Indy Penance Day

It was a hot summer day in London, the sun illuminated off all the little cunty cafes, bars, second hand record shops and little places selling fancy little over priced gifts, the sort of places people with far more money than sense go to buy little trinkets for their shit hill mates and exchange them over merlot and fake yakkety cackles on a Sunday afternoon.
Jack struggled to walk down the street in his ultra tight spray on jeans, hooded fleece with a waistcoat style leather jacket on, an oversized beanie hat hung empty on to the back of his head like a Rasta cruelly robbed of his dreadlocks by a massive swooping racist eagle. Brown leather shoes that were about 2 sizes to big finished the “look”. A normal person would have been sweating like a paedophile at the repairs desk in PC world, but not Jack, there was no meat on him, with his flip floppy comedy sized feet and thin legs, Jack looked like a disgraced clown, (with aids).
He was on his way to “Bar Terminus”, an ex abortion clinic turned into a wine bar slash cocktail hub. Terminus was popular with locals who would enjoy the difficult surroundings of jars of aborted foetuses and its surgical steel finish. The fuck hole of an owner had carried on the surgical theme with the prices, expertly removing a fiver from the womb of someone’s wallet for a bottle of specially imported Palestinian beer, again, popular with the locals due to the difficulty of production and reassuring price.

Jack tried to stride confidently despite the restrictive nature of his trousers, his white Iphone 4s playing tunes from a Croatian double amputee techno DJ “Mauf Peace” who was the latest big thing in Hoxton cutting and mixing using only his face. The repetitive thumping, which sounded like a commodore 64 trying to load, going into his ridiculous Princess Leia sized headphones. What a cunt.

Approaching Bar Terminus, his friend waved at him from across the road, Jack strode out waving back enthusiastically, his arm raised like a skinny Hitler, almost instantly the screech of tyres sounded like a Macaw Parrot connected up to a microphone and a huge Marshall amp having a large unkempt finger inserted into its avian anus.
Jack never even looked around, his ridiculously loud music and expensive noise cancelling headphones now performing the act of cunt cancelling, and ensuring poor Jack would never make it across the other side of the street. The thump was dull and unimpressive and the whiplash cracking his overly thin body hard and the force of the single decker bus, doing about 30mph tore his head clean off his body sending his head, oversized beanie hat and silly headphone in a different direction to his body, which was flapping in the air like a shitty pigeon. His lifeless and headless body slapping into the tarmac, girls screamed, (while still trying to look cool) and Jacks head slowly stopped spinning and ended up staring up into the sky with the same gormless look on his face that he left the house with. How poignant Jacks last image of the sky above Hoxton was to be…

Across the pond, in NASA headquarters, another man stared into the sky gormlessly but through a huge telescope, looking away, then looking back, in utter disbelief, looking away, then back, several more times, rubbing his eyes, and finally turning to his colleagues and screaming “THEY’RE HERE, motherfuckers, they are here”, “The pizzas?” chortled one of his colleagues, “no you asshole piece of shit motherfucker, aliens, Ive got three, repeat three huge UFO’s just appeared on the screen doing a seven zero niner (nobody knew what a seven zero niner was, it sounded cool). Looking and confirming his colleague suddenly drained of all colour in his face, the reality of us not being alone in the universe overwhelming him. He drew a colt .45 pistol out of pocket and blew most of his brains out all over the console. “Asshole” His colleague said, trying to wipe the brains and blood away. “Asshole” shouted the boss as he came down and stood over the smoking corpse, “Son of a bitch” they both added, “motherfucker”.

The boss, Baumhauser, stood staring at the screen in disbelief as the three huge objects bore down on the Earth, “Assholes”, “Sons of bitches” he repeated, chewing on a cigar. In the meantime the magnitude of the situation hit another one of the radar staff in the space monitoring station, and he too drew a colt .45 and blew his face up. “Asshole” screamed Baumhauser, “Son of a bitch”. “motherfucker”.

Finally Baumhauser got on the phone to the Whitehouse (not Paul) and got the secretary of state on the line and told him the news, the phone went silent, and then the characteristic sound of a colt .45 and slapping noise of brain on wall. “Asshole” boomed Baumhauser, and said other stuff relating to the recently deceased’s mother being of ill repute. A further 8 people shot themselves in the face before sense took over and a plan of action was put into place, the priority being on contact with the Alien visitors.

Every form of communication was used to try and contact the alien vessels which were now just outside of the earths orbit; each country tried everything they could. The French played a concert with Jean Michel Jarre, nothing, Japan used the Honda robot Asimo, blanked, the Yanks used a special sign language, not a titter back, the British, well, they did precisely fuck all, reason one, they had no money as they had spunked it all paying benefits for scum bag scroungers, and the fucking Olympics, the rest was spent on quelling the riots that were happening across the nation, as the spacecraft had disrupted the sky satellite reception. Eventually a NASA worker, who was a bit stoned, spotted the numbers 7344556 on the side of one of the huge vessels, and as a very last resort punched the number and a short message into a fax machine. To everyone’s surprise the machine sprung to life and the message went through, saying “Welcome to Earth, we would like to talk” The shock increased when a message came back fifteen minutes later saying “We are ready to address the people of Earth, sorry for the delay, our fax machine jammed!!”.

The televisions of the world simultaneously cut out and an arachnid alien face appeared on the screen, most people didn’t pay attention, thinking it was some sort of DFS or Halifax advert, others thought it was million pound drop and the strange pointy featured beaked beast on the screen was Davina McCall looking quite good, (for her).
That was until the craft started to break orbit and suddenly people paid attention. The English dropped their plates of Findus crispy pancakes, oven chips and peas, and briefly stopped beating their wives, The Scottish did nothing, as they were still 22 years away from having a television signal that could break through the clouds of frozen fog and chip fat smoke, the Irish didn’t have the TV on, as they were out swilling pints of Murphy’s as it was a Tuesday, 11am, and the Welsh were rubbing their legs at the prospect of another life form on the planet for them to hold down and fuck while sizzled on moonshine, or whatever local piss was en vogue.

Eventually, and after about 30 minutes of uncomfortable attempts for the Alien spokesperson trying to get the attention of the earthlings, which included a huge lazer blast that destroyed Greenland, the humans stopped, started to listen, and started to shit themselves.

“I am Zulnep of the 7th Quadrant, we have travelled many parsnips across space (muted human chuckles) and have come here with our huge battle cruisers” (collective sound of human arseholes pulsating in fear, and the cracks of Colt .45 pistols blowing the back of American heads off like shaken coca cola bottle tops, and the ensuing cry of “Son of a bitch, or “mother fucker” from the bereaved. “We have come here for one reason, and one reason alone”……The pause was uncomfortable, like the moment in Xfacor when Louis has to inform a contestant that he is through to the next round, and takes a fucking age about it……”That reason……is”………..”we will tell you after the adverts”. “Fuck sake”, some of the braver Humans said, while all terrestrial TV was interrupted by adverts for strange alien products…..Suddenly Zulnep came back and said, “the reason we are here….Is for the complete, and unabridged destruction”…Mass panic started to spread, in parts of London, in a final desperate act, people started to shit into their hands and smear it onto the windows of Foxtons and Natwest banks. Zulnep took a breath, I say breath, it was like an anus on his neck, fuck knows what it did. “The destruction of…Hoxton….thats it, that’s all, then we’ll bugger off, and that’s that”. People collectively looked, baffled. In parts of India and Africa, they chatted to each other about the skinny jeaned “Beinchods” that live there and how they deserved annihilation at the hands (fins/claws/hooks) of the invaders.

The only people who were not aware of their fate were the people of Hoxton themselves, too busy sipping wanky lattes and using the free internet to “check out” the news of Tracy Emins latest skip full of shit that cretins believe is art.

The huge battle craft made their way to just north of Liverpool Street train station, the rest of the world, breathed a sigh of relief, nobody asked why, nobody cared, people just got on with their day, the fucking Geordies were incensed that the craft had affected the TV signal to the football and were calling them down for a glassing, eventually they went back to their hovels and took their anger out of their wives and girlfriends, artistically creating false tentacles and making them take the appearance of extra terrestrials, before beating them black and blue, with fists, feet and belts.

The craft took position, the idiots below cooed “cool” thinking it was some sort of art installation…

Part 2, absolute wanton destruction and Alien sodomy, coming soon (the writing, not the human fuckees)

Geoff and Lorraine a romance - Part 1

This is an extract from my first attempt at a romantic novel, its called Geoff and Lorraine and I hope that I can use my limited writing skills and sexual experience to truly convey the full explosive sexual chemistry between these two factory workers in Dudley.

Geoff was busy on the production line of “Sanjays Meat Packers”. It hadn’t been the same since the Pakistani’s took over, “Packer Stanis” Geoff thought, chuckling to himself in a way that would make you want to stick a screwdriver into his eye, the cunt.
Further down the line was Lorraine, her job was to control the machine which put cling film around the different meats. Lorraine had a woeful perm; she looked very much like Gene Wilder after a huge shock, such as a close bereavement. Despite the fact that she cut the same shocking figure as a poodle that had been extensively tested on by a cosmetics company Geoff had a thing for her. “Ha” he chuckled again, the thing was his penis. It spent much of the day curled up like a frightened king prawn in his Y fronts snuggled betwixt a rain cloud of unkempt greying pubes.
The casual observer, on seeing Geoff’s constant chuckles to himself, might have commented that they hoped that chuckling caused a terminal illness so bad it made Aids looks like sweat rash. Geoff had an annoying chuckle, similar in annoyance to the sound Kenny G would make through his sax if a pharaoh ant crawled into his anus and stung him rectally mid note.

There was something between them as they spent their day watching hunks of dead animal go past them on huge conveyor belts like a grizzly generation game. She found Geoff funny, his constant little quips and dull observations brought a smile to her wrinkly cigarette raped face. Nobody else found Geoff funny, not his parents; his nan even called him a cunt once. Geoff was happy when she died at the hands of incompetent non English speaking nurses in a care home having spent the two days previous marinating in her own widdle. Geoff chuckled thinking about it, what a tosser.

Geoff had been staring at Lorraine all day; the tension had been building like that of the Libyan who shoved the small shard of metal pipe into the captured Colonel Gaddafi’s anus. Geoff wanted a similar resolution with Lorraine, capturing her with his love, pulling out of her storm drain' and finally shoving his metal pole of justice into her. “Phwoar” he thought with the sexual imagination of a brain injured scaffolder.
Lorraine glanced at him trying to flick her hair, which was a tumbleweed of curls, as she went off for her third fag break of the day, it was only 11, barking out to Glynis to cover her section. Glynis was a pig faced squat little turdlette. Geoff had thought to himself that he would rather stick his penis into a George Foreman grill full of hot glass and used heroin needles than her probable murder scene of a fanny. He didn’t even like looking at her. She was very fat (and ginger) he expected her vagina to look like Mick Hucknells autopsy, he looked away shuddering like a parkinsons sufferer with a chill.

Nothing had ever happened with Geoff and Lorraine, they came close one year at the firms Christmas do when it wasn’t owned by the Pakistani’s. They had got a cab together and they were both more worse for wear than a skinny jean wearing Hoxton twat. Geoff had reached over that night and had tried to finger her, licking his finger first like he was about to turn the pages in a phone directory in some piss stinking public phone box. She was well up for it, the whole event was brought to dramatic close when the jagged finger nail on Geoff’s middle finger struck her labia causing her to yell in pain and turning her off like a vegetables life support.

Geoff shuddered when he recalled the memory.

Lorraine came back and passed Geoff. “Ya alright Geoff” She farted out in a lazy northern way, the syllables all coming out together like they were shy and doing some sort of strange lingual conga. Geoff replied “I’m half left” Lorraine chuckled like an ugly pot faced childless dowdy wreckage of a woman typically would. Geoff attempted to make conversation but Anuj the foreman came along tapping his watch. Geoff thought something unprintably racist and chuckled to himself yet again and Lorraine skulked off back to her section, already contemplating yet another cigarette.

Several cigarette breaks later, a dull sandwich based lunch break and countless cunty chuckles later and it was home time. Geoff, having filed his nails, decided to take the bull by the horns and finish business by asking Lorraine if she wanted a drink down the local. “Ear Lols, fancy a pint of mild” Geoff sprayed out, “Are you asking me out” Lorraine replied (while this exchange was happening a small fly decided to end its life by flying directly into a spiders web, which was better than witnessing this coming together of two of lives biggest wastes of oxygen). After more verbal exchanges the penny finally dropped and Lorraine had realised that Geoff was in fact asking her out.
They left Sanjays and made the short walk to the local pub, the Halfway Inn. Inside Geoff gave a cheery hello to the barman and owner George. George gave a token smile back but wheezed “wanker” under his breath. George had no particular beef with Geoff (Geoff would have found it funny if there was a beef, being that he worked in a meat packing factory and would have done one of his chuckles, which was in fact the reason why George thought he was a walloping cunt).

They sat in the corner of the pub, Lorraine was fiddling with beer mats and poofing her ridiculous candy floss hair up. Their conversation was stale, pointless and stuttering, but despite this, Lorraine felt a stirring in her “fanny”, a bit like attending to a large pan of stew and dumplings that had been left for ages. Several pints later, many bad jokes and a chorus of frankly repellent chuckling, Lorraine finally stepped up and put it to Geoff, “I want you inside meh” she stated, “down thur” she clarified pointing at her vagina. “Get your coat luv, you’ve pulled” Geoff said, in a way which would have arc welded most vaginas firmly shut.
They bundled out of the pub and started to make their way home, her shoes scraping along on every third step. They bundled back her tawdry one bedroom ex coal workers shit hole. Geoff had a sneaky grasp on his “package” to try and get the blood going to it and hope that it performed better than his last attempt at a sexual encounter in which his penis did a perfectly good impression of Stephen Hawking with a flat battery……

Part two to follow…..

Most Pets are pointless

I've always been a dog person; cats for me are pointless and alien creatures, I’d get more pleasure from owning a pet telegraph pole. My childhood memories are always interspersed with happy dog memories (and a couple of sad ones) from our pointer/Labrador Sam chasing us around the garden as kids, and dragging us off the air raid shelter by our flaired trouser legs and back into the house, probably through its distemper addled shit etc. (To the untrained eye, a dog dragging a screaming child would probably look quite horrific, but it was harmless fun and we just saw it as the very poor mans dog drawn sled, the sled in this instance being our flares wearing arses (it was about 1979/80). Then growing up we have the bizarre power struggle between our then 3 dogs (which lasted longer than the Vietnam war) which resulted in numerous markings of territory which basically added up to anything that wasn’t off the floor getting pissed on by the 3 dogs, including our grand piano sized video recorder, which literally filled up to the top of its top loading slot with hot angry canine piss.
The bad memory being when I was pinned to a tree by an Alsatian guard dog which did exactly what it was supposed to when my mate booted the door of the launderette in (for no reason). I got bit a bit, but thank fuck it spared my beautiful face...
The other memory which should technically be a bad one, but was kind of funny was when my mate was interspecially “raped” by an old English sheep dog (bear with me) We was on Tooting Bec Common climbing trees, which for me, just meant standing on a tall tree root as I had technically worse climbing skills than Stephen Hawkins with a flat battery.
My mate Kelly (a boy?) was out with his new Lord Anthony body warmer on and we were all looking for the next climb when suddenly we saw a huge Old English Sheepdog bounding towards us, even at my young age I could see something written across its wooly face, that wasn’t anger, it wasn’t friendliness either, I saw lust, a protective instinct took over me and I practically ran up a tree like something out of the Matrix and watched down as Kelly's indecisiveness became his undoing, and the huge Mutt bore down on him like a furry Fred West, tongue lolling. Me and my brother watched with a mixture of confusion and curiosity as the beast climbed up and rested its huge paws on his shoulders and started doing the “time warp” on his back, me and brother looked at each other and made a confused noise that was half disgust and half laughter. Kelly just stood there crying, resigned that the weight of this dog meant that he was going nowhere.
Don’t get me wrong, the dog at no point penetrated him, but was instead relieving itself on the shiny material of the body warmer, the owner was now spotted, standing in the distance, making no effort to get his randy pet off my mate, but instead standing there belly laughing, shoulders and paunch wobbling. This only served to make me and my brother laugh a bit harder, eventually the dog “finished” put its “lipstick” away and trotted off, realising it could not share a post coital cigarette given its inability to use a lighter, or smoke a fag. We eventually came down to a clearly traumatised Kelly who had what we could only describe as “funk” up his back. He was never the same after that and we soon drifted apart, I neither hang around with dog fuckers or fuckees.

I've thought about the above after writing it down for the first time and actually, it’s my best dog memory ever, and anyone who calls their boy Kelly probably deserves them to have a long and protracted technically underage sexual assault at the hands of another species.

My Cat memories are less “glamorous” and just revolve mostly around looking at them, mystified while they sit there and do one of the following, clean their strange cat barbed cocks/fanny, look disdainfully at a plate of expensive food containing ingredients hundreds of millions of starving Africans can only dream of, lie there in the sun, torture a small animal, any mixture of the above.
I went through a phase of liking them as the girls I was dating, of my age group, generally have one, or more, because they are either too irresponsible or immature to have children, or have had one forced upon them, but it was a convenience thing rather than an actual like, it’s like being a vegetarian because your silly pale but good at blowjobs girlfriend is, same deal.
There are a couple of cats I like, the one where I used to live is nice, well, its actually a horrible bastard, 17 years old, the ex local bruiser, but she has character, she will allow you to stoke her and then fuck you up when she has had enough, like its for your pleasure, she is loud and shouts at you if you have failed to give her a bowl of condensed milk and either chicken or fresh fish, in normal terms I would hate an animal as ungrateful and shitty as that, but what makes me love her is one morning she called me “Terry” it was as clear as anything, well, more like “teeeerrreeeeeee” I was baffled but ultimately thought that a talking cat was well worth liking, overall she has about 40 phrases in her arsenal, they all amount to you being a “fucking cunt” for not attending one of her needs, but never the less, there are youths today with less literacy than that.

Then to the opposite of that was my last encounter with a cat, whose real name shall not be revealed but she should only be known as cunt cat, an animal so feeble, so pathetic that on several occasions I was tempted to put it in a pillow case and swing it into the wall (which is a horrible thing to do more than think about). This poor emotional quadriplegic would start its day at about 1am, darting up and down the flat, coming in the room, jumping on the bed, clawing my back or balls, leave, start the process again, go outside, whine from outside the window, come back in, etc etc. How it never started a row is beyond me. Thankfully, and because of that, I doubt I will ever own a pet, certainly not a cat, unless they are dead hollowed out husks which I am wearing as slippers.

A cat will attempt to reward you for having it (at which no point you will feel like you actually own the cat, it will go door to door like a traveling con merchant poncing food off neighbours and finding its love elsewhere, it’s like an organic timeshare). It might bring you a dead mouse, which will still smell of petrol where the cat has tortured it in the manner of reservoir dogs, or a moth, or a heroin needle or something pathetic, if you don’t act extremely grateful the cat will become most offended and probably bugger off for months leaving you believing it is dead. A dog would kill itself before it betrayed its owner, a dog would take a bullet for you (it would more likely fire one too, having mistaken its owners shotgun for a stick, enthusiastically bring it back to its owner and shaking it, firing both barrel’s of shot into the owners face turning it into a lasagne (which the dog will then eat). Just in the US, more people were killed by canine gun shots than gangs, whirlwinds, or anything else.

In quick conclusion then, apart from maybe a very good or working dog, guide dog, guard dog, most pets are pointless and a fucking drain, they stop you going on holiday or need you to get someone to look after/walk them, feed them. The only people who are really suited to owning a dog and getting best out of it are the long term unemployed or childless old cat hoarding hag bags who treat them like children to make up for the usually tragic crop failure of their own wombs. The scum bag council flat bull terrier owning fuck wits who tramp around like its some sort of status symbol, desperately trying to defend it against being put down after it has delicately eaten a toddlers face off like it was a sweetcorn.
Then you get “fancy pets” reptile owners are usually heavily pierced/tattooed unemployed devil worshippers (generally unemployed, not out of work in the line of Satan worship), coming home to find the temperature of the specialist vivarium has dropped by a half degree and their cock shaped red backed sarin gas breathing elephant killer cobra has gone into a deep sleep for the next 8 months.

Yawn

Arrghhvertising

Advertising, the persuasive lure to get idiots to buy products, the unattainable dream of beauty in little pots of what is essentially salad cream purporting to reverse the act of aging with ridiculous secret ingredients like Spinus-bifidus and something called Q10 and pro-rectinal etc.
The smug perfect ness of couples in the DFS ads, seeing them sprawled out perfectly, gently throwing cushions at each other to pop music while the narrator tells you that this dream can be had for only five nine nine, buy now pay thousands of years after you die etc. What they should show you is the reality of a predominately loveless couple flopping down after a mostly ineffective but busy day at work on separate laptops skimming over pathetic updates on social networking sites, barely looking at each other, just there for each other to split bills in half and then the awkwardness of semi forced drunken Saturday night sex and the attempts at cleaning the spunk and shit stains off the cushions.

Then Christmas brings us repugnant falseness of the perfume/aftershave adverts; perfectly formed females slinking around like panthers on football pitch sized crushed velvet sheets in houses made completely of marble and Narwhal horn, awaiting a chiselled hunk to come back and slowly make love to her, bringing her to a dew beady sweaty 8th orgasm, relaxing back to watch the sun rise over a sandy palm tree adorned beach, and all available to you at the squirt of a crystal effect bottle of Qunt, by Chanel. Or the aftershave adverts where the guy is perfectly erect from the moment he wakes up, his day a perpetual greasy fuck fest, his every movement spearing the perfect vaginas of angelic virginal models like a genital Dalek.
No, the reality is, the “slag” that you have pulled that night has probably no more smelt your ridiculously named scent than she has the 40 Marlboro fags and several packets of cheese “n” onion crisps, bundling her back into your studio flat before an awkward attempt at drunken sex, a farty 69 and waking up flaccid with a condom still hanging onto your penis looking like a legless jellyfish with terminal cancer.

The dreams lure the suckers in, I am one of them, JML, as far as I am concerned they are miracle workers, they could probably invent a device to cure cancer that could be brought for £9.99 which just involves sticking a plastic attachment into your rectum, the reason they haven’t is because nobody has asked them. Informercials, shouty steroid riddled Americans telling you that they went from a 30 stone boulder of lard and impacted faeces into a sculpted huge deltoid muscle by using a device called 30 second abs, before a rival company bringsout 20 second abs, right down to one where in the time it takes for a humming bird to beat its wings, you could have an 8 pack that you could grate cheese on. These are not as patronising as the frosty lens picture perfect lie fest of the beauty product adverts but are in fact high drama and entertainment, drawing in sleepless desperate fatties, probably just channel surfing for something to crack one out over.

There is something far worse than either of these though, much worse, annoying adverts, or Arrrghhhhhvertising as I call it, adverts that put you in a mini rage. I believe that these adverts were responsible for both Iraq conflicts, 9/11, aids and the Ethiopian famine. I don’t need to explain but the high emperor at the top of this shoddy tree of woe is the Go Compare man, if you have recently lost a friend or relative to death, you should probably overlook what the death certificate says, it wasn’t a heart attack, cancer or hanging in that wardrobe having a strangle wank, it was the Go Compare adverts, the very sound of them driving them to an early screaming death.

I’ve sat and pulled an evil smile while I think of ways to kill the go compare man, ok, I’m sure without that stupid moustache he is probably an ok guy (if he hasn’t killed himself in shame, which he probably should have) but I like to sit and let my imagination run wild, I wont detail what I would like to do but it would involve vocal chord removal, 8 bulbs of jif lemon, an empty champagne bottle covered in sandpaper, a hippo and a broadsword. Then, the confused.com ad, over produced, desperate and pathetic, then the fucking meerkats, a bad joke that has gone beyond ripping the arsehole out.

Just when you think things couldn’t have got any worse, Haribo produce an advert so annoying, so blood curdling that it tops the rest by a mile, a European family singing karaoke style out of tune about sweets, I genuinely wanted them to get in the car and wrap themselves round a tree, a 2 minute close up of burning corpses followed by the Haribo bear moving in to chew the burnt meat of the corpses pulling the tangtastic face before furiously masturbating liquid milk bottles into the embers that was once a family (an annoying family though).

I wont use a Halifax cash machine, even if I’m desperate for money, I will not sully my card by sticking it into one of their machines, partly for the Howard ads, the mistimed Bollywood advert, but most of all, the Isa Isa baby one, the woman in that, her head moving side to side, forced my blood pressure up, ill timed, socially out of touch, desperate, horrible adverts, nobody is enjoying them. She is probably somewhere now, so ashamed that her cervix has prolapsed.

But there are some good adverts, I hear you bleat, no there isn’t. End of that argument.

I have my own take on what sells a product, picture this if you will, an old lady clumping along a hall way on her zimmer frame, slowly, making her way to a chair lift, her turns the seat, moves to board the chair lift, slips, falls, tumbles down the stairs, you can hear every crack of bone before she slaps into the marble effect hallway, her last breath wheezing out of her body. The camera slowly moves away from her body and pans across until it fixes on a Haze plug in air freshener. The advert ends. If you saw this you would have the product burnt into you mind forever.

Or an advert for famine that as it sucks you in with desperate scenes of suffering, you suddenly get the McDonalds whistle and the logo appears. They should be forced to make this advert for crimes against the waist line the world over.

Rant over.

The End of the world isn't nigh (but should be)

You are still probably trembling from the destructive power of the Japanese Tsunami, so you probably don’t want to be hearing a damning indictment nay lament of Humanity, but regardless, here it is, have a read, I’ll try and make it funny despite comparing our own species to a desperately destructive arse cancer and damming all of us to a hot death at the hands of a rapidly expanding sun, or meteor, or a giant crab attack, I haven’t decided yet..

Let face it, as humans, shepherds of the planet, top of the food chain, king of the animals, we fucked up didn’t we, we did a right job on this planet, the collective “someone else will clean it up” attitude, sadly not elevating upwards higher than our own collective laziness and greed. Whilst in this blog, I'm not indicating the existence of a God, I have my own beliefs (which I don't peddle on others), but for the sake of comparison, I will just try and keep it to the fact that we are special creatures, a cut above, maybe we did just eat the marrow from the bones of animals and our brains grew and we became intelligent, or we are indeed, the offspring of an omnipotent force, or, and possibly the most plausible, we were apes that were fucked thousands of years ago by randy big headed long fingered thumby space rapists and they fucked off and forgot.

In any of these scenarios (the only 3 my tiny mind can stretch to) we are fucked.

1) Monkeys that ate marrow, OK, we’ve got all the way to this point, the apes that once scratched their arses, fucked all day and beat each other to death, are still doing pretty much the same, only clothed, we haven’t even invented a mechanical arse scratcher (unless you are Elton John, who married one). We’ve put all our collective energy into building bigger clubs to kill those who threaten us, or when we want to expand our areas, nuclear weapons, cluster bombs, nerve gas, well done, hats off, lets all go off and celebrate by watching the cameras mounted on bombs go off while we sit and scratch our arses, howling as our “enemies” are blown to shreds and fuck all night and forget.

2) If we are the angelic sprinklings of a higher force, shepherds of this wonderful garden of eden, everything we could possibly need to survive forever in paradise (apart from Birmingham and Mitcham, which would give evidence to the fact that Satan lives right underneath us and these places are his arse hair sticking out). God put us here, blessed and guided us by sacrificing his own son, and left us in paradise and went off to do other stuff that massively omnipotent beings do, you can imagine him in his workshop, speaking like Gandolf, wondering what the earthling star children were doing, peering back, jaw dropping and having that look like a parent walking back into a party their child has thrown where the invite as got out on facebook. Nobody on earth is big enough to take up responsibility to say, sorry, we will clean it up. Our greed and decadence and scant disregard for each other are wholly responsible for the fact that I’d imagine our own planet wants to scratch us off like fleas or chemo us off like a bloody arse cancer.

3) Or finally, and as plausible as anything else….One day, creatures came from the planet 237 excelsior quadrant, on a mission to map stars and seek out life on other planets, they came down and found us scratching our arses and banging each other across the skulls and fucking each other with no rules whatsoever. As they studied, they realised that despite our bum scratching head clubbing fucky ways, we fitted in to things around us, with our inherent stupidity we would keep our numbers down by doing things like tasting fire, and popping each others eye balls with our as yet unopposable thumbs.
The space beings watched, observed, took notes, and tried not to laugh. They logged the animals, the plants, the seas and they were going to go about their business and leave when one of them, who was frustrated in his own alien sex life, suddenly set his huge eyes on a female ape who was gathering rocks delicately by the river (to smash over a rivals face) and as she was bent down, her hairy arse wiggling in the as yet unpolluted earth breeze, suddenly became aroused, Dannic 223, the frustrated Xeton scientist, who after looking around for witnesses, stunned the poor ape (who didn’t have a name) and frankly space fucked her with his galactic cock prong. Returning to his team and making a hasty excuse to leave the planet, the Xetons buggered off back home to put video clips of the strange ape creatures on their version of “You’ve been framed” Leaving the poor ape pregnant with her hybrid twins.

Many thousands of years later (in earth terms) Dannic’s indiscretions were uncovered, when mobile phone footage emerged of him rear ending the poor earth creature, embarrassed, the Xetons dispatched a unit back to Earth to hope upon hope that they had not inadvertently interfered with our natural development. They had, and massively, they found the strange Halflings confused and desperate to return to their interstellar parents, the Egyptians and Mayan people had tracked the stars and had started to philosophise about our existence and meaning. Some species had inherited more ape than Xeton gene and were still beating each other and raping the shit out of their females, and scratching their arses in the sun all day, without gainful employment or direction, we would later come to know these as hoodies.

The Xeton visiting party worked hard at returning us to our ape roots and eventually the Egyptians and Mayan people were destroyed from the earth. The Xetons, realising that it would be impossible for them to completely scratch themselves from the arse of our memories, they gave us periodical gifts (in lieu of child support) these included television, Super Nintendo, the Iphone, and various technology to keep us happy for the day we discovered that our “daddy did a bunk” and we go after them with nuclear weapons and all the other destructive things we have invented with our half ape half alien minds.

And Dannic cried as he realised the magnitude of what he had done, he had created an arse cancer on the earth and the earthlings, as they where known, partied and scratched their arses, bombed each other to shit and they fucked and they fucked without a clue as to what they where, what they were doing, or where they were going. Very small minorities gathered to try and give they others direction but they wouldn’t listen, they were too busy drinking and fucking and playing with all the gifts that the Xetons gave them. The Earthlings did manage to create a few things without the Xeton gifts, these were Birmingham and Mitcham, proof that the earth has two arse holes.

The Xetons looked down and realised that there was no saving us and they left us as the Earth bubbled cracked and popped from all the abuse we had given her, and eventually the creatures known as humans faded away and where no more, the Xetons would never mention us again, embarrassed like parents of a ginger kid (male), and Dannic promised the Excelsior scientific research team that he would never put his space willy in any other creature, lest its intellect was high enough to do something more than lie there and grunt.


OK, three theories there, take what you will out of them, but the underlying message is, we fucked up people, and whilst its easy to try and distance yourself from the wreckage with limp excuses like “I recycle” “I brought a Prius” “I do yoga and have ethnically diverse friends” we ALL fucked it up, we are all to blame, a species that has literally been spoilt with art, music, literature and we still need to drop bombs on each other because we believe slightly differently, its fucking pathetic.

[You fucking arsehole, who are you to sit there in your high chair and damn us all?] Well, fuck you very much for asking, I’m nobody special, however, the fact that I wrote this has given me a get out of jail card so I’m enjoying a glass of wine and watching humans destroy themselves from a slightly elevated position at the moment, the flames will catch up with me no doubt, but for the moment, I’m watching gloating while you all fuck up. [Fuck you, you are just bitter because you are single and life hasn’t gone to plan, Xetons? you fuck wit, go and do something that makes you happy you faux intellectual, your grammar is awful, if you were in charge the world would have incinerated years ago with one of your hapless pissy fits, fuck you, fuck your silly little blog]. Fair point and well made...

Right, what to do now I hear you sigh despairingly (before you log off, arse scratch and fuck) well, I don’t know to be honest, the party is ending and I’m going out like its 1999, not as an excuse to drink lots, but I’m just going to leave no phrase unuttered, If I’m boiling to death next year, as the Mayans predict, I’m going out big time, which essentially means, a series of embarrassments, I’m no Charlie Sheen.

Laters.

Arsehole Jobs/Bullshitters

Some jobs warrant universal credit, Nurses for example (not the horrible ones that don’t really understand the whole treating old people with respect thing and beat the living fuck out of them) Firemen, nothing conjures up a more heroic image than that of a fireman emerging from a burning building with the family pet to cheers, even if they have left the majority of the humans inside burning up and whistling like a summer BBQ (I’ve even got a few bits of charcoal in my drawer at work, if there was ever a fire, I’m going to hold someone back (against their will), draw the charcoal smears over my face and emerge from the building topless, smeared in melting butter (to simulate sweat) looking every inch a hero, parading back and forth with the “damsel in distress” looking for TV cameras, I will put their struggling down to smoke inhalation or possibly a butter allergy? And School Teachers, the ones who don’t finger underage pupils (those are usually the history or chemistry teachers for reasons unbeknownst to me?).

Some jobs on the other hand, just inspire revulsion in people, utter hatred, to the point where a crowd would happily interrupt a perfectly good lunch break to watch them slowly stoned to death by a muscular mob, seeing them crack open like an organic kinder egg, not even stopping eating a sandwich while brain chunks were beaten out (unless it was a meatball sandwich from Subway, that looks well like brains and shit). Politicians, lying thieving self important soulless shit cunts, traffic wardens, nasty merciless little turdlings, picked for their extremely punchable faces and annoying pinched jobs-worth arsehole mouths. The wankers who teach professional courses, sake of it courses designed for employers with too much money, an example was £795 + vat to send an employee on a “time management course” to be told such gems from the frumpy failed something or other tutor as “well, if you get up at 8.30 and your job starts at 9.30, and it takes you more than an hour to get ready and get to work, maybe you should consider getting up earlier” – Yeah, cheers for that you dumpy little piss pump. “If you’ve got 10 things to do, you need to arrange them in an order so you can put the most important ones at the top” – I CANT DO THAT, IM A CUNT, THAT’S WHY IM ON THIS FUCKING COURSE!!! – As you can probably tell, I’ve been on one, I came away feeling nothing more than the fact that the day I’d spent out of the office had probably caused me a backlog at work?
Other courses are just as wasteful, if you need to send a manager on a leadership skills course, well, you’ve fucked up haven’t you, sack them, then yourself, cheers, laters. “Train the trainer”, “Communication skills” – If you need to consider sending your staff on these, consider new staff, which leads me nicely to one of the lowest of the low, the true scum of the employed world, yes you lot, you fucking arseholes, you are the parasites of parasites, the lowest of the low, rivalled only by Estate agents in your general shitness, yes I’m talking about you recruitment agents, I’d suffer the daily pain of huge tentacle like haemorrhoids than work in the recruitment industry, an entire job built on lies, deceit, deception and greed.
As you read this blog, recruitment agents sit down for meals and possibly a glass of wine, reflecting over the days blags, clients duped, wankers placed, fees paid before snuffling down for 8 hours sleep, while people starve to death on the other side of the world, a little life is being snubbed out right now while one of these fucks draws another breath, the very raising of their diaphragm concrete evidence at just how unfair the world is.
These cretins will barely meet with someone, if at all, before sending the poor hapless twat-tard down to an office to waste an hour of everyone’s time in a pointless interview. An example of this is describing someone as dynamic when the only criteria in a recruitment agents eyes to tick this box is the ability to breathe independent of machines, and even if the poor cunt is on an iron lung, they will describe that as “technologically clued up. “Sleeves rolled up approach” – a fucking giant, some frontal lobe tard who can not get normal earthling clothes to fit. “Can do attitude? Sounds like a kid’s toilet training aid?
The only group of people who can possibly rival the recruitment agent in terms of fantasy descriptions of things are estate agents. The jokes have all been done before, but every day I go past a large foxtons (or fuckstons as I call them, or Cuntstons, or fuckcuntstons), their fridge full of still or sparkling small glass bottles of mineral water and arrangements of different coloured citrus fruit slowly rotting in decorative impractical receptacles, and huge flatscreens with slide shows of the unaffordable flashing across to most people. Every day when I go past I get an urge to do a huge hateful turd right outside the door, the trouble is, it would be so hateful that this turd would probably come out with such force and quantity that they would sun dry it and turn it into an organic earthy annex to their office and have drum beating, team building events in there, eventually selling it to some overpaid Hoxton prick type for about £225, 000, for one of my turds.
When my bowel doesn’t flex when I walk past, the other fantasy that plays out in my head is throwing a couple of grenades in while they have their morning team meeting at the back, they are so snidy though, they probably have a system in place where the person with the lowest commission has to jump on it and the greater cockroaches not only survive, but probably end up liking the new half blown to fuck office, with its new “Beirut chic” make over, making them more happier and productive.

In short, I think I would rather deal with a nerve agent than one of the above agents.

The only other group of people who come close to above are people who work in advertising, not all advertising people (unlike the above two, there are exceptions in this group), but the ones whose job it is to sit and come up with annoying characters, jingles, songs, the sorts of things that when you are in the wrong mood can just tip you over, I don’t know if you are aware, but the Halifax ad was responsible for the Boxing day Tsunami, there was such a concentration of anger at the first airing of the “Isa Isa Baby” ad, that it resulted in a reverse of the magnetic thingy on the stuff and then the big wave thing happened. “We buy any car” was apparently the “buckaroo” moment for Raoul Moat. Al Qaeda allegedly only formed because of the “Go Compare” adverts.
Worse than all of these, my twitter account was recently closed in rage at seeing the Meerkat from the shitty adverts on there. What next for this torn to shreds campaign, a lady going for a check up “down there” and that furry cunt coming up with a swab saying something like “Compare the smear cat – No, compare the Meer-ket, no, I meant Market, simples (they will nick that now, you watch)”

You cant blame these wankers for having the ability to tune in to what makes us remember products and wind up the majority in the process, you cant blame them, but they are flammable, so you can set them on fire, and watch them burn, a good idea is to douse them in some water first so they burn a bit slower, you can also pour vinegar on them while they do as this will take away the rancid smell as they slowly roast in their own guilt and lies. You could be sure that I certainly wouldn’t piss on them***

You may go to hell for the act of burning someone alive, but even in the wildest estimations and Sunday School fear mongerings, the devil must have some sort of conscience and will probably pull you to one side and congratulate you with a hoofy slap on the back and probably give you a few hours off a day from the eternity of slow burning torture.

*Right, just to be clear, please don’t actually go out burning these people, that would be wrong, but if one/some just happened to be walking past your house and you threw a lit cigarette out of the window (shortly after a pint of petrol) and one or two did go up, don’t beat yourself up, its no loss, these people are not even welcome at their own parents houses for being utter failures and “walking abortions”.

**Right, just to be doubly clear, the hatred in this blog has obviously been exaggerated for literary reasons, and in no way do I hate any human soul to the level described above, but if I was driving along in a Combine Harvester and some of them were walking across the field I was harvesting, and they did get caught up in the blades and died screaming, I’d sleep, it might take a while but life would go on.

*** Just to clear something up, on the whole subject of pissing on someone if they were on fire, if I was standing over a burning advertising/recruitment/ estate agent and trying to piss and nothing was coming out, this would have nothing to do with me holding back and being all urine selfish, I would happily do a horse piss over one of them in any state of enflamement, they would just have to be unconscious because of the pain of fire, or at least look away, I have a problem going while people watch.

Fuck me, so much for the new happier approach to life..

Too legit to twit

I shut my twitter account down recently, I cant really think of a single reason why I did it, but the main one was the fact that it played up to the horrible mostly hateful cynical bastard, and the errant shit throwing monkey which both exist in my head, both things I could kind of do without at the moment. I've been literally haunted at work by ideas for hash tags and getting well into them when they took off, and stupid thoughts that I felt I should share immediately with anyone that would listen on there. I'd even tweeted from the toilet at work on several occasions for fuck sake, sometimes even describing the act itself, sometimes tweeting from my desk while busy doing work stuff, snorting as I typed, then cursing the absolute shackles of only having 140 characters, having to strip down and remove most of the semblance of why I thought it was funny in the first place, sometimes nearly resorting to text speak to fit things in...

I also didn't like the fact that it gave me an ideal forum to say usually horrible things about people and poke a stick through the cages of the afflicted. If I said to people directly the things I would have tweeted about them, I would be much more punched that I am now.

My twitter day would generally start at about 8.15 at the train station hating on Southern Trains, don't get me wrong, there is plenty to hate (they really are a chandelier of shit), but the whole sharing the woe thing was getting me down, I couldn't bring myself to say things like, “Oh, what a lovely sun rise over London”, and I do think that a lot, but to be honest, I'd rather share my breakfast with someone in the manner of a seagull regurgitating directly into their mouth than fart out sanctimonious pleasantries like some fair trade enthusing Earthy fucknut.

I'd also observe and share my thoughts on OCD man, a painful looking old fart who would amble to the same spot every morning and attempt to board the train at the same time every day and get the same seat. I would make it my mission to disrupt him, primarily just to share with twitter folk, several train tweets later, usually about other passengers, I would arrive at work, sometimes tweeting as I walked along the Thames, all this while I was going through John Woo type slow motion sequences in my mind of opening up with an assault rifle on all the elements of life that I hate.

The evenings would be the worse, subjecting my eyes and ears to the worst of the worst on the box, providing my own commentary on what is essentially our main broadcast medium seemingly suffering from a form of televisual bowel cancer, mocking its weak efforts tweet by tweet, the adulation and retweets egging me on like a bully in a fight. Then would come the moments when I would inadvertently cause offence with an errant side swipe at skin disorders or some fuck faced celeb or some way of thinking, or having a pop at some shit that means something to someone or other. Planning my evening on sitting in front of a TV and computer nay saying while gulping beer or wine just started to feel wrong.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to paint myself out as a sensitive soul that strives to go through life on egg shells, far from it, but I just don't need the distraction and to give that side of myself the audience that it secretly craves, it just makes you focus on the negative things in life. I am a very negative person and I'm struggling at the moment, there is lots about life at the moment which I dont like and would ideally like to be by a log fire somewhere with my “Bonnie Heather” no internet, chopping logs for the fire and tilling the land or some shit, pretty much the entire scene from Highlander before that big bald bloke comes and shoves a sword through Sean Connery and rapes the shit out of the girl.

I probably could have struggled on with the above, sifting through the metro for mocking material and flicking through TV watching reality TV and shit like Take me out, but on the Thursday morning I saw something that effectively killed my account, that fucking meerkat from the advert was not only on twitter, but had 10's of thousands of people following its fucking faux furry Borat bullshit. I hit delete account immediately, I could not share a space with that cunt, even if it is a cyber one.

Yes, I know its not a real meerkat, but I just cant get the image out of my head of the circle jerk of marketing cunts that come up with that concept and it turning out to be a “winner” and now the obligatory ripping the arse out of it. They are all probably getting blow jobs right now while doing cocaine, living off that little furry fucker, there is probably about 8 of them, the beast itself is probably watching the whole spectacle from a mound of earth while the go compare man sits in the corner, beating his tiny semi flacid cock off, pulling vinegars on a high note of the word compere, the whole group of them falling into a sweaty self congratulatory post fuck cig fest at the end of it, all high fiving before going to sleep, proud of their efforts and sleeping soundly for 8 hours, waking up with new ideas of how to annoy the living shit out of people and prosper for it, not one of them dying in fire as they should, while men dressed in leather trench coats spray them with bulbs of jif lemon as they burn, laughing in monotone.. (PS, I would buy any product that was endorsed by burning marketing people, just putting that idea out there)

Since going “cold twurky” I have struggled at times, its only been a few days but the fact that I have been reaching for my phone several times a day only to remember my “twittercide”, slowly putting the phone back down and reflecting on what I would have tweeted, it has mostly been negative simply proving I was kind of addicted. I do miss some of the people on there too, I'd somehow managed to amass 3000 followers and felt quite attached to come of them, I might come back one day, but I'm not sure. I HATED twitter when it first came out, because of the whole 140 characters thing, if someone made a site called two-witter, or twowittwo or something else indicating that it was about 300 characters I'd like that more. You may well stumble across me on there one day with no following, no followers, just rambling/ranting to the world with nobody to listen, that would be a fairer reflection of my life, the crazy drunk in the park.

Anyway, I shall be using this blog as my means to vent my spleen at the world and hope to getting the time to focus on some deep and meaningful blogs such as some of the other stuff on here...

Laters

The piss artist formally known as @blogstrop

(Fade out to the music form the littlest hobo)

2011 the future is now, and it’s actually pretty shit.

Its 2011, I’m 36, and I’m still on earth. To add insult to injury, I still catch a train to work, I still eat normal food based food, I still (occasionally) have to go through the rigmarole of dating, just in the hope of getting sex, I’m still typing this bullshit with my fucking fingers and not my eyes as I'd expected. Frankly, I’m disappointed, on all fronts, 2011 is not the futuristic techno holographic virtual fuck fest I thought it would be, we have to go to a shop called Currys or PC World to get the latest in “high tech” shit, purchased to briefly elevate our hugely under evolved lives to a non suicidal like just slightly above tedious. We still scratch out balls for fuck sake (and whatever women do) and smell our own farts. This isn’t the technological age.

I used to sit as a child watching programmes like Space 1999, that had me believe that we would be living off earth, battlestar gallactica, we would be fighting robots of our own creation, Street Hawk, a fucking gormless prick on an embarrassment of a motor cycle racing through towns at over 100mph Ok, some of it has come true, the core structure in all of these shows is that we have fucked the earth up, so well done to humans for coming good on that. We haven’t even been to the moon yet (allegedly) and we are fighting machines of our own creation, just today I called my new Windows 7 machine at work a fucking useless gibbering overly helpful drooling fucktard of a computer, and if you live in Southend, you will no doubt be inundated with motorcycle mounted pricks.

I’m still sitting here on a 5 year old craptop, typing like some sort of trained ape, I thought by now I would have been wearing some sort of computer glove like in minority report, pulling screens, moving sideways like cyber mime artist, grabbing the news from the left, pulling share prices from the right, sliding the football results in from the top, Mars Ultras 2, Neptune phantoms 1. This glove I speak of, might become a bit awkward when the user invariably pulls in some “space porn” probably some omni vaginal she-T character and starts wanking, how will it work, the screen will be flying up and down with every stroke, do they take the glove off, will that turn the thing off? Fuck, ok, maybe we are not ready for that, but as it stands where are we, technologically? We are no closer to getting into space for sure. You might be fooled by Richard Branson’s commercial “space flight” if you consider flying a bit higher than a 747 as space, then, well, good luck with that, you fucking idiot, you wont see Klingons and shit.










I remember watching Buck Rodgers too, I was young, I had urges to do things to Erin Gray in her spray on trousers, I wasn’t sure what exactly, but I imagined that people would be wearing stuff like that today, the only ones who do, are joggers, people who still run home from work, like primitive people, and a time in the 80’s but it soon faded out, we are still in normal earthly clothes, ok, we have technologically advanced materials like Gore-Tex, but that’s just worn by walkers and sex offenders.








I think technologically, we think we are doing better than what we are, people whimsically sweeping over Ipads and Ipods happy as Larry, oh, get me, I can run 200 concurrent apps on my phone, take high def movies and geo map every place I have ever had a shit in London, as well as analyse that shit with my ipoop app, ooh, need more protein, ok, the battery only lasts 45 seconds, but fuck me, it’s a great almost minute.
All well and good, but because we haven’t actually evolved as a “society” in tune with Apple/Sony/Nokia, we have only really strived in making nice shiny things for people to steal, punch your face, and rush off to Cash Converters.
I have an Xbox 360 which can do something like 30 terra flops of doo dars a second, giving me photo realistic Grandmothers to run over in games like Grand Theft Auto, the sound of their hips breaking in THX Dolby duplo triplex stereo bass boost the bollocks 5:1, great, I still sit and urge for the fun of games like sensible soccer, IK+ kick off, player manager. It’s not all about the shiny graphics.

Technology will be the undoing of humans, not like in terminator, we wont all die from a nuclear holocaust caused by revolting self aware PS3’s strangling people with scart leads, or anything, I think we will more like just drop down and die of boredom while all the skilled tasks we used to do are taken over by machines. There is something lovely about going out, taking some photos, developing them, learning how it could be better; now, digital photography makes it possible for any fucker to take professional pictures, 12 mega prick-sell upskirt pictures of girls on the underground etc.
Any fucker can sing because of auto tune, any prick can spell because of spell check, everything is being done for us, and we are turning slowly into featureless effortless emotionless mouthless blobs, like the Roswell Aliens, or Gail from Coronation Street.

Even porn, no longer do young men have to run the shameful gauntlet of plucking up the heart pounding courage of walking into the local shop and trying to retain a look of normality of buying Club or Mayfair magazine, getting the single acknowledging eye brow raise of the shop owner (who has probably glued half the pages shut before hand, porn mag prima nocta), rushing home thinking about the things you are going to do to that big titted bird with the perm on page 27, and planning on reading the double page story about the surviving crew of the nuclear submarine (you don’t) (I did!) Now its all done for you, three clicks and you can have a stoutly built Swedish lass heaving a huge turd log into some poor geeky looking shit obsessed perverts mouth (if that sort of think tickles your proverbials).

Kids don’t play out anymore, probably because they can do all their socialising on pervebook, or paebo, or whatever the latest piece of shit is called, yeah, but this ones like totally cool because I can like send virtual gifts and stuff, “Hey”, “Hey, how’s it gong”, “Yeah, cool I guess” “So like, erm I like totally, like erm….And meaningless micro talk like that.
Probably also too scared to play in the street because of the huge swathes of paedo’s the internet has awoken and people looking to live out their Grand Theft Auto fantasies.

Dating/relationships haven’t come on at all, I thought by 2011 I would be able to plug my cock into a computer and fuck Sharon Stone (circa 1985, or now actually, cor) or whoever, even that Swedish gob shitting woman 2 paragraphs up (no thanks) but no, I still have to go out and drag myself through “dates” talking the same old shit to different people, I could probably just send a tape recording of the crap I was going to say, and they could hear it, decide if it was funny/intelligent enough to get in their knickers and then have sex with me or not, or whatever…**

**Prospective dates reading this, please note, I am just coming out of a cloud of abject cynicism and extinguishing the fires of bitterness that have raged over me for probably a bit too long now, and will be a nice, decent honest bloke again very soon, and promise I wont clock watch if we go out (as long as you are not a lying head fucker) (or have vagazzling) (or talk like in that awful text speak) (or are a materialistic gormless slack jawed dummy) (or dislike beards) (or cant handle the fact that I have a child) (or you have a beard).

Also, I’m still having to cook food, what the fuck, I thought I would be able to come in from work, I say come in; I mean re-materialise where I live, and consume strange plasticine like blobs containing all the goodness I need. No death involved and plenty for everyone, and no shitting, just download nutritional data into a robo toilet, like a scat R2D2.
I would be able to enjoy all the tastes of India without almost gassing myself in my sleep, farting as I roll over, so loudly sometimes that I wake up screaming thinking it’s a terror attack with my room smelling exactly like that Saag Chicken, and having the indignity of my paid for meal spraying out of my arsehole like an Egyptian riot hose.

Travel, I still have to run the gauntlet of twats in mornings just to get onto a really old fashioned train, which is about 40 degrees in the summer. I should, as I say, be able to get in a “transporter” and get a Scotsman to “Energize me” to my place of work. And it needn’t be on this planet. I could do some sort of lunar admin work, logging moon rocks into some sort of space spreadsheet or something as NIGGLINGLY INSIGNIFICANT AS I AM DOING ON EARTH IN 2011, FOR FUCK SAKE!

Another example of how we are not doing as well as we believe, look at animals, what man hasn’t stared at a dog for a long period of time while it noisily licks its own cock and balls, and even its arsehole sometimes, with green eyed envy, wishing they could retire to their rooms and roll into a pleasure ball and stay there for ages.
If dogs could talk, and you could ask the question, would you swap your self fellating ability for a tablet based device that can get your emails, read the news, play games, watch movies etc, the dog would tell you to fuck right off, and probably start growling and if forced, might rip yours or your child’s face into ribbons. They can also smell illness and see ghosts, that tail wagging tongue lolling shit is an act, they are just playing dumb, while you sleep your dog probably speaks to spirits and transcends the earth to places we could never go.

Sharks, a shark can smell a fart up to 30 miles away, ok, its hardly something we would want, but they have evolved with nature, grown into their environments, and are masters of the sea. We have allowed technology to impinge on our natural development.
Had we not invented the television, Xbox, internet, we would probably be psychic, twitter would be a huge network of conjoined minds sending telepathic messages, entire works of literature at the blink of an eye, art, states of mind, ideas, philosophies, not 140 characters of crap, like exactly what I will be doing in about 30 minutes. By the way, if you read this, I’ll probably be talking about the “beetroot poo” I’ll be having tomorrow and thinking I’ve got bowel cancer before remembering I ate about 13 beetroots earlier. Wow, the bleeding edge of technology, utilised by a state of the art human..Fuck me.

Well, without wishing to be too damning on things and the state of humanity, we’ve kind of lost our way, missed the boat. We’ve spent too much time doing silly things like making Hydrogen Bombs, allowing the worlds natural resources to be plundered by shit hole Politicians, sat back and looked the other way while entire species fade off the planet forever, in 20 years time, you will never see a live Kakapo parrot and countless other species, rain forests decimated, and worst of all, we’ve allowed reality television to creep into a prominent position, Cheryl Cole is really famous, but nobody actually knows why, it just seemed to happen, how the fuck did it happen? Kerry Katona gets more tabloid column inches than the entire plight of Africa and the despairing situation in Afghanistan and Iraq. Simon Cowell practically runs music, a little old Irish botox ravaged closet wobbling quasi queen Louis Walsh actually has a say in what band will be rammed down your throat like some sort of audio fois grais.

The world is hanging on like a turd while the collective hand of humanity cranks up and down as hard as possible on the flush, hypnotised by bad adverts, unattainable celebrity image and shitty technological nick naks designed to make you feel like everything is ok, the buzz of ring tones and receipt of text message, email or mention in a tweet drowning out the call of your own soul to just turn back and start returning to nature, where the real happiness is. It’s never too late, and you never know, we return to the old ways and elevate ourselves to previously unknown levels of spirituality, and things like yoga and we might, eventually, be able to lick our own balls? I’d trade my Xbox in for that tomorrow.

Ah fuck, the Xbox is kind of good though…





Its not all bad, to our credit, humans have done some wonderful things, the George Foreman health grill amazing, soda stream, wizardry, who would have through that in 2011, you could buy a laminator FOR THE HOME! And emboss paper with plastic sheets, technically waterproofing it? Flutes are pretty cool? All that noise from that little thing? A shiatsu massage cushion FOR THE HOME!?...

Modern life sucks balls/Vision for London – Part One.

Today I begin my vision for London and the build up to me running and winning a mayoral election, and sorting the fucking heaving mess out that is our crapital city (straight after I have finished approving my Canary Wharf sized statue of me that will look over every single Londoner 24 hours a day, a protecting effigy keeping an eye on everyone, on the streets, in the bedrooms, and the changing rooms.

London, its pretty fucked isn’t it. Every days tasks and challenges are met with abject tedium, the tedium of the pathetic obstacles, from the daily morning greasing up, just to be able to get on board a packed out of date stinking third world mode of public transport, being satisfied with a tiny corner having to adopt advanced Yoga positions just to have a semblance of space to yourself trying to read a tiny section of paper with one of your legs wrapped round the back of your head. The daily tolerance needed just to leave the neck unsnapped of the various annoying people that make up the locust swarm of the daily rush hour, where cunts will literally stab a nanna just to get a better position on the train or push past you like ice hockey to get into work a few seconds earlier to get their tongue jammed up their bosses arsehole like a lolly stick, the joke on which is you.

Then, on to lunch where horrible soulless little shops with smug names peddle £4 sandwiches, vine ripened tomatoes, ethically sourced cheese on artisan bread, to the ludicrous salad wrap, which is exactly what it says, salad leaves wrapped in a rizla of bread, oh, don’t forget your £3 coffee put together with abattoir care and attention by some chatty European gap year gap toothed gap wearing cunt (prêt).

You pay for this because it briefly elevates you above the feeling of utter futility of what probably amounts to shitting out pointless work for someone else’s benefit, your years of toil literally forgotten about just hours after you bugger off with a fake hand shake and retirement whip round of about £87 quid, rushing home to sit on your parker knoll chair and curl up into an arthritic cancerous pain ball. (Don’t worry, it gets cheerier!) Dying to the tuts of your rough handed NHS carer and inconvenienced family.

Right, now, you’ve finished the daily dry chipped nail fingering that is work, what now? Rush home to lethally inject your intellect by sifting through the SHIT that is telly, or to the gym to have some roids riddled prick “personally train” you, which amounts to him putting you in impossible positions, and trying to fuck, or humiliate you if you are not up to his standards, or to the pub to marinade yourself into a babbling fuckless bollock with limbs, eyeing up every girl, mentally going through what you would say if you could cough up the courage to actually talk to her, shuffling onto a late night shame train back home, open jawed red eyed and heavy breathing, bouncing into a cheap KFC rip off place for 3 bits of chicken and chips even though you ate in the pub earlier, the feel of hot chicken fat, soggy greasy coating and dry old meat giving you brief feeling of happiness before going home to jerk off over the thigh master infomercial? Or if you are really lucky, you have a hobby, but you don’t actually enjoy this though, do you, (It gets cheerier, honest!)

Then, after 5 days the above, you get to the weekend and either over plan it and sit head in hands while Saturday turns to Sunday and before you know it, you are back on the train like a fucking organic Tetris block, just trying to fit in…You poor cunt?

You still here? Take that knife away from your wrists, here comes the gift, my vision for London, something to make sure that none of the above happens to anyone of you, (like it did me).

Why do most Londoners walk around with that look of impending doom engraved into their face? Because they have no REAL challenges in their life, just the misery of above, which, apart from some jobs, amounts to no more mental challenge than potato prints. People are literally mentally falling apart because there is no challenge in their life (Oy, fuck you cunt, I forecast a 7.22 index on a foreign oil/gold/ fedex long point, blue chip, turnover, wotsit do dar?) No, not like that you unethical banker cunt, Humans were not meant to be sitting around coked out of their mind tits in front of multiple computer terminals. No, proper living, how it used to be, you don’t get whinging Inuit’s, or Amazon rain forest people do you, just crumbling fucks sitting each week for counselling, ohh didums….

What London needs is some proper excitement, and I have a plan, If I was Mayor, every day at 12.30pm a klaxon would sound and I would have 4 Chinook helicopters fly over and slowly lower Hippos and Brown Bears into Central London, 3 beasts on each flight, that’s 12 angry fuckers to turn lunch breaks from a pointless pricey bread fest into a primeval fight for life. (Oh, to make matters worse, the bears haven’t eaten or mated for 2 weeks, and the Hippos have large elastic bands around their testicles, and are fucking angry anyway).

Lunch breaks would become a two hour adrenaline rush, people would be on the phones, or chatting over a coffee, before hearing the klaxon, the sound of a winch and the nasal huffing and puffing of irritated bears and bollock bound river bastards looking around anxiously for the cunt who lashed their testes with elastic.

Conversations would end, fingers would point and a collective scream would sound out as people ran to find vantage points against the multi terrain traversing terrors.

You can’t climb a tree, because the bear can, you cant jump in the Thames, the bear and the hippo can swim, you can get on the tube because both animals have zone 1-6 oyster cards on their snouts or equivalent. If you are underestimating this because you have been fooled by a little duffle coat donning cunt called Paddington and have seen the Chambourcy Hippopotomas advert, let me give you a bit of background. A hippo doesn’t just kill you, it M and S kills you; it ties you to a chair playing “stuck in the middle” pours petrol over you and cuts your fucking ear off. A bear will call your parents or partner and make you cry down the phone to them. A hippo can drive a fucking motor bike with the bear in the side car for fuck sake, if you are unlucky enough to be picked, you will get got, they will dress as a fucking electricity meter man, trick their way into your home and then walk you into the carpet like a sausage roll at a shit party.

At 2.30 when the beasts have been recovered everyone will return to work, apart from those who have been escalloped or half eaten like a bad sandwich, everyone would feel energised, euphoric and relieved, they would go home and appreciate those around them, and eventually sleep, just happy to be alive. (I thought about killer bees on the tubes at home time, but thought it would be ripping the arse out of the idea..)

“What else, what else, and how do I vote for you now?”, I hear you yodel from your wide eyed excited new self. Ok, I’ll summarise some of my other polices.

Maternity: This would be for everyone, even the childless could apply. People could take a 6 month break from work to go off and bring themselves up properly, making up for the shambles job their parents did. You would have to qualify for this by being a bit stupid or immature. This would be called Me-ternity leave. You would be expected to come back to work a bit less of a fucking idiot though.

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Speed cameras: The focus of these would switch from the cars and onto the pavements, to pick up the most annoying of them all, the cream of the crap, the shufflers and dawdlers. Anyone walking under 2mph would set off the camera and a PCA (pavement continuity agent) would hit them with a stun gun to speed them up, anyone caught walking slowly while reading a book, or eating breakfast or god forbid both, would have their trousers and pants pulled down and be surrounded by no less than 6 PCA’s and have their cock mercilessly laughed at for no more than 45 minutes. If it’s a girl they would have their hair done by a top hairdresser and then have cold water poured straight on it while the PCA’s laugh in different octaves like an ensemble vocal harmony group .

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Wanky Shops/Bars: Trendy sandwich shops and wanky bars would be destroyed in a real life version of angry birds, frozen turkeys would be fired at the shops from medieval catapults until they are destroyed, while the greedy owners cower inside like the smug robbing pigs they are. These shit holes would be replaced by reasonably priced pie and mash shops, fish and chip places; you might even be able to get a kebab for lunch or shops selling cheese sandwiches on normal white or brown bread. If you want something healthy, like Israeli cous cous or quinoa, sure, bring it in, but eat it out of sight, you nauseating nibble needing nutsack

Pubs would return to take pride in the city, hearty frothy pints served by real women and the sound of real men sucking beer from moustaches and wiping obligatory beards. Anyone who comes into the bar and tries to order a coffee will be at the mercy of the PCA’s (pub continuity agents), yes there is cock mockery, but only for 15 minutes as coffee is ok, just not in a pub?

Crime: I am against all crime, anybody found committing a crime would be at the mercy of the PCA’s (prison continuity agents) there would be lots of penile pointing and mirth.

To be continued. (If I’m not sectioned beforehand)

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...