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 12th 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.
No comments:
Post a Comment