The (computer) Game of life

Life is like a computer game, you go through it, facing unrelenting enemies, taking short cuts, receiving power ups, getting better and beating challenges, or, if you are a bit simple, or from a council estate, Croydon or Mitcham, its a bit like a wii game, you will just spend your entire existence thrashing and jumping around without purpose to the annoyance of those around you.

 Super Mario World is a good example of real life for most people, for starters, the Cunt is supposed to be a plumber, in his many incarnations back to the 80's he has not done any plumbing work to speak of, he has spent most of his time wolfing down special mushrooms which make him feel "better" and chasing after women and getting into needless scraps. His entire life is just one one long holiday to Magaloof.

 In real life though, its never OK to wear a boiler suit and sport a Nigel Mansell moustache (despite how cool it would have been to watch Nigel Mansell press a button in his cockpit and dispatch a large string of bananas or a gift, that was actually a bomb which sends the car behind him spinning into the crowd killing hundreds!) In reality though, Nigel would have been arrested at the end of the race for the latter and given at least 8 years in prison under the prevention of terrorism act. It would jazz formula one up though, mind you anything would.

 Relationships-wise Mario mirrors real life, he runs frantically over terrain of varying difficulty to save a "princess" from the clutches of a larger built physically superior specimen, with, I expect a larger cock. We've all done this, trying desperately to keep our partners away from the better physical specimens while under the influence of drink or drugs (mushrooms) while searching for a hammer or something to use to set fire to the cunt. The comparisons to Mario stop when it comes to basic animal cruelty, if any of us where to go down to London Zoo, get into the tortoise enclosure and jump two footed down on the poor beasts, crushing them out of their shells, then grabbing their now empty shells, holding them above their head and throwing them onto other Tortoises, who were blatantly just going about their business and killing them too, it would generally be frowned upon, especially by woman, its no wonder the princess is not pro-active in her escape, who would want to go back to a man that is apparently out of work, addicted to hallucinogenic drugs and is cruel beyond belief to animals? Stay with Bowser love.

 Tetris compares to real life in several ways, number one, it emulates the utter futility of people in warehouse jobs, their very life a succession of boxes that need to be put into places, never ending, faster and endless until eventually it all gets too much, there is an accident, and someone dies.

 It also mirrors the commute to work, the crammed tube coming into the station to the Tetris music playing, and you have to judge the tiny spaces on the carriage and form one of the shapes and move around as quick as possible to fit into the slot, or sit awkwardly until you are physically man-handled.

 Computer games give us the means to put into action the long moments where we stare out of the window at work and day dream about other jobs/lives. I was once an incredibly successful black gang member in Grand Theft Auto - San Andreas. I ran entire neighbourhoods, had girlfriends, made regular trips to the gym, and had a healthy income stream and several houses. Meanwhile behind me, my real relationship was going to pot and talking of pots, I didn't have one to piss in. I realised I had been spending too long on the game when one day outside Baker Street station after a cancelled train, I gave serious thought to car jacking a Range Rover, just chuck the cunt out and drive off. It would be great in real life to have an energy bar and wanted level floating just above your head. It would make it easier to know who to pick on in life.

 I also won the European Championship 3 years running with Tottenham on Championship manager, I had essentially spent 2 years of my life starting at numbers and colours and suffering the artery hardening hair greying rage throwing stresses of football management. I would have been better off staring at ceefax with a candle up my arsehole.

 Power-ups - In games we are generally rewarded for achievements with trinkets that make us more powerful, in real life, these amount to the ego boost that we feel after ejaculating in, or over a girl who we once believed was out of our league (that doesn't include rape, thats just putting in a cheat code) Beating someone up and gaining extra respect. Wearing a cool pair of trainers and feeling better about yourself and life, and worst of all, going on professional development courses, day workshops, time management, where some dumpy cunt in an inline mic tells you how to prioritise your day, after them themselves turning up late to the seminar. All these things are designed to make us better at the game of life. When it comes to professional development courses I think it would be better if they were more like computer games, where, at the end of the seminar you get given a huge automatic firearm for 60 seconds with unlimited ammunition and can run around the conference centre shooting any and everyone.

 Computer games should mirror life more accurately, we have fucked ourselves and our kids up with our ability to do the undoable on games. What SHOULD happen is that you start the game with one life, when you get hit between the eyes with a 7.62mm bullet from an AK47 you don't respawn in a fucking filing cabinet in an office in war torn Russia, the XBOX scratches the disc to fuck and then explodes so you can never play that game again, not ever. One life, one chance.

This might help our generation of game addled hoody cunts who think nothing of putting a bread knife inside the chest cavity of some poor cunt who only moments earlier, felt powered up after sticking a sweet pair of Nike trainers on. And also, EA, and Rockstar games would be forced to produce a range of "real life" games, Such as Grand Thrift Auto (trader) in which you play Alan Greenford from Slough who is out looking for a new car and only has a budget of two grand, and in the game you have to travel to viewings and do test drives at 30mph. Or Activision would need to produce a game called Call of Djibouti in which you play a terrified farmer who has to save his family from drought and famine.

 I play Fifa soccer, and I put myself in the game, in the game I am slim, athletic and could play for any of the clubs and usually hold the entire team up, playing a part in most of the goals or assists. The sad reality is, that there is no stat in the game for which in real life I would achieve the 99 that I have given my virtual self, unless there was the attribute "Asthma" or "ability to eat cheese on toast". I may start again and put myself in the game with realistic attributes reflecting the truth. Acceleration - Never, Speed, 2, Stamina, 1, Shot Power 100, Shot accuracy, 0. I expect in the game, the virtual players would eventually turn on me and I would get shot by fans, like what happens in Columbia.

 Computer games do offer a release from real life and I expect in the future people will be coming home from work and shoving their frustrated dicks up something called an sexbox720, a fuck bot that is a whore in the kitchen and chef in the bedroom (?), living in a virtual gurning perma orgasmic bliss, no more periods, no more fucking moaning. And externalising of utter mundane needless shite, no more STD's and no more having to book nights in with the mates, bounding nutlessly into the pub and declaring "I've got a pass for the night!!"

 After about 2 months the above would get boring, the peace, bliss and endless mind blowing sex and eventually men would wish for real women back, missing the moaning, whining and general insignifica, men would hack the sexbox, installing an app to recreate the mundanity of most relationships, the unpredictabilty of your partners sexual needs, and the general smells and small irritations, men would miss it and yearn for it, realising that there is no thrill without the chase, the times when they have slipped out of their regimes and have legs like Chewbacca, the moaning, whining, insignifica, and all the FUCKING WHINING, EXTERNALISING AND MOANING.....

 Fuck you fuck bot. We love women, and I would never stick my cock inside a machine (again). Subnote: The above relationship testimonies bear no resemblance to any relationship I have ever been in and are fully based on what I hear from colleague and mates, any resemblance to a relationship I have been in is purely coincidental. (Oh, apart from that one bitch, who was like Hitler with tits and genuinely made me consider suicide).

Ho Ho No

Its almost that time of year again, the time when you over-indulge on everything (otherwise known as any day in Lisa Riley's house) to celebrate the birth of a beautiful man who would only end up dying after getting nailed, no not Freddie Mercury.. In the coming days every single advert will be backed by the sounds of sleigh bells and bunches of sanctimonious bleach teethed jumper wearing cunts all sitting around pretending to enjoy the family get together over an over stuffed bird with a horrid neck (Not Kerry Katona).

All products will try and align themselves as the thing that makes your Christmas, DFS start their christmas campaign in earnest from about June, and promise you endless orgasms and a washboard stomached mixed race hunk with big beautiful afro hair, or just some anal sex interested leggy slut if you are a man, but only if you buy one of their corner sofas for four nine nine on 5 years interest free credit. Pringles have gone the whole hog this year and completely shoved Christ out of the way, and are declaring "Merry Pringles" as if in some way their fatty artery clogging crack cocaine covered fried powder snacks embody the meaning of Christmas.

They would have to go a long way to catch up with Coca Cola who have turned Santa Claus into the worlds biggest killer of teeth and starter of type 2 diabetes with his fleet of 18 wheelers. Its only a matter of time before tampons start coming with little bells on the ends of the strings, this will make a festive rattle, and also give you an idea of who to avoid at the Christmas party..

 Aftershave/Perfume ads attempting to bamboozle you with perfect specimens rolling about on satin sheets having toothy liasons over background shots of a night time illuminated Paris or Milan, the reality being the tacky packaged scent barely overpowering the smell of your partners BO, ballbag or fanny sweat, the mere thought of them spraying it over their paunchy body leaving you swilling your own semi digested dinner round in your mouth. Eau de Toilette, Eau do fuck off.

 Marks and Spencers believe its tradition for them to have an advert out, something memorable, the only thing memorable about M&S is their mens clothes, which are all memories from the 70's when women were women, and men were Bullseye contestants, and rapists.

 Then there is the mass headfuck of what to get the kids, whats in? What are they into this year, what do I do with the entire chest or shit from last year that they enjoyed for about 10 minutes, battling around the shops trying to buy a Furbee for Timmy, thats great, you can now sit downstairs getting cunted on Gin while Timmy talks to some bug eyed hairy gibbering cunt for fun (no, not Tony Blackburn).

 To get a furbee you are going to have to go out and fight other parents for it, a shoving match against some chip fat coloured scrape backed haired Lonsdale clad cunt from Mitcham who is buying her presents with either benefits or a crisis loan, or just generally stolen money. And even worse, is those with older kids who are web enabled, they want Iphones, pads, laptops, tablets, they will then look these up on Amazon or Argos and if enough money hasnt been spent they will start self harming, screaming they wish they had never been born through spot popping pus riddled rants.

The same families who only months before were wondering how they would cope when the price of milk went up 5p now out in a blind frenzy swiping more plastic into slots than Susan Boyle with a new dildo. You also have to deal with the over enthusing, usually council housed young Del Boy type who puts up 4 terra watts of christmas lights that confuse all european air traffic, and gets his ugly family on the news as the family that love Christmas the most. In these repulsive VT's the Dad usually has a knife out of shot and if any of his family do not enthuse his annually more ridiculous light display they will be murdered that night, and not put back in the cellar/incestial rape cave where they no doubt live.    

What you don't see with these is in the new year when the electricity bill arrives for tens of thousands of pounds and the silly cunt burns his house and family to death in a final humiliated display of light.

 Christmas day itself is usually a huge anti climax, the thought put into the presents repaid with about 10 minutes of interest and then that looking around to see if there is anything else, like a fat person when they get to the bottom of a family sized packet of crisps, and then just spending the rest of the day watching retarding television while getting horribly drunk on top of a repugnant amount of grub that would probably kill the Man Vs Food guy. By 8pm it is estimated that the average Brit will have eaten 8kg of salted peanuts, 4lbs of meat in the form of boiled ham and turkey, 16 roast potatoes, 9 Brussel Sprouts, a further 12 roast potatoes in the form of crisps, 11 mince pies, 2 tea spoons of christmas pudding (just being polite because it tastes like eating an alcoholics faeces) 12 cans of weak lager, 9 whiskey and cokes and 1 walnut from the wasteful bowl of them that sits on the sideboard EVERY FUCKING YEAR?

 While eating the dinner you will pull on Christmas crackers and read out jokes that are so unfunny that they will actually start a cancer in some people while wearing silly paper hats watching one of your older relatives falling a sleep (yup, heart trouble). You desperately want to break the dinner table tedium by saying the most inappropriate joke, probably about a high profile child abduction, or if stuck, just a racist one.

 I got so bored one year that I set fire to a christmas cracker. Because its crepe paper it all started to flicker away and the table cloth caught fire. I was beating it with my hand and my mum came running out with a large saucepan of water, I was relieved, until she poured it on my head and walked away. I had to beat the fire out with my hand. I love my mum.

 You spend the next 3 days eating the same shit, but cold and, as you get older, wondering how the fuck you are going to shed the weight and consider joining a gym like all the other sheep OH BAAAAAH BAAAAH, Ohhh, listen everyone, I've made a new years resolution, I resolve to never BLAAAAH BLAAAH BLAAH BAAAAAH, BAAAAAH, please, this year, resolve to sit in a locked car with a hosepipe fed round to the window and take deep breathes, please, your very sheep like existence causes misery to all around you. Just ask them, please kill yourself you fucking boring bah bah cunt. Cheers!!

 Then comes new years, if you partner hasn't cheated on you already at one of the many Christmas do's then this will be the final opportunity (until St Patricks day) to get some extra curricular cuck* (*cunt/cock). If you have gone out, you will be surrounded by hordes of whistle blowing wankers, girls in hot pants who will wake up wondering why the inside of their legs is covered in a chalky substance and also why they are pregnant, and blokes who wake up in A&E after pissing the tip of their liver out.

 You've probably paid 40 quid to cram yourself into some little fashionista fancied Shoreditch shit pit and wait 45 minutes to get in the line for the bar, to pay a tenner for a bottle of becks. In ten years time you wont be able to differentiate the various news years from each other, just vague memories of vomiting and shoving your index finger up some flabby bobbled gaping labia or, for girls, the misty memory of some pauchy shapeless veinless tub of turd rubbing his hook shaped demi-cock into you on a pile of coats at a house party.

 Happy Christmas, skip a present and plant a tree, do something nice for the earth Now cheer up you miserable cunts!! Xx

Geoff and Lorraine - A Romance Part 2

Geoff stood in Lorraine's kitchen, drunk and lusting, slowly swaying around in a circle, like a child's spinning top, once eagerly spun now coming to a slow stop, or more accurately, swaying like a drunken feckless Northern cunt, which is exactly what he was. Lorraine had gone to the toilet, now regretting that chicken dhansak that was playing havoc with her arsehole, an arsehole, it should be noted, that Geoff wanted to drill like a pile driving device on a building site.

Lorraine tried in vain to freshen up, daubing talc on her messy organ, which looked a little bit like a young David Gower after a head first fall 15ft onto a large lump of flint. As she poofed the white powder, a fart crept out making a tiny white cloud, she rushed to the toilet realising that she was “turtles head” except this turtle had come a cropper in a large blender accident. As she sat and strained a large fart hailed the coming of a hot stream of magma hot post curry shit, she tried to stifle the arse grunt with a cough but this just made her fart again, the entire ensemble sounded like an angry brown bear stubbing its paw on a well build art deco style sideboard. Geoff heard, but was so busy thinking about turning Lorraine's fanny into a hot hairy chicken kiev.

Lorraine was firing out hot chocolate now in pulse with her arsehole sounding like it was attempting to do human beatbox, and was worried that she might even shit herself if she had sex with Geoff, like something out of a German specialist porno, it was too late to go back now and thankfully the heiny heaving ceased, and she now only had to deal with the smell, which was a bit like a Bombay riverside massacre on a hot day. To get rid of the spell she sprayed impulse, hair and fly spray and even lit a match, making sure her cloud like perm was well clear of any of the naked flame. She left the toilet ashamed but knowing she had done her best to mask her arse carnage. She made small talk coming out of the toilet, “It would never have lived, its eyes were too close together”, chortling nervously.

Geoff too needed the loo, but being a boring typical and usually racist spice tard chicken Korma cunt , his guts were better off, as he entered the toilet the mix of various chemicals hit him hard, like the Kurds in Iraq that Geoff had seen all dead on the news and didnt care much that time. He instantly began to wheeze and realised he had left his asthma inhaler in the car next to his cigarettes, trouble was, his car had been destroyed in a fire 5 years earlier. Geoff wheezed and farted his way through a horses piss of semi filtered Mild ale.

While he was in there he started to have a little kneed with his balls and prick trying to get the blood going, it was like a sad reproductive smaller scale version of the pottery scene from the film Ghost (God rest your soul Swayzee, I love you). Not much was happening in Geoff's nether regions, and this wasn't the first time. Nervously Geoff left the toilet, a final fart following him like some weird arse stalker, he too made small talk, “fuck me, if this smell hangs around much longer it will end up claiming asylum” laughing, Lorraine laughed nervously and offered Geoff a drink, she went to her scantly stocked fridge and offered him a small can of beer, she poured herself a large tia maria.

There was awkwardness, the electricity of the factory flirting was now replaced by the reality of how little they actually knew each other, Geoff had been married before and Lorraine had had a few men come and go, literally, nobody ever stayed until the morning after firing their balls baggage up her. Eventually they both made their move, at exactly the same time, moving in and donking there foreheads, reeling back and composing themselves Lorraine grabbed Geoff's hand and led him towards her bedroom, Geoff wheezed as he passed the toilet which still smelt of a mix of eastern spices, hot shit and beer fart. His penis was practically internal.

Lorraine's bedroom was decorated in the manner of a woman who was no good at keeping a bloke, her bed was adorned with stuffed toys from her childhood and loads of toot everywhere, pointless keepsakes and other such shit that make some men such misogynists. Geoff paid no mind to this childless bullshit, bent down to put his small beer on the floor, farting as he did and saying “more tea vicar” and started to take his brown high polyester content going out suit off. Linda was removing her dress, her un-sun kissed lard coloured skin with several large moles did enough to distract Geoff from her horrid off white bra and knickers, Geoff took down his pants, that were that were sadly the only garment he was wearing that wasn't brown, they were in fact also off white, the off white was actually brown, a skid mark from an over ambitious fart. He tried to hide this from Lorraine but she saw as he pulled them down, he quipped “me pants have got go faster stripes” thrusting his hips and making an ohh sound as he did, breathing some life into his comatose organ which looked like a forlorn Kojak looking dejected and at the floor while wearing an awful baggy prawn coloured roll-neck.

Lorraine pulled her knickers down her pubic hair region was large and unkempt and looked somewhat like a Roman Spartan defending off an attack from a Yeti with his shield, or 70's Dave Lee Travis photographed from above. Lorraine lay on the bed, there was still no life downstairs, the penis was acting like it was having a relaxing evening on a pair of large beanbags and had taken the phone off the hook. Geoff decided to bide some time while going down on Linda, he gently pulled her legs apart looking at her fanny which breathed out it odour in the manner of Darth Vader taking his helmet off to reveal the head of a cod. Geoff tentatively stuck his tongue out, like an ill dog pondering over eating its own shit. He received a small alkaline shock as his tongue touched her crèche kebab. This wasn't going to help re-establish contact with his coitus claw, which hung lifelessly between his legs. He ran his tongue up and down, it was like licking Kevin Keegan after a cup final, Lorraine moaned, but it was akin to the moaning of fat matriarchal type, moaning that the rubbish hadn't been put out. Geoff thought dirty thoughts and tried to get his mind back to filling her up with womb humous and finally he got a line through to his penis which answered tired and effortlessly like a pole vaulter on a final jump managing to vault under the bar, there was some life in it and Geoff concentrated hard and imagined he was on a hot beach eating a mackerel flavoured cornetto. Suddenly he was in business and now there was enough saliva and asthmatic phlegm on her cuntrance to garner entry. He moved up, trying to be like a puma on the prowl across her shapeless body, but managing to look like a Labrador cross wrenching in the final throes of distemper.

As he moved up Lorraine had a bit of a curry cramp and moved her leg sharply, kneeing Geoff right in the balls. The erection retreated like Italian soldiers in WW2 and suddenly Geoff was back where he started, trying to salvage his paltry erectile remnants. Eventually Geoff managed to summon enough to get something inside her and he heaved away on top of her, he pulled out at the final minute to spray his Onken over her woeful mishapen and sagging breasts, he watched down as the piteous streams came out of his half awake member like a very small moray eel vomiting bechemel sauce. Opening his eyes and looking down, he realised that the muller yoghurt was actually a fruit corner, he gasped and realised that there was blood in his semen. Lorraine shrieked and ran to the bathroom to clean the ghastly effluent off. Geoff instantly went into a high state of anxiety about prostrate cancer and promptly considered a cab home.

They spent the next few hours in awkward silence while outside the night was suddenly filled with the sound of a fox getting run over by an Austin Maxi, they both stared out of the window as the twitching ginger beast lie there with its own entrails coming out of its mouth like a repugnant speech bubble.

Suck my digital inter-cock

I confess, I am a technologically quadraplegic. I understand the concepts and I know all the new shit that exists, for example, phones that know you are looking at them, which probably suggests some sort of power saving functionality, but in my paranoid brain merely suggest that Samsung have a grubby avi mp4 file of EVERY single galaxy s3 user pulling a dirty stroke face while wanking off over one of the glut of free porn sites over some bouncy silicone cum magnet in high definition. Similar to this is the xbox kinect, which has 3 cameras so staff at microsoft probably sit there laughing while you move like a complete cunt playing some ninja game, or drive like an idiot with a pretend steering wheel, or again, titter at you while you rub away in a crumpled fuck huddle, waiting for a spunk genie to emerge from your meat lamp.

I've coped for years without delving into the shiny world of the latest technology. On the news I always hate the usually fat single man who sleeps for 3 weeks outside the apple shop in Oxford Street to get his wanking claws on the latest tablet or iphone which is only a little bit better than the one out last year. I imagine the sad little cunt cant wait for 4G to come out so he can get his pointless little shit spits about life and pictures of cool sunsets up onto the internet and underline the fact that he probably burns at night in almost suicidal loneliness, but at the same time feels safe with the digital umbilical cord that all this tat gives him and hopes that a he will meet a kindred spirit on the digital super highway. He wont, he dies alone, some brain ailment, caused by all the rays and shit from his tech tat.

 Anyway, fuck him, back to me. Like deliberately holding a piss in and then, finally, while in white hot pain suddenly exploding it all out is so satisfying, I have finally started to delve into the world of tablets, androids and touch screeny shit. Its hard to justify a tablet, in comparison to a laptop, its a bit like befriending a multi limb loss amputee, they can do stuff, talk and what-not, but when it comes to big tasks, they just sit like massive frowning peanuts, confused, dribbling and eventually crying. That said, able bodied mates (laptops) can be right twats and want a massive night out, when all you want is a phone call and a quick chat.

So with that really quite offensive analogy in mind I brought myself a blackberry playbook, for 129 quid (no pound sign) I'm writing on it now, and its really good. I brought it home and the girlfriend pointed at it and then laughed at my penis, girls don't like gadgets, they think its a weakness in men, she has since happily accepted the one I brought for her the next day, and then got her mum to buy herself one. I thought it could do an array of things, which is does, without me having to go through the aztec ritual of getting my old huge laptop to power up, which, if I start at 6.30pm will be on the log in page at 11pm, the next night, after making the street lights flicker and causing a power outage in parts of Kent.

 I don't read many books (as you can probably tell) but one of the tasks I had in mind for the tablet was an "ebook reader". I'm going away soon and I thought I would buy a couple of books from KOBO. I like reading factual stuff, or Jeffrey Deaver. Being new to this I was expecting a logical pricing to books, given that rather than it being lovingly printed, trees felled, covers with that raised gold lettering hammered into it by midgets, it would just be a whispy data fart down a phone line, the cost would be much less, given there was no actual product, just the memory of one? To my horror, and repulsion, in most cases, the ebook was more than the actual paper one, I was horrified, and a bit angry, to be honest, a little bit of piss came out, so flexed where my muscles. Some books were free, classics, but from thousands of years ago, Dickens, erm and other ones (see, I don't read much) but who wants to read that "oh for art thou" shit today, its 2012, people used to have sex with Swans, but we don't do it today, because we've moved on. So thanks but I don't want a free book about some Tudor mincer poncing around wearing a neck ruffle trying to impress some ye olde bitch.

 So fuck eBooks and KOBO and Kindle, I hope you get electronic paper cuts on your inter-cocks, I refuse to pay more for something that I have to use my electricity to read and then cant pass on to a mate or give to a charity shop. How can the price be justified? Its the equivalent of going from paying for sex, to paying more, for a girl to pretend to wank you off over a webcam. You feel the vaginal warmth with a book, with a download, its nothing, not even a peck on the cock. The whole experience then got me thinking about digital media in general. MP3's. When you buy an album, you get a little plastic box, the CD, the inlay, the artwork, the lyrics printed out, and images of the band, either working hard or simply chilling in the studio intermingled with some arty swirls done by some silly earthy girl in fake nerd specs who the entire band are have fucked in every conceivable hole and they are putting arty farty crap in to return the favour.

You are also paying for the pleasure of being served by some omni pierced dozy half open eyed cock ring sporting cunt cabbage in HMV, and pay the rent for the building he is in. Its still overpriced but I get it. How then, when clicking on a button and downloading the entire album in less time than it takes to punch a seal pup in the face, can they justify the price of an mp3 download being close to the original, it serves to do two things, it makes people more prone to downloading illegal copies, or getting copies from mates, without the DRM to worry about. For the actual band, they are probably oblivious, if its a good instrument based band then I would hope that the buzz is the playing live and filling up gigs and getting a decent cut for their efforts. What they probably don't realise, is on releasing an album, some cokey prick is celebrating on a boat somewhere sticking his tardy semi erect penis up that silly Shoreditch tart who did the artwork bits, there is too much unfair distribution of money in music, boy bands, corporate placed urban groups and manufactured bands, I have no pity for you. I hope that you spend your working days washing the taste of your "mentors" STi infused semen out of your mouths and arseholes, that every single young fan illegally downloads your album and you disband after an especially messy group suicide attempt that leaves at least one of you confined to a petri dish. Fuck you, the simple rule is, if I can make your music on a laptop, its shit. You are there simply as the grain that is forced down the necks of the fois grais ducks that are your young fans, they don't have the intelligence to make an informed decision and will just listen to you because everyone else is, the touch fuse of this mass pillow clutching finger fuck is programmes like Xfactor and American Idol. You will listen to anything, because you are told to.

 The only way to save our kids is for EVERY single manufactured band to commit suicide by self immolation outside the office of their record label and for the surviving members of Led Zeppelin to be declared Masters of the world or something. Another solution, is for a large established artist, who also has so many millions in the bank that they are doing it out of love of the industry, someone like David Bowie or Thom Yorke to start a website called something artist direct dot something or other and host and promote bands using their clout and then offer downloads, or streaming, direct links to tour details and then make sure that the band gets a good distribution of the money, the lions share, but offer tracks at a price where the album can be purchased without artwork for a fair price, I don't know, 2 quid or something? (Oy, that website does exist, its called blah blah) Yep, I know, I said it needs some clout, not some failed cunt signing up any old shit because they are from Shoreditch and wear 22 inch waist jeans, all look like they have aids and play difficult folky songs about lost love, no fuck you. A bigger version of that. Cut the cunts out of the loop.

Fuck HMV too and Ticket Master while we are at it. Everyone making their cut for doing too little at the behest of the artist. Times need to change. Same with eBooks, cut out the middle man. I understand that this will put a lot of people out of work, but lets face it, most of the (girls) who do insignificant tasks in music or publishing are quite tasty and they can easily move over to porn or at the very least topless modelling? Solved.

Tene-grief

Tene-grief I am a simple Brit when it comes to holidays, I don't usually delve into the rich culture of countries, no shove that up your arse. I want simple things, sun, beer, and food, all in over the top glutenous amounts. If its not asking too much, what I dont want is anyone else remotely like me, I fucking HATE Brits on holiday, I hate their accents, I hate their sugar addled children.

 I was desperate for a holiday, work has been a struggle, I am fucking up almost everything I do in the manner of a car starting to weave from side to side before the driver gives up trying to regain control and puts his hands over his face and goes into the central reservation at 90mph turning his once happy family into charred Rustlers Burgers.

 I dont like the whole to-do of getting to somewhere, wherever it is, the airports and their collective of useless staff will ensure that it will take you at least 14 hours from arriving for your flight until you have the dissapointment of putting the card in your hotel room door and seeing that they have given you the room next to the fat fryer outlet, laundry shoot or next to the couple who fuck all night and make it sound like he has a pneumatic drill for a penis.

 My day started miserably. Trying to get a beer in the Wetherspoons at the airport where the long streak of piss barman was deliberately avoiding eye contact with me, instead serving people who (rightfully at 6am) wanted coffees and breakfast, I only wanted a Guinness. Every time I step onto a plane I assume that at some point my body will be ripped from the fusilage and be rocketing to earth in -50 degree air before my fall is miraculously broken by huge fir trees and I survive, only to be raped by wolves with aids and slowly dying from various animal be-buggerments. I want a last drink.

Eventually, when he had served three customers, I called him a cunt and a long streak of piss and storm off, to the disgust of my girlfriend, my mind full of images of my hearty rump being pumped full of wolf semen to the tune of enthusiastic howls. Then at check-in I had the displeasure of meeting possibly the thickest and most incompetant person of all time. A dozy Spanish version of Dorian from birds of a feather, who could not, for the life of her, find our flight. She argued with us saying that it didnt exist and we must be in the wrong part of the airport, she then asked us to confirm the date for her, and she looked up and down her hastily written roster of todays flights before finally finding out from a colleague that our flight did exist and then after several goes confirming that we were on it, I gave up all hope for my luggage and just hope that it enjoyed its holiday wherever it was going, as it was odds on that this paella eating fucking wreckage of a woman could not summon up the congnitive function to get it on our flight.

 The flight slowly started to fill up, mostly old people, this scares me, I try to imaging the passengers faces in the newspaper report (about the crash) and I can hear the news reader stating that 90% of the passengers were mercifully old, I'm not you cunt, im 38, a sub report would state that one passenger, is still missing, assumed dead, but probably being raped by wolves. The other reason I dont like to be on a plane full of old people is that one will probably die and the plane diverted to Afghanistan or something. Fuck 'em fly on, dump the piss addled cadaver off at the destination airport, I dont mind sitting next to a corpse, I just want to get on holiday.

 I am back in Tenerife, the Island of two sides (which I wish I read about before), this essentially means that one side is nice, and the other is shit. There is a huge fucking mountain in the middle, on one side it seems to reflect the sun off, and your holiday will be like a week living inside a George Foreman grill, on the other side this big rock bastard produces non stop clouds and rolls them over onto the side I am on. Its been non stop rain so far, this must be the place where Spanish people settle because they are tired of the sun, Its rich in vegetation and trees etc, the perfect place to experience the bleakness of the Lake District in a wet Autumn. I cant see how it could be possible for it to be hot here. I desperately wanted to return to work as red as Sebastian the Lobster in the little Mermaid, gloating while my colleagues sit depressed and lard coloured with their arteries hardening at the very thought of Christmas approaching. This is not going to happen. Because I've been confined to the hotel with a very bad case of all inclusive pig doggery, the best I can hope for is to not return with some sort of organ damage and still be able to sit on my office chair.

 The one blessing is there are hardly any British here, they probably read up first and are all over the other side of the Island sweating in the sun with their fat ugly girlfriends with omni folds of fat, like origami with the edges rounded off, returning with such a deep tan that it can only be described as "crackling" and a gambit of STI's. What we do have here though is almost 90% Germans. Dour faced older couples trying to "efficiently" have a holiday whilst avoiding smiling or saying thanks for anything. All of the men look like they were stars of 70's porno's and never changed their image, just grew older and larger, all looking a little bit like disgraced housing ponce M.P Frank Dobson. The women have shortish brillo pad hair and all look like they spent the majority of their youth gently smashing their face onto a huge slab of marble presumably as an apology for that thing they did. The younger German men look like variations of a special edition Patrick Swayze Mr Potato Head. That said, I am much happier spending my time on holiday with Germans than British. I don't want to speak to them abroad, so I am desperately trying to conceal my Nationality by doing what can only be described as a German Kermit the Frog.

The weather in the first couple of days is terrible, the rain is so hard that it can only be described as "cunting down", so much so that there are news crews out in the town square, I think a building has flooded, and there have been several car crashes. This leaves us confined to the hotel, both saying that we are not fussed by the weather, and just glad to be away, but secretly inside she is cursing my choice of staying here. This leaves us confined to the hotel, which is now starting to spring leaks in various places. I attempt to recreate the force of the rain with the pace that whiskey is gushing down my throat. The Spanish bar staff to their credit appear to pour sympathy measures, the sort of size you do at home shortly before having a row and breaking the house up. The spirits here are generally local piss, the worst of the bunch is "Jerkoff" vodka. The food here ranges from quite nice to dire, when there are Germans around there is lots of meat, usually veal, its important that something has suffered in order for them to truly enjoy it, the lower end of this are sausages, the meat in them is so battered and processed that I would imagine that it is collected off the floor of the abattoir AFTER the Rustlers Burger team have left, they taste of nothing, just the mild smokiness of the skin.

 All inclusive also brings out the true pig in you, I find myself one evening with a plate of canneloni and brussel sprouts and other bizarre intercontinental culinary mash ups. I've emailed the team at work to tell them to get rid of my human office chair and replace it with a Jabba the Hut style plinth, the girls I work with can argue amongst themselves as to which one will be Leia. Day 3 and the Sun finally comes out, its peeping from behind the clouds like a ginger kid with jug ears starting at a new School in Newham. We rush out to get a sun bed, no doubt the older Germans are already there having "stormed" it earlier after popping themselves into tight speedos and their women in ill fitting bikinis. The men are leathery, they look like Michael Bay has filmed a weird furniture based Transformers movie in DFS, where all the sofas have transformed. By the time me and the missus have got our shit together the sun has gone back behind one of the taunting cloud formations shat off by the mountain. It eventually comes back out and we finally get some colour, her pink, and me just the colour of embarrassment, or tinned salmon being eaten on Gay pride.

On day 4 the sun is out in force, cancer strength and we manage to get two sun beds. I don't believe in sun cream, I don't like putting anything on my body where I cant read out the ingredients, anything that starts dimethasulphate cant be good for you, the missus thinks I am stupid, I explain to her that there is a global conspiracy to deprive the human race of vitamin D and she stares at me puzzled, I ask her to name 3 food groups where you can get it from naturally, she cant name any, my theory is not gaining any weight (unlike my body) and she just thinks I am a bit of a pratt. Starting to feel like a hog roast I eventually smear myself in the horrid chemicals but its too late, I've burnt and am condemned to spending the evening looking like a typical Brit abroad. I spend the evening drinking gin despite being reminded several times that it is a depressant. This is confirmed to me in the morning when I just feel like crying and throwing myself off the balcony for no good reason. The only thing stopping me is that we are only high enough for me to possibly be in the next paralympics?

 The entertainment here is OK, but much better than the only other place I subject myself to it, which is generally caravan parks. A guy in polka dots ponces about to the entertainment of children and all I can think about is Saville, the nations psyche has been completely shifted and now, anyone who has a vested interest in the entertainment of children is a paedo who should be chemically castrated and then shot between the eyes and his body minced up and turned into the pieces of ham in those horrid dairylea lunch boxes, this should be the only way they end up inside a child. Another day there is a trio of Motown singers that are actually quite good, the lead singer is handsome and does a Spanish song which I can definitely caused a mass wettening amongst the ladies, this guy probably spends his days travelling around the hotels and fucking. Lucky bugger. An older German woman gets up and does that horrible slow dance that older women do which looks like a house plant dying speeded up.

I expect she is hoping the have these three stallions in each of her holes later, but ends up going back to her younger boyfriend who looks positively palid, probably from having to pump on empty while this sexually irrepressible saxon hag screams orders at him sternly. I'm sitting here on day 5 my face so tight I feel a bit like Dale Winton after botox and a break-up, I'm still goggling over last nights entertainment, an old bloke with 3 dancing poodles, they walked on two legs and could count. I wouldn't have been surprised if they could open their own tins and renew a TV licence online. They were incredible. The old fella was a pro and this was an act that would have got into the last 8 of Britains got talent. Sadly, the only future I see for this act is the Spanish police kicking his door down and finding his half eaten cadaver surrounded by the growling free from oppression beasts with reddened muzzles and blood stained woolly fur, one holding an electric bread knife before being shot dead by the Police and the entire flat jet washed out and re-rented within 24 hours.

 Bill Tarney has died on the Island just yesterday, I don't know where he was staying but I only hope his last meal was better than the pork I ate last night, which staying in the Coronation Street theme was so tough it minded me of going down on Bette Lynch (as i imagine it) . Bless him, I'll raise a glass of whiskey to him later. The entertainments biscuit was well and truly taken last night, I will describe the act in detail but I don't expect you to believe what I saw happened, it did, my brain is still compartmentalising it, its stuck between surreal, amazing and down right fucked up. The poster had promised a kind of ninja/juggler, I was obviously curious.

 The evening built up and the bar area was full of the usual sour faced Krauts, Spanish, and a few more English, that had now paired up, and were probably talking about cars and golf. The "Ninja's" assistant came out on stage dressed for the Dads, a tiny little dress revealing the entrance to an arse of the like you only usually see on the 900+ channels on Sky. The "Ninja" came out, about 50 years old, embodying everything about a prolonged mid-life crisis, dressed in a see through chiffon top and leather trousers the band "yellow" starts playing, horrible samples and synths played by two Germans who look like sex offenders, it was popular in the late 80's, look it up.

He started to do some unimpressive juggling and I felt like I was in the Phoenix club, every time he achieved something his pneumatic assistant would yell "Opa!" (as a prompt for the crowd to clap, if you had missed the trick) probably 3 years at drama school to end up tagging along with this meat head and having a bunch of dads phwoaring at her arse and tits. After some tedious throwing stuff about and balancing some stuff on other stuff, including the most fucked up thing I have ever seen, balancing several glasses on a violin bow and then playing some eastern european folk tune, you had to be there, but you've never seen anything like it. He left the stage and his assistant came back on dressed in even less and did a little dance, it was not connected to the act in anyway, but was probably written into her shoddy contract, five minutes of attention for her, in exchange for the fact that the act was probably pumping her and spraying a load out over her chest while screaming "Niiiinjaaaa" and her "Opa!"before going back to his parchment faced dowdy wife.

 He reappeared now dressed in full Ninja regalia, sweaty and armed with a Samurai sword and started to swing it around madly, like he was trying to swat a fly with it, about 2ft from the faces of some Euro children who were both cowering and staring in fear and disbelief. He switched weapons and did the same with a pair of "sai" without swishing noises, throwing oriental weapons around at speed just looks ridiculous, this is not helped when the person doing it is over 50, and German. Several "opa's" later and the tangible feeling that at any moment a group of dads could rush over and gang rape the assistant after over powering the old fart (to be fair, he would kill about 10 first) and it was onto the main act, which consisted of firing a ninja dart from a ninja catapult onto some presumably ninja balloons, blindfolded, and I couldn't see very well (as spent much of the time staring at the assistants arse) but I believe he may have been lying on a bed of nails while doing so. The children all held onto their parents, the parents moved the kids in a sly manner to form human shields.

The Ninja was now sweating like Hasslehoff lying on the floor drunk eating Pizza, and even I slid down in my chair thinking about the white hot pain of a steel dart entering one of my eye balls. He burst the three balloons and the assistant "Opa'ed" with aplomb, (after a third costume change).. This wasn't enough and he now fixed a long bolt to his feet and was spun on an office chair to burst a final balloon. He did it of course, and we all left with intact, apart from our sanity, it united Europe in the sense that English, German, Spanish and some French all collectively stared on in total disbelief, he milked the applause at the end, which only had the vague clapping sounds of Dawn French's arse cheeks slapping together during a 3am naked walk to the cake larder. The whole thing made me feel quite bad for the overall legend of the Ninja, once feared assassins that dared to enter the homes of Samurai, paid killers that acted on stealth and guile, now any old cunt who puts a balaclava on can call themselves one, and huff and sweat their way through some fucking side show act. Its a bit like the martial arts equivalent of the Aberdeen Angus mark, that was once proudly stamped on beef that lives up to its high standards, and now you'll find on the side of a fucking Burger King burger.

 I left thinking about a juggling act that I would like to perform with the assistant (that involved my balls) and tried to get drunk, ultimately having a bad night and smoking homosexual cigarettes until my insides felt dry. I'm on the balcony now, and I am literally inside a cloud and its raining harder than you can imagine, I kind of just want to come home now, its Brazilian girls tonight, dressed up like a trans-gender big bird from sesame street, I expect these ones will be ropey as fuck and will look like a leather sandel with tits. Who knows? Surprise surprise, the Brazilian girl dancing show was another one for the Dads, the girls had soft porn bodies and threw themselves around with speed and youth, one of them looked a bit like Alesha Dixon with learning difficulties, but in the circumstances that was still pretty nice to look at, another was all tits and teeth, tall too, I sat tactically, I knew at some point these three harlots would be dragging men up from the audience, they did, but ventured far into the crowd and I was a bit worried, not because I would have a problem with three south American style beauties shaking their bits and bobs around me dressed in tiny skin tight bikini versions of the national Football team, but because they would probably expect me to dance with them, my body does not have a Latin mode, I am your uncle at a wedding, unless I'm hammered, in which case I am an extra at the back of the MC Hammer "you cant touch this" video.

 Its always awkward watching stuff like this with your girlfriend, it would have been the equivalent of 3 hunks in trunks gyrating away and dry humping the ground with cocks like smuggled adders. Collectively these three girls had no body fat or body hair but the reality is, for most men, a night with one of these would leave them a wheezing premature ejaculatory sweaty wreck with the girl pointing and laughing at him. These girls could milk the population of Brazil out of a mans ball bag in a couple of twists and shakes of their firm rumps. Give me a normal* girl any day. *No direct signs of mental illness, use of limbs, low sense of self worth and easily pleased.

 After a row in the morning, the day ended nicely by using the Jacuzzi bath for what it was meant for, and not what I was using it for, which was to clean my sweaty boxer shorts.. Its the last day and its still raining and cunts downstairs are drilling the entire car park up, so no siesta today, I've slept about a months worth here so I cant moan. Tonights entertainment could well be the pick of the week. From the poster, it essentially looks like a cross between Chris De Burgh and a convicted paedophile, he is promising latin tunes, but in the poster has a yamaha keyboard that can be brought from Argos for under 200 quid. I'm not expecting much. Watching the news about the BBC here is a bit upsetting, I expect when I get back, every single programme will be a protracted apology, eastenders scripts will be altered to just be the entire east berating anyone with anything to do with newsnight or they will just erect a pyre and sacrifice Tess Daley to an audience of flaccid wanking Lords. I expect the only mistake made by the Beeb is the fact that the accused wasnt actually a paedophile, but a beasto-necrophiliac, no smoke without fire..

 The TV here is just awful, its either Sky or BBC news (Worldwide) so I almost ejaculated when click online came on BBC. Apart from that, its just been the same news stories over and over, Britain must look incredibly boring to the rest of the world, the other channels were generic Euro shit, the sort of stuff that used to have porn on in the 90's, no such luck. Cigarettes are a fifth of the price in the UK, which is annoying. I dont actually like smoking, but I will buy anything at the fifth of the price, sanitary products, an arse dildo, a bargain is a bargain, even if it causes cancer, anal tearing respectively. Sub note - Babies Guaranteed to ruin any holiday, or most things is your fucking baby, wheeling it into a restaurant, plane, pub like some midget emperor, well done, you cunt- shat out a most likely pointless addition to the already over populated planet and now its screaming and your parental impotence is giving me a peptic ulcer. You have no idea what it wants as it sits there screaming like a Turkish women who has just lost her entire family in an Earthquake. What it probably doesnt want is you standing over it cooing and clicking, and it certainly doesnt want to be in this restaurant/bar surrounded by garish voices and oafish behaviour, fuck off back to your room and get it on your tit, which can be all it possibly wants, not have chemical formula milk rammed down its scream pipe?

Babies are essentially (to those whose child it isnt) self obsessed little shit sacks and I would ban them from everything and their tired bitter looking parents, which will be a good thing as it will mean that one of its parents will need to raise it from home and stop dragging it around with that poor me expression on your fucking faces. I know that sounds harsh, I am not a fan of babies, they are mostly pointless, and a pelvic design flaw in humans has meant that we need to spend the best part of 2 years waiting hand and foot on some whining little cunt, tending to its every whimper and 2am scream. I envy animals, the females will shit it out, lick its head and then nudge it as it gets to its feet clopping about like a first time ice skater before trotting off and doing the animal equivalent of going to University (and probably being eaten by a Lion). The parents are never bothered by it again, but know that their DNA foot print is safe on the planet.

Our reward, 18 years of need, greed and problems before being told we are worthless old cunts and our children going off to live in a crack den and then coming back to tut when they have to sign the paper work on your paupers funeral. The last nights Chris De Burgh latin sounds Keyboard Paedo was too much and we walked out after two songs and went upstairs where the missus got food poisoning which was no fun. The flight home was full of the usual wankers, joyless white Plan B type cunts who cant even construct a basic conversations and ever close their mouths between words, possibly because of they possess such a weak cognitive ability that they have to breathe and talk at the same time, thankfully, because they probably had a week in Playa Las Americas drinking fishbowls and trying to finger skanks they fell asleep on the plane, the only regret of this is that if we did crash they might not be awake for me to masturbate over them while they screamed for their mothers. Which is personally how I would like to spend my final moments of life.

In summary then, Tenerife should simply be renamed in order of extremes of STi's as an indication of how many cunts are going to be there, as a template we could have Playa de las Aids, which would be full of British firting their weak DNA up anything warm and fanny shaped, Los Chymida, which is bearable, but has its fair share of twats and Puerto de la Thrush, which is just mildly irritating and can always be solved by dipping your bits in a tub of Onken.

 If anyone is interested in paying me to fly around the world and slag things off, please contact me..thanks in advance, no not you Saga, you cheeky cunts.

Oh, and I got engaged out there!