always just been able to do what I do and not really had never had to make an allowance for my age, its just crept up on me, I just assumed by now I’d be walking around with my t shirt tucked into my jeans and wearing sensible deck shoes with a house and a wife, the easy street that leads straight to death. Well, I can say that I don’t tuck my t shirt into my jeans…

I have noticed lately though, I get much worse hangovers than years back when I would go clubbing all night, get back and go straight out to play 4 hours of shit football (which lead my dad to accuse me of being on Heroin, he obviously didn’t research his drugs before the big talk). I get back ache, aches in general. I feel the cold; I have to acknowledge it when I fall down some stairs, rather than just dive roll at the bottom and carry on what I was doing.

I don’t dance any more (unless I’m “forbidden zone” drunk in which case I’ll break out the fucking straight up 80’s robotics and or the George Michael turn and hand clap, I don’t give a fuck when I’m hammered (MC Hammered). But most of all and from now on, I don’t get into 20mph sled crashes. (Oh yeah, I also make a weird grunting noise whenever I sit down, or pick something up, get in a car, and I’ve almost pooed myself a couple of times, erm, I’m assuming that’s age?).

I’ve got a 6 year old son, typical, full of energy, I want to keep up with him until he is at the age where we probably won’t do much together, as I will be crushingly uncool to him and he will want to be with his mates, and he will shrug and huff tut and sigh even at the mere suggestion of us doing something together. I figure I have about 5 years left, 6 tops. In that time I want to be able to kick a ball with him without the fear of keeling over, going blueberry and dying on the lawn, and having someone explain to the poor fucker that Dad’s not coming back. (PS, I was never like this with my Dad, as he was like the incarnation of Zeus and seemed to have the strength of 10 bears (until he keeled over and went blueberry coloured and die in front of me) (Someone has issues?).

Anyway, this sledge crash, or Jabba the Hut on Ice, as I call it, happened in the recent snow, I was at my mates on a huge hill, I’d improvised a sledge out of an old shop sign that was made from bendy plastic and had hardly any friction, a bit like Kerry Katona’s vagina (probably) From the moment I pushed off at the top of the hill I realised that I was more than likely in trouble. I headed faster and faster towards the bottom of the hill, and the wall of brambles and shrubbery, I thought I would have ages before I would have to initiate an emergency bail out. Turns out this was hard to judge going backwards, I managed to turn the thing around just in time to realise I was going to hit the various fauna at about 20 mph and screamed “OH JESUS CHRIST” (To imagine the son of god, head in hands while looking at the shambling state of the planet, famine, war, greed etc, distracted momentarily by the loudest cry of his name since the film, the Wicker man, only to turn round and see a fucking chunky father smashing into an organic wall, tutting, and turning back to the real suffering). I lay there, motionless, wondering if I had been impaled on something, I wasn’t, the plants were damaged, I had impaled on them, probably praying to their plant god, this was their hairy 9/11.

I walked away from it, I even had another couple of goes on the sled, and chuckled, until the next day when I realised how banged up I was.

I also had a bike crash when I was in my twenties, I came off going down a hill going over a mound so technically I went upwards in the air as the gradient of the steep hill increased below me, meaning that, according to the rider behind me, and fucking Newtons theory, I went about 15 meters in the air (I’d thought about 10) as I sailed upwards and had time to contemplate a life of being fed through a tube and not being able to play xbox, lift a pint or jerk off, I landed and couldn’t feel a thing for a fraction of a second, but ultimately walked away from that. I’ve never broken a bone, I probably should have, but I hope I never do, I got so drunk in a pub in the west end one night that I couldn’t face the stairs after a horse piss that I rolled down them like the boulder from Indiana Jones, I was indestructable. If I had that crash today, you could be certain that I would be presented to my mum in a dust pan and brush.

Getting older is not all that bad though, there are some positives, I don’t have to worry what I wear (not that I ever have) I don’t need to wear the latest trainers, Nike fucking air wanks, made from space shuttle heat tiles with the soul (yes, I said soul, they are so expensive, they actually have a living spirit) made from liquid hydrogen and guaranteed to make you run faster, this is only really apparent when some little cunt is running away after mugging you for your mid life crisis ipod and you cant catch him in your sensible deck style shoes. And labels, I don’t have to ponce around Cuntston high street trying to look for latest Polio Ralph Lauren whatever top. I am excluded from the huge Nike air bubble that exists around youngsters, and thankfully I am not old enough to be a bothersome old cunt to them, I’m in age purgatory. I can just look at them at tut while they jostle for position in their social groups and stab the granny out of each other over ridiculous rules regarding turf/respect bullshit. I’m also on the fence when I see a girl out wearing post it notes in the middle of winter, one half says, oh, she’ll catch a death, the other wants to salute the glory that is young women on the razzle.

I also don’t feel that I should go to clubs, or would be welcome there if I did, I’ve got a few years to go before I look like I am there picking a child up (as a parent you sick fuck). I think I had my shot there, and now should leave it to people who are willing to dance without a micro brewery’s worth of beer in them. I shouldn’t go either because I don’t know any of the tunes they listen to nowadays, it all sounds like a fax machine to me (fuck, how old do I sound?), and will probably scream “TUNE” and run dancing when I hear Club Tropicana by Wham without realising the DJ has played it for a wind up and then get slow clapped out, with me misunderstanding it for a rousing crowd and doing my version of the Ricky Gervais dance.

Dating – I never planned on being single at 36 (yeah?!, then why was you a bothersome fucking twat and let relationships slip through your fingers and not fight for them when the going got tough(er)?) Fuck you self conscious, always popping up in my blogs, maybe I didn’t want to fight, maybe you shouldn’t NEED to fight, maybe it should just be fun and fuck all the stupid games? (Yeah, alright, you’ve got me there, I’ll go away now) Yeah, good, get off your high horse and go and sit on the naughty step (Maybe fighting for it is actually part of it, and just fun is for fingering round the back of the bike sheds in School and not adult stuff?) WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU? (Its not important right now, just bear that in mind if and when you meet someone else) Jesus, a 3 way argument with myself, too much..

Anyway, where was I, yes, dating, I find it very hard to go on “dates” with energy and enthusiasm, not that I’ve been on lots of dates, but there was always the nagging thought, when is she going to be naked, when, when, make her laugh, naked, when? Which has been replaced with, oh, I’ve told this story several times, I’m bored of saying it (in Gary Barlow monotone), maybe I am meeting the wrong people but the thought of trying to get “dates” and “pursue” someone just seems too much for me, I guess it wont get any easier, but I do see them as like job interviews for your balls, and I suppose if I was in a nature programme now I’d probably be an old bison, having lost a battle for my patch (getting dumped for the first time recently) I’ve retreated off and now find my pleasure in pursuits of the mind, “Hey, look every one, I’ve just noticed that if you rub your hoof in the earth several times” “Fuck you old bison, I’m busy getting to the fucking”. I’m sure

I’ll be fine if I meet someone decent, life is forging me in the coals of harlots, drunkards and she-blaggards.

Right, its half nine, bit tired, might need to start thinking about bed..