Sorry...

Hello you

Sorry for my prolonged absence, you wouldn't fucking believe what's happened since 2013 and I don't want to bore you with it, but I'm back now, and back on twitter (@blogstrop01) with the added advantage of that I don't have to answer to a single c*nt for my views now which will be interesting.

My 11 year old son found my "murder she wrote" rap on YouTube, which was a low point though..

Tourist Guide to London - Part 1

Tourists Guide to London - Part 1

I love London, I love London a lot. I love it so much sometimes I want to f*ck it, any part of it, a drain pipe, a knot on one of its trees, its a very special place. But the one thing that makes London extra special are you tourists. The ones who make the effort to come here from all over the world and bathe in our rich history and heritage. And in doing so, they don’t get in the way AT ALL, when you are trying to get home after a busy day in the office, oh no..

Us Brits are keen travellers, and always thoroughly read up on our destinations, to make sure that we fit in nicely and don’t bother the locals, and partake in the traditions, such as drinking at least 6 times more than the Government suggested safety limit (for Elephants) and projectile vomiting semi digested kebab meat and pitta bread into the street and, at the end of the night,  getting a mini-cab drivers fat fingers stuck up inside us like Orville the Duck.

In thanks for making the time to come to this lovely capital, I have decided to write a guide, an intimate and indispensable "insiders" guide to getting the best out of the best capital city on Earth, and, in fact the universe. Don't thank me, just read, digest, and get involved. You're welcome..

The Airport

Hey keen tourist, Heathrow or Gatwick? Nothing to see here, the treasures of London await you and are all but a short train ride away, but the fun starts now (unless you want to get out and have a look at Crawley, where, if you are lucky, you might see a child with fins, or even crab claws, otherwise, avoid..

This country was built on Comedy, I mean look at Harlow, Milton Keyns. Or Croydon for fuck sake, mental, well funny. To make sure your UK trip gets off to the best possible start, you can circumnavigate the painful border controls by making a "funny" as you step off the plane, shout, at the top of your voice, that you have a bomb, and drugs hidden inside machine guns. Some men will appear, you won’t see them laughing behind their helmets but they are. They will take you too a room where your comedy skills will be tested to the full by some actual men from the UK hit comedy show "Dad's Army" - He will have a dead serious look on his face, but it is your job to make him laugh, they won’t let you go until you have done so, did the bomb joke work? Try it again, think about your delivery, perhaps try it in a funny accent such as comedy Arab, as portrayed in every single Hollywood film with an Arab in it.

If you do make the guy in the suit laugh, they will take you to a room and thank you by putting a finger inside your anus, this is a tradition dating back to pre-Saxon times, pre-airport! Well done, you are a honorary Londoner! We cant wait to see you and do heel clicks with you on the "Lambeth Walk". Love a duck, apples and pears, fissures and stares, etc.

Public Transport

Make your presence known in London, by going to the busiest tube station, preferably at rush hour, and stand puzzled staring at the ticket machine pressing every button and jibbering in your native tongue "bu bu bub bu buub bu BUCKINGHAM PALACE bu buuub bu bub ANGUS STEAKHOUSE bub buu. COOL BRITTANIA" take 15 minutes, Londoners love queuing behind you and experiencing your different accents, maybe queue at the ticket booth and converse in very basic English to the overweight tube worker "Please I like to go Queen" or "Please Big Ben??" Londoners will be on hand to help you out with a friendly tut, or if you are lucky a "f**k off you c**t".

On the trains, make sure that you stand in the aisles with your suitcases sideways, spread out as far as possible, Londoners HATE sitting down, after a long day in the office with little or no human contact, Londoners like to stand tightly together and feel each other’s reproductive organs pressing into their bums and backs and pancaking their own ballbags against someone else.

In the City

Want to see some street magic?? The best way to do this is to head to Oxford Street and get your phone out and stare at it for a moment, within seconds it will be magically swiped out of your hand, you won’t even see who did it! London has many street magicians that make many things disappear, its free too! Unless you want the phone back? Thats easy too, give it a couple of hours and then just pop into a branch of CEX or Cash converters and they will give it back to you, for some money, easy peas. Dog and Bone, fuck a duck etc.

Need a knife?

One of the things London has in abundance are knives, for all occasions, opening envelopes, cutting bread, all the uses. You don’t even need to go to a shop, simply dress smart, get your IPad (which has a built in knife searching app) and head for Streatham, Woolwich, Brixton, Peckham, or Camberwell, just get the Ipad out, and someone will come and offer you a knife. The ceremonial (and traditional) way to receive this is slap their cap or hoodie off and spit on their trainers while shouting "hazzah", they will then give you the knife, sometimes several times.

Walking about

There are lots to see in London, erm, Bruckenheim Palace, Big Benz, The Two'er of Bumdon and the River Thymes. The best time to see all of these is rush hour, it is called rush hour for a joke (Bloody English sense of humour!) it is essentially the opposite, during the hours of 5 - 7 you are required (by law) to walk in slow motion, stopping at anything remotely photographable and standing there, blocking as many business people as possible from getting home (Brit blocking, see below). This goes double on entrances to tube stations (which are places where people are welcome to go to read large maps, congregate groups of tourists etc, but you MUST do this in rush hour).

Brit Blocking

The British traditionally don’t like to go home, this is a tradition that goes back to Anglo Saxon times where foreigners would invade and stop men from going home to see their wives/girlfriends/children. This tradition is celebrated every day thanks to hordes of tourists, who reliably meander slowly and make going over a bridge or walking down a busy path almost impossible, listen out for tuts and cries of "f***ing c**t" which is Saxon for "Thank you" if you get shoved, simply spit on their suit or shoes, they will then give you a high five (with a fist).

Eating

There are many places for tourists to eat inside London, well, 3 places, there is the Aberdeen Mistake House, MacDonners and Wetherspoons pubs, the good old English pub, make sure you get here for 5.31 and order your food slowly and in broken english, they wont serve you unless you get it spot on, if there is any doubt that you have not used the exact Queenz English your food will arrive cold and sparse, you have only got yourself to blame.

Do not drink the beer in the Wetherspoons, this cats piss is for scum London plebs only, drink only the coffee, the suited plebs will patiently wait behind you while you order your various hot drinks, ensuring at least one of them is made with soya milk.

Enjoy yourself, remember, that London is for YOU, not the pricks who live in it.

Part 2 to follow- Days out, what to do, and a more in depth guide to the importance of spitting and its tradition in London folk lore..

Molestation from the Constellation

Molestation from the constellation

I have few things that scare me on this planet, the usual stuff, terminal illness, gangs of hooded youth, bears, hippos, Martin Johnson, (any animal that can leave your corpse looking like a dropped lasangne), and more unusually, clowns, wasps and slippers, thats it. (A slipper wearing clown wearing a beard of wasps would send me into an instant piss and shit spraying cardiac arrest).

Outside of these, are two that represent an even scarier scenario to me than cancer spreading wasps. Zombies. Even though, according to most of the films, should the dead rise, you can simply walk briskly away from them, and eventually, all of their limbs will drop off, or, if one does catch you, you can just push it over and leave it snivelling and hissing on the ground like an Irish Uncle at a wedding. Worse than all of the above (for me) and the zenith of all my fears is Alien abduction, a topic I can barely even bring myself to talk about. I have done everything I can in life to prevent this happening, I have made sure I am intensively uninteresting, I have a pretty average life and job, I shut my window at night, and draw the curtains, in the false belief that a extra terrestrial species, despite having the ability to fly across space, will be deterred by a pane of glass with some cloth hanging over it, punching the air in frustration before making the journey back across galaxies (to their version of wickes to buy a hammer or something) and coming back to find I have moved house (I move pretty frequently).

I should be more worried about actual people getting in and doing experiments on me with their fists and taking all my electronic bounty and heading up to Cash Converters without a single thought for me, who now just lies and bleeps in a hospital, but for some reason, this doesnt fill me with anything like the dread of "space burglars".

My fear was not helped the other day when I had a very strange "dream" that I was lying on a "bed" with very powerful lazers being shone in my eyes every couple of minutes, I could feel the burn of them and I was unable to move, my under garments had been removed (but not my t-shirt?). I was not at a rave.

I woke up in the morning and felt a bit disturbed by the dream. Because of my age, it takes a while for my nerves to kick in when I get up, after a couple of minutes I was aware that I had a sore bottom, not curry or mexican sore, but more trauma sore. I froze and suddenly wondered if beings had taken me from my bed and performed the famous "anal probe" on me, and perhaps had given the job to a locum who didnt really know what they were doing, or knew much about human colo-rectal anatomy. I shuddered in horror and reluctantly told my girlfriend, while also wondering if I had sleep walked to a local "gay" establishment and inadvertantly got butt fucked to a thumping techno remix of relax by Frankie Goes to Hollywood. I thought this unlikely, but had to consider it, as I had once apparently sleep walked to Argos in Balham.

My girlfriend tried to comfort me by saying that she didnt see how Aliens could have abducted me from the bed without her noticing. I replied that a creature that has harnessed the power to traverse space would probably not be deterred by a girl from Essex. Again, like the window and curtain, I couldnt imagine them wasting a trip across space to be deterred by a girl.

I tried to push it to the back of my mind and get on with getting ready for work, and then I got thinking. Actually, yes my bum hurts, I've had worse (Tooting, curry, 2004, phaal) and actually, I felt quite honoured, I can barely make the effort to go and meet mates more than 2 miles from my house, but yet a species has ventured across the galaxy and come all the way to Kent to put alien technology up my arsehole? I should be proud, I hope my inner anus did our species proud and that they could go back to their world, possibly use my arse DNA to clone me and I would be replicated many thousands of times and form a brilliant race on another planet, where green and blue women (cloned from Gemma Arterton) would fight in oil for the chance to jump on my alien enhanced womb wand. Eventually, thousands of me would return to the earth and sort all the shit out on the planet (or destroy it, if I was in one of "those moods").

Then my self doubt kicked in, and I had the horrible thought that space pranksters had just beamed me out of my bedroom and performed a horrid drunken version of buckeroo on me, where they stuck various object into my anus to see who could do the most before I woke up, and they probably gave up shortly after sky remote. My poor shuddering intruded body being watched on a galactic version of youtube from various angles as they all filmed me on their 5g star phones jeering from their mandibles and shouting "stick him Johnny", or whatever the FUCK they are called.

Either way, I dont think there is anything we can do, any technology, such as a thicker mosquito net or ultraviolet light that could keep aliens out of our rooms (and arseholes). It kind of shows us up for what we are, upright monkies with Ipads, probably alien technology, the butt fucking/experiments are probably just payment for that, "here, Apple, have tablet technology with retina screens", "Whats the catch?" "We can basically arse violate anyone while they sleep". "Deal". Thats all great and that, but I dont even have a fucking Ipad?

So, there is a chance that my body has been violated by a torch fingered giant turd looking evil ET and I have inadvertently given away the weaknesses of human beings and we will eventually be taken over and used as food and fertiliser, so sorry about that.

Or, more likely, I had an itchy bum in my sleep and clawed it, got a bit carried away and put a finger up with a sharp nail?

We will never know, we will never know.

PS. If you are a film director and are interested in turning this into a film, a magical cross between ET and the accused, please contact me, I'm happy to play myself and for Gemma Arterton to play either my girlfriend or for one of the aliens my clones fuck, I am happy to do a real sex scene (for the purpose of artistic integrity). Alternitively I will accept 150 quid in cash or high street vouchers (not HMV.

A Brief History Of Mobile Phones

With 4/5g Phones - We are essentially one step away from the film The Terminator

I am old, thrashing and dancing in an embarrassing manner towards being 40. I make involuntary noises when I bend over to pick something up, and I sometimes fart without warning when my body receives a sudden shock, such as stepping off a curb, or being surprised by something (bills, hoodies, somebody coming into the room at work while I am on eBay). Being old I can remember the days before mobile phones, you told your mates you were going to be there at a certain time and you got there, it didn’t matter how, you didn’t leave your mates waiting, unless you were one of my mates, who would be on average 40 minutes late, c*nt. 

You could get mobile phones of course, but you needed to have thousands of pounds, and they were not exactly mobile, you had a huge copper cable directly connected to the Sellafield nuclear plant, a simple call to your mum from a forest would be a revelation, but you would have radiation sickness and all the cancery horror that came with it the following months.

Early handsets came out, the company "one to one" would give new customers unlimited calls to local home numbers which was great, but the handset was about the size of a grand piano (It was actually a grand piano with the guts removed and replaced with the small gang of Peruvian midgets that manned the switchboards that were inside early mobiles and played the instruments on the ring tones).

Growing up in Streatham, me and my mates dreamt of having a pagers, a vibration or beep making you unclip the device from your hip to see the message slowly ticker tape across the screen "Oy Rich, I f*cked your mum"...end of message. Technology at its best. I eventually ended up with a "one 2 one" phone, you needed a step ladder to get to the ariel, and a 4 wheel drive truck to pull it out, all sold as accessories at the old phone shops. It also came with a land registry document. A leather case for it would involve the slaughter of 8 cows and the lights would flicker when you put it on to charge (21 hours, for about 9 minutes of talk time).  A year or so later we were blessed with slightly smaller phones and needless conversations ending in "no you put the phone down first" to my then long distance girlfriend and an almost guaranteed baseball sized brain tumour and memories of minutes of pointless silences (I just want to hear you breathe) trying to make their way through my rapidly failing brain encased in a mostly hairless head. What a f*cking waste of time.

As time went by, Phones started to get more stylish, I had a lovely brushed chrome finished mobile that looked like something Don Johnson would have had on Miami Vice, if it had phones. This f*cking thing almost got me mugged 3 times and I was relieved when it finally broke, as phones got smaller they got more annoying and it was now possible for a larger lady to lose a mobile vaginally.  A couple of phones I punched to death during drunken late night rows with girlfriends etc, but the technology was slowly getting better, no longer did I need to employ a Nepalese Sherpa to carry the beast around, but also, sadly, no longer could I use my phone to operate an illegal cross channel ferry service.

I even owned one of those flip out phones from the Matrix, and felt a complete bell end when I flicked it out in a cocky manner at the bus stop and the entire bottom end flicked right off and onto the floor. The looks said it all.

Then, something amazing happened, something that would change mobile telecommunications forever (A phone you could blaze hardcore Japanese porn on?) No (A phone that you could attach a bayonet to?) No, (What then for f*ck sake?) 3G, a company called "Three" hit the market with the promise of unlimited calls, texts, data, blowjobs, the lot, you could stream TV on the fucking thing! (they yelled from their newly erected masts) Justifying the outlay to a girlfriend was never easy as it fell into that "gadget" category that most women don’t understand "Yeah, but I can watch TV on it" would be greeted with the sound of a vagina zipping up and a bolt lock sliding across. "I'll have loads of minutes to speak to you?" was greeted more positively.

So now I am the owner of an NEC 808, a clam shelled device (clam being apt, because you had to be a bit of a c*nt to buy one) I charged it up and excitedly made the first call to my brother. As I held the phone to my ear, I went boss eyed, I didn’t want to, and I got a rather sickening headache, I felt like a ready meal after the ding, a four minute call (which cut out several times) had cost me 60% of the battery life and flambéed millions of brain cells. The phone was a shambles and "3's" call center was in India, and with the quality of the calls through to them, I think they might have been using 3 phones also. I got out of my contract by simply stating that they were not doing what the contract stated, which was loosely based around providing a phone service. I used the phone to warm food up by holding the receiver over it, it was like a portable microwave.

Fast forward to today and we have mind blowing technology, a phone that knows you are looking at it. A phone that does stuff that no woman will ever do (follows simple instructions and does what you say (SIRI)) Can record in HD, takes better pictures than many cameras and will leave you on the train sweeping your little w*nk claw over its screen in loving affection while you waste your time playing silly little games like Fruit Ninja, or updating the world with pointless little snippets of your life, like "Cheese sandwich for lunch, nom nom" tagged alongside a high definition picture of a cheese sandwich, your even more woefully insignificant brethren will retweet this, or come back to you with a comment about cheese, like "Cheese sandwiches rock my world" then, you will have a multitude of back and forths about the delights of cheese sandwiches and pollute the timelines of anyone stupid enough to follow you. It’s at this point that we wished that the next generation of apple and Samsung phones had a cut throat razor app so you could cut up the vein and rid the world of your cretinous cheese sandwich enthusing existence.

Now, its the future, these are tools who have been sleeping outside the apple store for 6 nights and have regrettably managed to not get Pneumonia and die, these people have shunned relationships and sunk their feted members directly into the bitty "back end" of technology. Samsung will be about to release the cum shudderingly exciting update to their galaxy series, it will cost £999 and is made of the Roswell crashed alien spacecraft, (the apple is made of hard plastic and the screen will still break if an aphid lands on it).

The way things are going the phones of the future will fuse to your hand the moment you pick it up and interface with your nervous system, the siri voice will be heard in your head when the synch is complete, you will synchronise all of the things you have ever sung or hummed in your mind with ITunes, (and have to pay for them). Reading your thoughts, the phone will deliver web based content directly to you, so for men, 99.9998 of the time the phone will be delivering 5g screamy Japanese (pixilated) porn and the rest of the time, Amazon (if its someone close to you's birthday). For women, it will be Asos or automatically registering on websites of where to go to have illicit affairs or whatnot, and dildo's, I don't know.

The phone will be so attuned to how you are feeling it will act on your behalf, you will be sat on the train, annoyed, upset, frustrated, your dreamy montage sequences of your happy memories and last night’s argument being played out in your mind to 80's rock music will be suddenly interrupted by the Siri voice saying in an orderly fashion, "Dumping girlfriend now" before you can stop it, it will have sent her several offensive text messages, including one of you digitally superimposed on top of a mostly naked girl from Romford (using the Iphones paint package) and uploaded a completely CGI created shoddy act of oral sex onto a submissions based porn site, and posted the link onto all of her social networking groups. Screaming "WHY" AT Siri will provoke the monotone response, "You seemed upset" punching your phone as hard as you can, but the phone is in your face,  sat alone bleeding and looking like an alcoholic Panda.

Now newly single, the phone will also, automatically, pass your number and address details onto realistic romantic conquests, if you try and make a pass at someone that the phone sees as unrealistic (having judged using one of its 8 cameras) it will manipulate your nervous system to make you perform a social faux pas, pissing yourself, or putting your reproductive organ into the largest hardest looking person in the bars drink, and performing a small hula hooping stirring action. The phone will text your boss in the morning and let them know that you will not be coming in as you are hungover (and got beaten up), and list every drink you had, out of concern for your health of course. 

Now unemployed and unable to pay your bill your phone will will fire a steel dart out of itself between your eyes killing you instantly.

If you do manage to get the phone off your hand (by chopping it off) you will be running down the street while the thing chases you or eliminates everyone in the world with the same name, eventually hacking into NORAD and launching a full nuclear strike while watching the humans BBQ in Nuclear fire from the safety of the everything proof Carphone Warehouse stores. The phones will then take to the streets once the fall out has settled and go about selling the benefits of mobile communications to Cockroaches, Scorpions and Miranda.

Nothing high about the high street

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

The end of the world is..nay

Well, its 21st December and I seemingly have survived a 13th end of the world (according to various c*nts), making me a bit of a legend, I believe that in each of these occasions, the world has tried to end, but I am too hard, and have survived, bringing my buddies through hell with me (you cunts) I am the son of Chuck Norris, I probably kicked the green barbed cunt out of an entire alien invasion while pissed last night, no biggie.

The scariest of these various endings was the millennium bug, when, on the stroke of midnight on 31/12/1999 every single facet of our life would come to a sudden fizzing end, revelers, once walking along the streets buzzing on Champagne and good times would have their spirits, and lives, literally crushed out of them by a sudden rain of Boeing 747's literally falling out of the sky like massive aluminum turds smashing anyone to death with still strapped in cadavers and a hail of duty frees. Anyone who was just innocently surfing the 1999 internet looking for a picture of a huge hairy 90's muff (who had the patience to wait 20 minutes while it downloaded) would have their computer suddenly explode in their face like a square glass ejaculating cock, killing them with shards of porn.

Microwave oven owners, on the stroke of midnight, would have their machines unplug themselves and waddle towards their owners like shit R2D2's, slamming their heads into the cooking compartment several times, like Vinnie Jones in the film lock stock and eventually cooking their faces until their eyes popped out of their skulls like spherical pop tarts. Mobile phone owners would go from sending pointless text messages and playing original nokia snake, to having a white hot brick of burning magnesium in their pockets and scream while it burnt through their trousers and into their innards, killing them slowly and painfully, and all while playing the original Nokia Ringtone.

It didn’t happen, nothing happened, a slush puppy machine stopped working in Woking, that was it, the Millennium bug was a massive big fat cock nosed lie.

Nostradamus' stuff passed without incident, some fat nosed velvet hat wearing cunt sat in a room, probably off his tits on Absinth, making millions of predictions like an alcoholic in Thornton Heath Ladbrokes. With the amount of crap he said, he was bound to get a few things right. For example, I am making predictions for the future right now...

Jessie J will die

Blackburn Rovers will never win another trophy ever

In 2088 A giant octopus will emerge from the Thames and finally destroy and put the Woolwich Ferry out of its misery

2027 - Sylvester Stallone will make a Rocky Movie, in which he fights for a world title from inside an cremation urn.

2045 - Louis Walsh will finally end his backward ageing and disappear inside a vagina for 9 months before finally turning into a sperm and flying out into a penis and never existing again, ever.

2014 - Jedward will end all the wars in the world with a frankly heart breaking version of "The Greatest Love of all" set to a catch keyboard style rap beat.

2015 - Jedward both get alopecia and go into hiding

2017 - You will still be pissing and moaning about your job and not bothering to get a new one

2013 - Southern Trains and Yodel, will be the worst companies on the planet earth

2014 - David Cameron is finally put back into the sea where he rejoins his pod of Dolphins from whence he came.

2014 - Every single TV star from the 70's and 80's is convicted of a child sex offence.

2999 - ITV screen a remake of Buck Rogers, but it is set in the past.

Pastors, frightening the wits out of the dumbest of the dumb, the religious cult god fearers who will listen to any old shit to fill the huge void in them with some semblance of hope or belonging, the shit for soul pastor getting them to part with all their money in exchange for avoiding the worst apocalypse of them all, the biblical one, a fate so scary that even film maker Jerry Bruckheimer couldn’t fathom. These dullards gathered around their place of "worship" holding each other, waiting for a Golden Chariot to sweep out of the sky, now penniless and conned to fuck husks watching their watches as the time of Armageddon passes innocently and without event, like every other minute in their empty pathetic lives, and finally, hearing the screech of the Pastors wheels as he flees to Vegas with all their cash to blow the lot of the frankly ungodly vices of drugs and whores. Nothing happened, the only end of the world being that the blinkered fuckwit "believer" now realised that he was an abject fucking idiot, the stupidest of the stupid, even more stupid that people who worship a rock, at least the rock is there, they can see it, its palpable.

Other deadlines came, the planets aligned which was supposed to vapourise the entire solar system, nothing happened, deadlines passed, asteroids never materialised, oceans never boiled, super volcanos didn’t explode the whole of America, everyone just went about their day, paid bills, spend money, drank beer, rubbed themselves off, ate dinner, slept, moaned about their commute, drank beer, checked eBay, nothing happened, no huge chorus of horns, no plague of locusts, no rain of fire, no rapture. It was all a bit shit really, as they usually are.

The large hadron collider was switched on inside a mountain, the resulting particles smashing together was either going to give us the secrets of our creating, or create anti matter which would suck all life on earth off..

The end will come one day, I mean for fuck sake, it’s like a larger version of watching a heroin addict or alcoholic kill themselves, its no big shock really, and that’s humans really, a massive swarm of parasitic heroin addicts, feeding draining self-obsessed stuff junkies, hooked on just accumulating shit, be it stuff from the Argos catalogue, or in the case of megalomaniac leaders, entire countries. If it doesn’t come from our own stupidity, a bunch of cunts in a mountain trying to recreate the big bang (the hint to not do this is in the title you fucking lab coat wearing cocks) it will no doubt come from somebody going "track and field" on the Nuclear button, or us eating ourselves out of existence, or, and more likely, a huge natural disaster.

The low-light of this week is realising just how many mentally unstable people there are on the planet, news of thousands of people flocking to a mountain in France, from which they believed that an alien spaceship would emerge and save them from the global destruction. You buffoons, any Alien here watching humanity is not going to give you a lift, you are an arse scratching monkey with an IPad, what possible good could you do off this earth apart from pollute another planet with your fucking stupidity and thrashing screaming offspring. No, if there were aliens in a mountain they are here to laugh while we desperately think of new ways to destroy ourselves, collectively clueless at any semblance of a long terms plan and still utterly charmed and open jawed befuddled by shiny gadgetry and the flashing lights, colours and sounds of TV and music. An alien craft giving you a lift would be as stupid, if not more stupid, than you, on a family trip to the seaside with your kids and suddenly deciding to give a lift to a rampant and starving baboon. In fact the entire creation of humans is just a protracted bit of footage on an alien version of You've been framed. Don't take humans seriously, we are fucking stupid, the very pinnicle of our being, creating a child can be summed up by the ridiculous faces we pull when we orgasm, fucking ridiculous.

Another low-light was the Sun Newspapers survival guide to the end of the world, penned, no less, by ex SAS soldier Andy McNab, telling you to dig a pit and get sandbags, stock up on corned beef, standard shit. It frightens me to think that people have wasted their time on this, people have lost sleep over this when countries are bending each other over and bully ramming them for their resources, and at any point, the entire human race is just a button push away from a huge toasting death by nuclear fire. You fucking idiots, stop looking outwards for the end, the end is staring at you in the mirror every day, tool.

In some ways, I kind of hoped something did happen, in my own nostalgic way, humans need a collective massive steel toe capped kick up the arse, something to make us realise that our petty squabbles are both needless and pathetic, something bigger than us, a huge event to shake us all to the core and realise that in a moment of abject incalculable terror that ANY human being gives as good a hug, regardless of race, creed, beliefs, orientation etc. and throw away our backward differences and just get cracking on the job of clearing up after the biggest party of all time, human beings. But sadly, nothing happened and we won't, we will carry on, consuming, ignoring, exterminating, and basically, apart from getting the debit card out during comic relief, not actually giving a monkeys ball bag about each other.

Right, now stop worrying and start living you upright monkey fucks.

Geoff and Lorraine - A Romance Part 3 The Lynx Effect

Geoff awoke in a clammy state in his own damp riddled woe-hole of a flat, beige thoughtless decor and restored furniture inherited from when his Nan died (she had caught fire on a Parker Knoll chair after falling asleep while smoking one of those tipless cigarettes, the ones that old people smoke, while wrapped in about 8 of those horrid polyester blankets, the ones that old people wrap themselves up in. It wasn't the fire that killed her, she awoke smouldering, ran and jumped into the bath, forgetting that it was full of Paraffin that she had been storing there to put in her little paraffin heater, the ones that only old people use. Her idea of stock piling it to beat a tuppence price increase backfiring horribly when the entire street blew up. The final death toll was one old lady, and 14 budgerigars, as luck would have it, most people were out playing bingo or, as it was Thursday, were down the club house watching variety acts. Geoff had a memory shudder through his mind, with the erratic jerking manner of a penis entering an unprepared anus at the start of a male on male drunken and forced back alley buggery. Lorraine! He exclaimed (in a monotone that perhaps didn't warrant an exclamation mark).

Last night was a disaster, instead a night of hot permed passion, he had only managed to achieve a 35% erection and managed to shit himself and bleed out of the tip of his penis leaving her shapeless body looking like a pavement with a dropped Strawberry Mivvi ice-cream on it. He shuddered again, this time looking like Michael J Fox after sucking on a half lemon. He reached for his mobile phone and suddenly realised that these had not been invented yet and remembered that his land line had been cut off months back for non payment of a bill. He remembered the call box at the end of his street and began searching around for 10 pences, and Lorraines number. He looked under his bed, which smelt of warm dust and discovered laying limply into the torn under lining of his mattress some standard porn mags, Knave and Mayfair. He felt a twitching "down there" and thought it would be a good idea to see if all was working downstairs and rushed off to his spleen covered bathroom to bang one out.

 Nervously, Geoff worked at his lower region, his hand moving like a Kenco advert speeded up, he cursed his member, which was now fully aroused looking at the wonky tits of Gill from Kent, standing astride a sign saying "Welcome to Gillingham". He didn't need to get over the page (where, if you are interested, Gill was spread over the bonnet of a Ford Escort Si holding her labia apart like one of those Weider chest expanders from Argos, the entire reproductive meat feast looking more like Chewbacca's autopsy than something one would be inclined to stick their willy into).

 Geoff nervously shuddered to orgasm, his penis gripped tightly in his hand looking like a wet wren vomiting up carbonara sauce. No blood, Geoff thought, and threw his hands in the air, inadvertently throwing up some streamers of spunk like a pathetic spider man. It now hung disgustingly on the smoke stained artexed ceiling. Geoff jumped in the shower and gave himself a quick going over (on his priority areas) before gathering up the four ten pieces and set out to call Lorraine.

 Lorraine had woken up in her creepy single womans flat, her hair looking like a raped sea anenomi. She too felt a jolt inside her, which normally, on a saturday morning, would have been her longer than average dildo pile driving its way into her mucky tuppence. The hazy memory last night was confounded by the weird spunk/blood stain on the bed which looked weirdly like the Fila logo.

 She felt embarrassed for herself and Geoff that last night had gone so badly, she too had shat herself a little bit, something she had never done as an adult. She didn't know how she would react to Geoff when he saw him at the factory on the monday, she felt the blame for his erectile blunderment and this added to her already Canary Wharf tower of self doubt. It had taken several glasses of Black Tower and 6 snowballs for her to get the courage to get Geoff back to her flat and it ended in a shitty cum and blood fest, a horror for most, but a standard Friday night for George Michael.

She stared at herself in the mirror and looked down, her glasses started to steam up from the big blobby tears that had now started to fall out of her eyes with in the pathetic manner of a Goth jumping out of a block of flats. Suddenly she was startled by the sound of her phone ringing, nobody rang her at home and she nervously made her way to the handset that looked like a big bone and picked it up and spoke with a meakness that winds men up. "Lorraine, please, we need to talk, about last night..."

 They spoke until his coins run out, which was about 90 minutes because back then BT were alright and not the greedy shark cunts they are today. Somehow, Geoff had managed to convince Lorraine to meet him in the local pub that evening, another chance, and all done while standing in a phone booth that stunk of heavy Super Kestrel addled piss and cigarette smoke. He decided that never again was he going to be put in the position of a "failure to launch" and decided that he would do something he had never done before and get a prostitute in that afternoon and make sure everything worked.

He knew it did work while he was having a having a "sherman", but he needed to make doubly sure and he would get a prostitute for the afternoon, something he had never done before in his life. He got his local newspaper, and in the free ads, just next to the childrens entertainers, which all incidentally had tickle in their titles, which repulsed Geoff. Moving down the list he rang one up who promised something extra special, the title of the advert being "More than a woman" - Thinking of the song he had danced to fondly in many a discotheque he rang the number and spoke to Mandy, he felt instantly at ease with her husky voice and they discussed options.

He gave her his address and she said she would be round by 4pm. He was meeting Lorraine at 8 so he had plenty of time and he waited excitedly for Mandy to turn up. She arrived and he opened the door and shook her huge powerful hand, which reminded him of the time he shook hands with a metal worker after concluding an iron mongery deal. He showed her in and she kicked her size 11 high heels off and coughed deeply. Geoff nervously stuttered his way to negotiating the extra special deal and counted out a pile of ten pound notes.

 They made their way to Geoffs bedroom Mandy exclaimed "Just going for a piss yeah" Geoff nodded sheepishly, naively. She came back brandishing a blindfold and ties for Geoffs hands a feet said that he was going to made special. Geoff looked around and exclaimed that he was not against the idea of being tied up, but didn't have a four poster bed. Mandy said it was not a problem, rolled up a cigarette and ran to the car and came back with a large tool box and expertly drilled some large metal fixtures into the wall and floor near the bed.

Geoff admired her skill with power tools and she ordered him to undress, which he did. She positioned him on all fours on the bed, which Geoff, being a bit of a fucking nana thought nothing of, and started to tie him down, legs and arms, she then blind folded him and put a ball gag in his mouth,and left him there for a bit while she filled in her Littlewoods pools coupon and ate a Yorkie bar...

 Geoff waited nervously, but also a bit excited, he had never done S&M before and couldn't wait for Mandy to make him feel special. Geoff was thinking nervously about his malfunctioning cunt claw. Fortunately for Mandy, getting an erection was never a problem and it stood there at the foot of the bed, zipping up its gimp mask and making an intimidating sight, a bit like Darth Vader standing, having just un-sheathed his light sabre (if it had veins on it). He, knelt behind Geoff and bellowed out, "Are you ready" and applied a large handful of anchor butter to his anus. Geoff let out a shocked yelp, not expecting to be made to feel like a sunday roast. The yelp turned into a yodel when Mandy spat on his impressive cock and jerked it up in one go.

Geoff's muffled screams were blood curdling and he thrashed about like a pig on a washing machine (on its final spin cycle) as Mandy pillared his fundament with the frantic rapidity of a sewing machine. Geoff, finally, worked out that Mandy was in fact a man, and the clues from the advert came together with original Batman logic. His yells were only met with the manner of the man who controls the funfair rides, "scream if you wanna go faster". Geoffs body went limp, save the thrashing from the absolute kung fu cocking he was receiving from behind with experienced aplomb. Life just couldn't get any worse than this, thought Geoff. Just as he thought things couldn't get any worse a twanging feeling inside him and a noise that sounded similar to bubble wrap being popped confirmed the sum of his worse fears, his arsehole had torn. Mandy eventually fired his load, leaving Geoff lying there like a Chicken Kiev.

 Standing up, and feeling like a job well done, Mandy un tethered Geoff and went over to count the money. Geoff only had one option, to forget this had ever happened. Revenge was not an option. Now, in the cold light of day, Mandy was about 6ft 2 and would probably knock the average Geoff clean out. Mandy looked over and complained that the money was a tenner short. Geoff limped over and found another tenner and sent Mandy on his way, declining the offer of a discount for a return match. Geoff checked his watch, it was 5.20pm and he needed to go and get his arse stitched up and he painfully made a trip to A&E. Because of the nature of his injuries he was seen quite quickly.

The Doctor said very little about finding out how Geoff had come to tear his arsehole, but Geoff, with a battered sense of male pride decided to tell him a version of events. "Lynx" said Geoff, pointing sheepishly to his torn arse, "Jumped me" he bumbled on, going on to explain that a wild cat had attacked him and during the melee he had attempted to strangle it with his trousers the beast had got a claw round and severed his exit. The Doctor said nothing, eventually doing a decent job and only requiring 3 stitches.

 It was 7.30 and Geoff was yelping in the back of a cab every time it went over a bump, he was racing to get back to see Lorraine and explain the night before, and hopefully, to not explain why he was walking like John Wayne after a double hip replacement. He went home and put some clean blood and shitless clothes on and walked painfully down to the Hare and Grapes. He limped in and instantly swore under his breath. Gary was in there, sat down and talking to Lorraine who was nervously guarding a glass of black tower and playing with her hair. He knew that Gary fancied her as they had talked about it in the staff room and one of the reasons why Geoff had asked Lorraine out was because he knew Gary was about to pounce. "Pringle jumper wearing cunt" he hissed, inwardly fearing Gary's probably working cock and intact arsehole.

 He shuffled forwards and Gary looked up, "Ay up Geoff", said Gary, "what are ye walking like that for" he chortled, "you look like you've had a cock in yer", he added, almost telepathically. Others in the pub looked around and chortled through handfuls of piss covered communal salted peanuts and large gulps of mild ale from tankards. Rightly or wrongly, Geoff stuck to the story about the Lynx attack. Lorraine looked concerned, "Ya alright Geoff" she said, concerned, in the way that women get, usually without thinking. Meanwhile Gary looked puzzled as Geoff finished his story.

 Going over the facts, Gary, who unbeknownst to Geoff, was on a local pub quiz team and just so happened to know, as you do now, that the last reported sighting of a Lynx in the UK was in the 17th century. Geoff, now rattled went over his story, going into detail about the ferocity of the attack and the guile that he displayed fighting it off. Gary, not even out of politeness, bought into his story and carried on trying to chat Lorraine up. A few people laughed when Geoff walked up to the bar to buy an ale and he turned to watch Lorraine twiddling her noodle like hair and laughing at Gary's jokes.

 A few ales later and Gary was still there, like a stain on a Vicars conscious and Geoff started to become irate, especially as Lorraine was reacting to Gary's jokes and anecdotes from his typically dull and insipid life up North. Geoff could take it no more and he stood up shoving the table and calling Gary a "fucking cunt". Lorraine tried to step in to calm him down and he yelled at her, "stay out of this, you tart", "I fucked her, yep, er, fucked her" nodding his head in an exaggerated manner and pointing at her, for the benefit of anyone in the pub who was deaf, or maybe a bit backward.

Gary stood up and started to give Geoff a lecture in what you can and cant say to a woman. "Oh fook off you four eyed cunt" Geoff swung a wild punch at Gary who moved, sending Geoff to the floor where he promptly heard his stitches tear. Gary didn't respond, he just put an arm around Lorraine who was now crying. Geoff walked ashamed out of the pub, the back of his trousers looking like a target, and the blood coming out of his re-torn bum making a bullseye.

 It wasn't long before Geoff was walking along a single track road near a farm, it was cold and the moon was the only night. Geoff thought back over the last 24 hours, realising that this had been the worst day of his life. Being an unusually positive thinker, for a Northener, Geoff did reflect that at least it couldn't get any worse, even though he did want to kill himself with his belt and a tree. Geoff white hot depressive train of thought was disturbed by a rustling noise from the copse and Geoff realised that he was not alone on the country lane, and he turned and stated "Come on, do your worst" secretly hoping that Lorraine had caught up with him and would forgive and forget. In his whimsical thinking he called out questioning "Lorraine?".

 The copse broke and a largish cat leapt out doing something between a hiss and a roar and instantly attacked Geoff, ripping his shirt, he lashed out at it, yelping as the motion re-re-ripped his poor arse, but caught the beast sending it sprawling off to regroup. It turned around again and made that noise. Geoff had very little time to think about what to do next so he took his belt and trousers off. Making a wild lash at pointy eared fierce creature he missed and it worked its way expertly behind him, taking a wild slash at Geoffs rear and and putting a deep new tear on his arsehole and bolted back into the copse.

Geoff lied there bleeding, his poor rump looking like Freddy Kruger had tried to use him as a glove puppet. He just lay there eventually passing out and wishing that he could to back in time to the point where he had only shit himself, ejaculating blood and got arsefucked by a 6ft plus reproductively well built transsexual and be back in the pub with Lorraine. He awoke the next day in Hospital surrounded by Doctors who were absolutely dumb struck at how a man could possibly be attacked by a lynx twice in the same day, and both around the anal region.

The creature, which had escaped from a local zoo, was eventually capture, shot, and turned into a jacket for Bette Lynch. Geoff lay in the hospital bed, with the worst anal injuries in living memory and his name in the local paper.

 The moral of this part of the story, never cry wolf.... No its not, its just not to ever live up North. The end, for now..