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..

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).

Un-themed general fuck offery

Bad mood today, sorry in advance.

Certain things really fuck me right off, but I still keep coming back for more. Relationships for starters, I’ll not lie to you, I like women, but I hate the rigmarole involved in trying to get “Indiana Jones into the cave” all the dates, and mindless fucking chit chat, its like a job interview for your cock.

I’m not, or course, talking about an intelligent girl, the sort of girl you marry or bring home to your Parents, not the kind of girl who has a job to be proud of, funny, strong willed, independent minded, no, I’m talking about the type of girls I meet…(If anyone I have ever penetrated is reading this, I’m only joking, the only girl it could remotely apply to, is far to ‘fick’ to log on to the internet, and if you have done so, good on you girl, you’ve done well for yourself, oh… but to anyone who is intelligent, and HAS STILL allowed me to penetrate them, two points, erm, shame on you girl, shame on you, and two, generally, I didn’t enjoy our time together. I would switch off when you spoke to me about any subject. And when I did that thing where my left eye went slightly bossed, it was because I was thinking about the next episode of the Nigerian version of Bergerac that runs in my mind every night, or an idea for pork tobacco, or some other shit that was runefully* more important than the crap you were spouting**

* Made up word, but means mystically/magically so

**Sorry, My balls directly dictated this to me and made me write to verbatim.

Something (other than one of my ill conceived relationships) has gone tits up, one of the loves of my life. Borough Market, I used to go there years ago for a pint of cider, pie and mash and a sing song. Ok, it was always a bit “cheekily” priced, but it goes with the love and care and clean produce that you are duped into thinking goes into its wares. Now however, the place has gone from a lovely girl next door type, to some whored out botoxed fuck dog being jack hammered up every hole.

I still visit, at least once a month, the jostling has got too much, I wouldn’t mind if there was a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, but it just seems like mostly fucking idiots with too much money to spend, hypnotised into queuing for 10 minutes to buy some wanky tomatoes on the vine, grown on the grounds of an old concentration camp, or a small falafel wrap, for about a fiver, fuck off mate, I don’t care if you are a sixth generation falafel roller, a fiver buys you a termite mound of falafel, its fucking saw dust and water for fuck sake?

Or a bag of dried ostrich eye lashes or some thinly slice guilt, bagged up directly from a children’s home in Jersey. I sat eating a massive £5 sausage bap, ok, it was seal pup sausages or some shit like that, I was a bit hung-over, but I just sat and watched and saw “ugly” people in a zombie like state with money burning holes in their pockets. Rich Russians with puckered up wives and toy dogs in expensive bags, herds of “dickheads”, boyfriends so meek that they haven’t the strength of character to tell their silly girlfriends that their oversized dayglo coloured lenseless glasses make their silly Ellie Goulding face look even more like a crescent moon. You can imagine the bloke in the relationship, standing in front of a retro mirror trying to place that silly angler fish bit of hair in the right spot, while the girl does everything she can to look like the sort of person who would get the shit kicked out of them in the 80’s playground [Hey, wait a minute Dick, you fat fuck, its good for people to take care over their appearance, just cos you let the weather style you and still dick around like a fat cousin of one of the Gallagher brothers and have done since 1995, and what’s wrong with freedom of expression, why cant you just accept people for how they are, why should you even care man?] Fuck off voice of reason; I’ve had a bad day, Jesus, who would read your blog? Straight up accepting fucking inner bleeding heart lefty fuck, fuck geek chic, fuck Hoxton Twats, fuck Borough Marker (not the cider bloke, I want him to be my new Dad), AND FUCK YOU [Hey, fuck off fatso, enjoy sleeping alone tonight].

Another thing that annoys me (today) are titles that are not warranted, Great Yarmouth? Erm, nothing great about it, apart from when you are leaving, unless you like sand, and turd in equal amounts.

And “Fun Fair”, no, the fair ceased being fun when it was too dangerous to have arcades, kids getting stabbed over street fighter 1, and since the internet when your various cons where uncovered.

I took my 6 year old son to Brighton the weekend and we were on the pier, I watched his little face as he pumped 2p’s into one of them shove machines in an attempt to win a valueless piece of made in China choke hazard toxic shitty key-ring in the shape of a football. His little body shook with excitement and his fists clenched as the coin dropped down, sending, occasionally a tiny cascade of one or two coins onto the next level, again, he shook with excitement and anticipation only to see his coins crushed into the pile of coins that were defying physics and probably held down with an industrial magnet. I’d worked out it would have cost £78 in two pence coins to bag this key fob [Years later: So, tell me how your gambling addiction began, well, I was in Brighton and…]

The other thing that fucks me off at the fair are then silly machines with the metal feeble Grannies arthritic hand of a claw, 50p a go and its supposed to pick up a 4ft Buzz Light-year, or some other oversized physically impossible toy. The claw will, when the counter inside says its scoffed enough coins, pick up the toy with a half ounce of strength and then attempt to move the item to the collect tray, only to drop it with the same effeminate lack of effort as Mark Almonds hand grasping round the 10th or 12^th cock during that legendary urban myth group cock suck that hospitalised him (allegedly). The other thing that annoys me about fun fairs are the rides, and people, the lights, the music, the bad paintings of celebrities on the sides of the rides, everything, humbug.

Another thing, which promises so much, and then is a complete let down, are the following stores, TK Maxx. I am a regular frequenter of TK Maxx for the simple reason that some time ago I brought a pair of Adidas shell tops, special editions for about £15, they were great, I realised some months later that they were on offer because after a month of wearing they would start to smell like bloated war dead. Oh well I thought, if you are that close to my feet and you are not sucking my dick, then fuck you. (I didn’t really think that, but it sounded cool inside my brain). The trouble with TK Maxx is, although the offers are great, a genuine good offer is hard to find, its like a labelled marshalled massive jumble sale, nothing is where it should be. I was at the trainers at the size 10’s and saw a shoe there, in the 10’s that was about the size of a two man canoe. I still picked it up and checked the label, because I am a complete fucking idiot, but it was in the 10’s so as far as I am concerned it was a 10, in the end I found a decent 10 in the 6’s etc. I guess it comes with the bargains, to expect anything other than abject anarchy would be taking the piss.

Another store I love, but then hate, is Sports Direct, a fucking mish-mash of bargains and mostly a queue of about 400 generally Eastern Europeans, stocking up on tracksuit tops and clothes generally worn by that bloke in Grand Theft Auto 4.

The final store that I hate, and just hate, is Currys, I am including PC World in this too as its owned by the same soulless bunch of cuntlings. I don’t want this blog to run too long, so it’s going to be hard to summarise my hatred, but price fixing, bogus sales, biased sales staff, cockiness, smugness. You go into a PC World and see if you can get some sales assistance in less than 45 minutes. 45 Minutes sometimes to get some thin chinstrap bearded fuck hole to open a cupboard for you, only to tell you that the sale item is out of stock, surprise surprise.

I’ve had run ins with them for years, I was even 15 and had it out with the manager of the then Dixon’s about the consumer act. He was surprised at my geeky knowledge, but the louder I got in front of the other customers, the quicker he replaced my product (It was a Snes!), that he had previously said was not in stock. Fucking little cunt, I hope this bloke is in Prison right now, the only stock being checked are turds in his arse before his cell mate, who just happens to be endowed to almost equine proportions, inserts a small piece of wood into his mouth and buggers him until he tears.

Right, I’m done now, Ps, I was only joking about my ex’s, you were actually ALL cunts*

*I’m only kidding

No I’m not.