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 5th.
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).
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