Never more than 7 Clicks from porn

Do you remember the days before the Internet? No, nor can I. I have a vague feeling of disgust of being about 17 and buying a porn mag from a newsagent as far away from my mum’s house as possible. I would never go back to this place again. That trouser rubbing dirty feeling of taking it off the shelf and looking at the bint of the front page and almost shaking at the thought of the ‘things you are going to do to ‘er later’ (in 2d), and vague plans to read the stories inside. Those days were replaced for me the day I walked into PC World and chirpily spent £2199 (on credit) on a compaq Pentium 1, 266mhz thing (with the intention of playing Championship Manager) and remember the first time it connected to the internet, it was Compaq’s bulletin board, it took about 7 hrs to download all the fixes to repair this piece of shit that was fucked from the moment it came out of the box and got its first virus from the air, it was so shit I think it was powered by real organs and got pneumonia or something.
With very flaky search engines at the time, AltaVista was in its infancy, I stumbled on some porn. This event opened my “third eye” to the realms and droves of porn that was on offer for free, regardless of relationship status. All males look at porn; I don’t care what they say, even blind people, you can see them pursing their lips as they rub their hands over Braille pictures of the woman from the Hello video taking it from Lionel up every hole (they only look at other blind people you know).

Nowadays with the swift move from 33.6 and 56k modems we move into the digital age where the entire series of Cum Dumpsters or Piss Drinkers 1-14 can be fully downloaded while you sleep snugly in your bed and will be ready in the morning for you to scan through swiftly going from the segments of attempted acting, straight to the beery FROTHY pissing on the poor lasses face, or the poor naïve girl who has effectively had the entire population of the world cock spat all over her once pretty face (usually Japanese).
In today’s super digital age, we should be downloading wonderful works of fiction and history from great civilisations, and connecting with people across the world to share views and find togetherness and make the world smaller, instead, men come in from work, sit and have a microwave meal, and then follow a link sent by a mate to a grainy video of an Afghan goat herder smashing one of his poor flock from behind while it bleats for a help that will never come. Anyway, off topic, bestiality is not porn, its just filth, its more comedy than porn, overall though, its just cruel, both to the animal and to the misguided usually German rubber muffed cunt hulk who is taking the entire stead, balls deep, and ending with a bad perm full of chew marks and hoof prints and spittle in her hair from it neighing. (I have never watched a bestiality video for the record, honest guv, I have however, watched the faces of friends who have, and the shock and awe was enough for me, thanks for asking).

Porn distorts the view of a normal relationship, young porn addled men will look in horror when a boob is “slightly” different to the other and gasp when a women gets naked to reveal a normal “warts and all” body and not in fact pneumatic porn tits, sparrows beak of a vagina and flawless skin and an arse like a space hopper, and this all while they stand there with their paunch and average semi flaccid wiener on show.

I canvassed some of my mates to find out the amount of time (or clicks) it takes for an innocent minded internet surfing session to turn into a distorted trouser removing one handed cock wrestle ending in a veritable geezer of pure life into the nearest receptacle, the answer surprised me. I had wagered about 7, (say Sky news, BBC news, for the truth, twitter, Facebook, other Facebook account for stalking, gmail account and youtube). It was actually about 3, this might speak low of the people I know, but I actually think it’s probably quite truthful.
It’s a sad time when folk no longer need to work for their porn, men have always had to work for it, back in the days when the original works of grot were carved into stone tablets (ironically, these usually involved bestiality) to grotty mags like Razzle, to now, where a click of a mouse will fill your sordid hard drive with enough cock to go around Birmingham, and enough volume of vagina to rescue the Chilean Miners.

Porn has its place, but if it takes over your life, you have a problem, as a guide, take a tape measure, and measure your wrist that you “pour a hand shandy” with, if it’s the same diameter as your neck, you should seek urgent help.

Vampire Programmes/Horror

Is it just me, or are there far too many Vampire based programmes on TV? Every new programme aimed at teens/young adults seems to feature these clean cut handsome (male) or sexy (women) vamps, (that is if you find pale vegan pallid aidsey looking types attractive).
These tampon sucking be-fanged fucks have crept onto our screens and into the psyche of young people. Since the original Buffy, we now have True Blood, Vampire Diaries, Vampire Hunters, Being Human, and Twilight, and lots of other blood spraying shit.

I don’t know why these plasma partaking piss pots have suddenly become sexualised and the new big thing. I’ve never even been able to give a girlfriend a cheeky love bite without getting a massive tut and a “for fuck sake I’ve got college/work/nursey tomorrow” etc. As far as I a can see, programmes that involve anything to do with night walkers, sun intolerant haemoglobin hoovering fucks will only encourage something none of us like, the Goth. Saturating our TV with fangy faddish fucks will make the Goth believe that they are a) Cool and b) required, they are neither of these things, make the sign of the cross and send them back hissing to their black walled bedrooms to stare at pentagrams and contemplate suicide, I don’t want to see them, walking with their black greasy arse length hair heads held high, in their ¾ length leather trench coats in the middle of an Indian Summer. No, don’t put sun block on and come out, stay inside doing online gaming all night drinking energy drinks and praying to Satan and fucking around trying to talk to the dead etc.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have anything personally against Goths, I just don’t want to see them out on the street in the day, the sun glaring off their cacophony of piercings. These programmes will encourage this. No, stay in and use messenger programmes to talk, or not talk about stuff. “Hey”, Hey, Like how’s it going? Ok, I guess. So like do you fancy like, hanging out? No, I’m like totally staying in and playing like some other life for like totally......You get the message.

I’ve calculated that by 2017, all programmes will be vampire themed if this trend continues. Even Eastenders. Poor Minty will head down to the Queen Vic for a quick pint and end up getting sucked dry by a now immortal and flying Dot Cotton, it doesn’t bear thinking. Heather, despite being transformed into a night walker, will use a pair of pliers to get the fangs out as they affect the speed and velocity that she can wolf Belgium buns and doughnuts. She will still come out in the day to go to Londis, the burning UV will take ages to affect her fat orang-utan face.

I expect as I write this a whole raft of girls will probably be having a good old frantic finger frig watching that weird looking bloke from Twilight, posturing on the screen with a tampon hanging out of his mouth like a sanitary James Dean cigarette. I can’t see the appeal myself, as much as I love Kate Beckinsdale, the thought of her fangy mouth round my old chap fills me with both fear and disgust. I’d still give her one though; I’d probably use her fangs to anchor her down on the pillow while I worked her from behind. I’d probably ask her to shower first, coming out of all that leather and kicking the shit out of stuff all day.

And horror films, again, ruined, sexualised, it used to be that you could use good camera work and psychology to create a pant pissingly scary horror film. Now its crud like Saw and Cabin Fever, where pretty College types are strimmered, batted, twatted, sliced, diced and cubed while the “sexy murderer” in the background gives themselves a breast exam and a smear test with a hand blender.

Shove the whole lot up your arse.

Experts!

If you've ever listened to our podcast you would know that quite a few things annoy us, one thing that gripes me possibly more than rush hour tube train travel, are "experts".

An "expert", basically a fucking Billy Big Bollocks on a chosen subject, most likely friendless tank top wearing bespectacled Jack of one trade uber saddo who probably cries themselves to sleep at night in a lonely small flat surrounded by books on their chosen subject, and plaudits and pointless awards from pointless bodies that seek to turn simple things into high science and complicate it quickly out of the realms of beer drinking dum dums and tabloid reading slack jawed corporate whore cattle consumer fuck dogs.

Prime examples of the overuse of 'Experts' are as follows. I frequently feel the hair stand up on my palms when ever a news article comes on that involves "travel", its a case of not if, but when "Travel Expert" Simon Calder is going to pop up like a big flailing train spotter to tell you, in his expert opinion, what is happening in general travel, and what to do about it, or what he would do. "Travel Expert", I can imagine him out and someone crosses the street diagonally and him rushing up to tell them, in his expert opinion, that it would have been easier to walk straight across the road and thusly save 1.84m of travel. Or at the airport, expertly traversing the check in desks, practically able to levitate to gate 36, banging on the pilots door telling him that it would be better to go to 37,000ft and da da da da. I have nothing against the man, in fact, when I see him I think of what it would look like if Stephen Hawkins climbed out of his electro-trolley, turned the speak and spell off and screamed "its a miracle". I've seen him cycling up near Shadwell enough, so if I did hold a grudge I could have kicked him off his bike (being an assault expert) but seriously, who gave him the title of travel expert? Fuck sake. What next, some cunt with a medal going out to Africa to be-title someone as a starvation expert, or an aids expert (aidspert?)

Another one who annoys me, although the title would describe her as not someone who is lonely, is "Relationships Expert" Linda Papadopoulos, who again, pops up on TV like burnt toast whenever some D list shit for a soul whore has been dumped by her pug faced footballer boyfriend, using her expertise to give us valuable insight into the mind of the moronic phone anal inserting more money than sense cunt bag of a cunt. "Well, I think by having intercourse with the pensioner, he was trying to say da da da da" fuck off, and fuck you too, so what if you have a degree in head-fucking from the University of Shaftville in Vaginia.
Only two things could possibly make you a "relationships expert", 1) You've had sex with everyone (No, that makes you a bit of a dirt bag) or 2) You've stayed with the same person your whole life and made it work through a raft of circumstances, in which case you have no place telling me how to deal with a break up or how to make my relationship better**? Again, I have nothing against the woman personally and I'm sure she is very good at her normal job, but lose the Golden Dildo award and title of "expert" that comes with it. Its an offense.

**I'm single, and I've let several relationships fly out of my hand like wet squeezed soap and resort to nights furiously masturbating like a sad angry Gorilla, an xbox 360 my only friend, any advice you can give me, gladly received?

Lastly, and I'm not even going to name the woman, but she is apparently an Australian "risk expert?" - "Excuse me love, there is a lion in my house, and I'm wearing a zebra print jacket, is it safe for me to go inside and watch Hollyoaks? - No. Thanks for that. This silly woman was on my telly last week pouring over a so called foiled terror plot in which Mumbai style attacks would happen simultaneously in Hamburg, Paris and London. A terrible prospect, yes, but she confidently pissed out that if this attack had gone ahead, it would have been worse than 9/11?!, erm....[awkward silence?]...[nasal breath sounds] I don't know if you saw any of 9/11 love, but if you didn't, I will give you a brief snapshot, TWO FUCKING PLANES FULL OF NICE PEOPLE FLEW INTO TWO MASSIVE FUCKING BUILDINGS AND BROUGHT THEN DOWN WHILE THE WORLD WATCHED LIVE, THEN ANOTHER ONE, FULL OF PEOPLE (apparently) FLEW INTO THE PENTAGON AND KILLED IT, THEN ANOTHER ONE FLEW INTO A FIELD AND KILLED SOME GRASS AND CROPS. It was hell on earth, we were all extras in a Die Hard film and thousands of innocent people died. I'm no terror expert (and nor are you love) but that, in my 'umble opinion IS GOING TO TAKE SOME FUCKING BEATING. 9/11 was the Asian Tsunami of terror attacks (by the way, the Asian tsunami was the 9/11 of natural disasters, just to be clear). Fear mongering fox news type nonsense. Anyway, I wont get too political about the nature of the terror/freedom charter in the world, but it just falls into my 'expert' rant, I fucking hate it, I'm not watching any more news, I'm putting my boot through the TV tonight and I'm going to smash my radio into tiny bits and stop consuming the vast waves of crap that are coming out of it.

I'll then get up Sunday and rush down to Comet or Currys and being without a radio and TV is a perfect excuse to buy another one, I'll get a nice Sony Bravia "the bollocks" 5000hz 4D 500watt more colours than the eye can see and a radio that plugs directly into your mind (using a scart type lead). I expect that while I'm there shopping, I will be approached by some Armand Van Helden bearded turdlette proudly sporting the badge A/V expert, on seeing this I'll pull my leg back until it touches one of my vast glute muscles and arch a kick as hard as I can into his balls (which are probably surrounded by a small line of pubes in the same manner as his face). Stamp on him, tear my shirt off, oil up, and scream like King Leonidis in 300 and tear the place up needing 12 officers to arrest me. I'll then get a custodial sentence and spend about a month in Prison where I will be penetrated by someone larger than me in for handling stolen goods, and it will hurt like hell. At this point I'll probably regret writing this blog and promise that when I am released I will change my ranting ways.
Eventually I am released and put into the hands of an ex offender counsellor, on our first meeting I'm told he is an "expert" at dealing with reintegration into society. I roar like a lion with piles and tear my shirt off and...........

Dick - Podcast expert.

Pippin the Tumorous Schnauzer

Sue Brayor woke up in a marinade of cold confused sweat at 6.14am, a simpering length of useless hot cock free female, a quick flash of her head surveying the king sized bed for signs of life, there was nothing there, there never was. A boots mattress protector had insured that not even dust mites occupied the same intimate space as her.
Patches of sweat had formed on her silly cotton pyjamas, one looked a bit like Bill Turnbull, and that was as close as she would get to having a man pressing their smug rat like face on her.
Her unemployed womb, having long since spat its last useless cunt egg out, was now doing its best to let her know how angry it was at its complete lack of usage by turning the dial on her inner thermometer to the “mushroom cloud symbol” the sort of heat your mum would use on your clothes and turn even the baggiest of T shirt into a Britney Spears belly top. This would wake her up at pretty much the same time every day. Sue was quite regimented about her day, but regimented in the same way that an arsehole will regimentally tear when a wine bottle is inserted up it.

She shuffled to the window and drew back her heavy curtains to view what the day had in store for her horrible sentence of a life, and for Ashford on the whole. As she did she saw the young couple over the road that were brazenly having full and frantic intercourse in their living room, the large bay windows left nothing to the imagination, as she got her focus he pulled out from behind the girl and she turned around fast, just in time to receive the full bulbs worth of viper vomit right across her eyes, face and hair. Sue watched, and although what she had essentially seen was a young man fire fuck froth right across some poor girls face, hair and eyes, it still made her heart sink, and brought home the emptiness of her fruitless futile life and she raised her hands to her spunkless face, turned away and drew the curtains back to closed.

She peered over at pastoral pippin, who would soon be coming round from his nightly drug induced coma and he lay there with his tongue lolling out like a, well a lolling tongue, like a furry Pete Docherty. His lipstick lance was out, he was dreaming, his back legs shuffled in the motion that would probably be apt if he were hanging out of the back of a she Schnauzer. Again Sue’s heart sank. Had Sue’s heart been in the sea, it would have sunk to the level where them fucked up transparent fish live that look like something from the full length directors cut of the Abyss, it wouldn’t have been down here though, the pressure would have destroyed it, or something would have eaten it, a shark or some sort of predatory eel, I don’t know, fuck off, its just an extended observation for fuck sake not some Jacques Cousteau documentary about sunken hearts, Jesus?

Sue went downstairs and started her daily routine of drinking fancy tea out of a fancy cup and saucer, which poured from a fancy tea pot, the milk poured in from a separate little milk jug, that wasn’t fancy at all, and ruined the whole fancy tea ensemble and underlined the fact that Sue Brayor couldn’t get anything right. As she assembled the various tea bits having flicked on to radio two she heard a scamper and then sudden repetitive thumping. Poor Pippin had tried to traverse the stairs on his own and lost control of two legs and went into a full forward roll, like a small canine boulder from the Indiana Jones film, but yelping pathetically. Sue could barely scream as he gathered momentum and at one point cleared the stair by 2ft and eventually splattered onto the small landing at the bottom and lied still. Sue froze as did time for her, poor Pippin was lifeless, Sue moved towards him in utter speechless shock.
As she got close to him she heard a small release of gas and then a shot of hot poop and blood cannoned out of his backside like an old car starting in the morning and made the shape of a Klu Klux Klan hat on the carpet, in brown, then, suddenly his body twitched and convulsed and he sprang back to “life”. Sue was so relieved without thinking she scooped his perishing husk up and held him to her chest. As she did the second wave of bloody hot shit fired out and covered the front of her frumpy jim jams, she felt the warmth of the diseased dung seeping through but held him tight. Pippin thought about biting her face being this close to it, taking a chunk out of her cheek, but he didn’t have the strength and just hung in her arms like a wheezing clutch bag.
Today was set for him, another trip to the vets, more drugs, when would his suffering end, he made a promise to himself, he would take the pills, sleep, get some energy and tomorrow he would bite the cunts face, proper scar her for life. Do a right fucking job on her, at least then she might have him put down?

Sue’s day continued, a silly walk to the silly little shops to buy some fancy food that she would eat alone, alone in her fancy little house on fancy plates on fancy place mates, 6 of them, nobody fancied her though, poor cow, silly old Sue Brayor, selfish Sue, clinging on to her faded past and holding on to her dog when to be honest, 98% of people would, at the very least, have put a house brick across it?. Sue’s love for the stricken beast bordered on insane. She readied the car and put poor Pippin in for yet another trip to the vets.

Sue swerved off the drive and made a slight skidding noise as she turned hard into the road and accelerated hard down the road, the estate car lifting at the front as she floored it, almost hitting a young mum with her two kids, oblivious to this she drove on, the only thing that mattered was her poor Pippin. The poor dog stared at the back of her head, tutted and sneered “cunt” in his mind and painfully started to clean his balls and arse with his own tongue.

He would survive today, but hopefully tomorrow would bring him a glorious end. Sue’s day was pretty much set, the same as today, over and over again, tut, cunt.

Dickie Does Rye/Scum

I’m finding this particular blog hard to write as I don’t believe in classes and don’t want to come across as someone who does, I‘m quite the opposite, I take an individual on their merits and class never comes into it (I do make snap judgements on people, which can be quite c*nty, oops).
What I don’t like though are ‘scum’ - You get scum in all classes, from the lower class Granny mugging crack smoking shit c*nts whose very existence is to impregnate as many council flat dwelling sprung action legged spunk mitt teen fallopian property ladder climbing shit whores, and when they are not doing that (rarely) they live to make as many decent hard working folks lives as difficult as possible by picking a discipline from the wide array in their anti social skill set.
Rise up to the top from this and you get the silver spooned cherry picked blood lined fucking rah rah fox hunting roller blind lipped Burberry wearing Oxford punt c*nts who usually hide behind some sort of title and who ritualistically abuse children in crazy underground crazy arthritic handshaking Satanist sex rings and happily go undetected or have sex with illegal immigrants while dressed as Rommel. Anyway, point made.

My experience of scum this week was when I ventured down to the historic town of Rye for a week to escape the smog, pollution and general Michael Ryan’esque rage that a long stint in London can drive you to. What I got however was the same, but with bells on. Rye itself is a lovely little place, twee little cake shops and delicate little antiques market selling all range of fancy crap, the usual Sussex fair, nice beaches, rarely populated by about 5 people, most of them locals walking their dogs etc. However, venture out slightly and you get to Camber. Camber in the summer, some sort of congregation for the worst of the worst, where scum from Hastings go to get away from it all. Children dressed in a mish mash of tracksuit bottoms, polo tops and ill fitting trainers (He’ll ‘ave to fakkin grow into thim) kids that have managed to escape the most important educational years and instead communicate with a series of Neanderthal grunts and chest beatings in order to explain to the mum that they are running low on either quavers or super noodles, the unleaded of scum kids.
I watched open jawed as fucking tattoo neck/fist dad looked the other way as his idiot kids littered the street (there was a bin 2ft away) and kicked the shit out of a bus stop (Dad was too busy trying to work out if he had time to have a roll up before the bus came) and Mum was just chain smoking away, probably about 36 but Alex Higgins white with suck marks on her cheeks from permanently having a Richmond Cigarette on the go. And the poor me rsi from having his hand out Dad moaning on the bus at 11am about child custody issues while sucking on a can of strong beer, what a fucking chump, and finally the ridiculous wannabe gangsta pricks walking round in hot sun with hoodies pulled up, walking in an arthritic manner, hoods up, music blaring out, it almost made me wish I had proper South London lad from Peckham to show ‘em how its done. I think the hive for this high instance of pikey was Pontins, there were some lovely families there too, being ripped off to shreds with the high season holiday prices, but the place was modelled off the worse council estates in England.

I know that life has always had its layer of scum, and in some ways, life would be dull without them, there would be no Jeremy Kyle for starters, no Lidl, no Primark, but I think as a people, we club together and grab these people, hug them, hold on to them, educate them, bathe them, clothe them (inoffensively) and show them that life is better when it’s all together, allow them to experience and bathe in the warmth of other cultures and the wealth of beauty and teachings that the world can bestow upon them, if they only opened their eyes, surely then, with that knowledge in their hearts and minds, the world would open up to them like a flower and they could share in the global community and the higher teachings that are given to those who reach out and shun ignorance?
Or gas the fucking cunts, I don’t care, either is fine with me, just get the fuckers out of my fucking eye line. Somebody do some thing, sterilise the cunts? Jesus (two words that should never appear together in a line, sorry big man), the amount of money we spend dropping heavy ordinance or poor little Afghans and we cant spare a few grand for some house bricks to humanely castrate these sick, inbred, scrounging, deadbeat grasping shuffling horrid, horrible fuck pigs?

It didn’t take much research online to work out what was causing the high instance of indigenous pikey in the area, bad diet, low access to employment, housing? No, the fuck off nuclear power station pumping death and disability out into the sea and air 27/7, I’d ignored some of the sights I had seen and some of the quotes that filtered through my overly judgemental mind, quotes such as “a child should never have a blow hole on its forehead” and “finally, someone who can appreciate an Ibenez 7 string guitar”. Quite simply, radiation is not your friend, it wont save you money on your bills, it will fuck you up, that and super noodles.

Dick does the Beer Festival.

Nothing seems right these days when its not Rant and Dick together, even sex, but there are some things in life that you can’t get Rant to do, find a long term solution to heinous foot odour, and stop being a massive cock after 4 pints. Good thing then perhaps that he didn’t come with me to the ‘Great British Beer Festival’ at Earls Court, this used to be a yearly event for me, but I’d given it a miss for a couple of years, mostly out of fear of becoming like the mainstay of drinkers there, but I’m on holiday now so I thought what better way to kick things off than erm… with a load of fucking freaks in a giant pub the size of Kent??…

Being an excitable human being whose enthusiasm for things is generally not reciprocated, especially relationships wise, I was first to arrive at Earls Court, my cruisy** Friday morning tube journey still littered with C words and barging (IS THE FUCKING TUBE EVER NOT BUSY) This reached its zenith on the all new Victoria line, when a train just stopped at Vauxhall and the magnitude of TFL’s corruption and incompetence hit home. The poor people in the packed carriage technically started to cook as it turned out that the all new trains (which were supposed to be cooler and more efficient) are not actually fit to carry live stock and are only good at blowing hot second hand silicon riddled hot air through themselves.
Boiling, and feeling sweat forming around my nether regions I begun to write the day off and get moody. [Shut up fatty, tell us about the beer, nobody is interested in your fucking journey there, you cunts cunt, in fact, don’t even tell us about the beer, just fuck off, get a life or at least sort this one out, Jesus, why am I even reading this crap, ahh balls, my life is a mess too, fuck, Dick, lets get (back) together?] Blimey, alright, I’ll fast forward to Earls Court.

Leaving the tube (the shitty ineffective, useless metal arse ramming cock of a tube, sorry I cant help it) at Earls court and seeing the sea, I mean swamp, of people gathering around outside I felt like I was in some sort of Zombie film, called something like 28 stone later, Army or Dorkness, or Dawn of the Dull, my first thought was “I had no idea the national sex offenders register was an event?”

I brought my ticket and went inside, alone, afraid; the Cub Scout in me was still worried about Ahkala’s wandering hand. I happily paid £3 for a glass giving me the security that if anything happened at least I could take one of these hairy blubbering fucks with me to hell in a glassy final act. I could see no women, no diversity; simply uncouth men, self dressed uncaringly and unloved walking around with faltering organs and dodgy hair without purpose, but seemingly gathered under the same roof as if by instinct, or should I say, drinkstint.
I got my first pint and then reached out to Twitter for ideas for a collective noun for sex offenders, I was amazed and repulsed by the answers, my faves were, a Grunt, a Crèche, a Glitter, but in the end I settled for ‘a register’. Still waiting for my mates to arrive I wandered round looking up at the bizarre names for real ale creations, Dribbles old fuck’ole, Mintys Blick Bastard, Fuzz Muckers Tiny Tit bristle, etc etc. A beer that certainly caught my eye was Beowulf (7.5%) and I decided that I would end the day on that, real blaze of glory shit.

I had yet to see another human being who wasn’t suffering with some sort of limp, lurch, keel, tick, spasm, amputation, skin condition or huge hair growth/loss, finally I saw a woman, and I believed for a minute that she had winked at me, on closer inspection it turned out her eye had been seared shut in some bizarre country side coming of age ritual (11).

Finally, my friends arrived and I was so happy I presented every orifice to them in sexual thanks, they were all turned down thankfully and we got on with the job in hand, to drink as much as possible, consume anything that was cheese or pig, and get out of Earls Court without having a callous riddled hand shoved down our trousers and the sounds of nasal breathing and grunting that usually comes with molestation. And protect our women from strange Somerset breeding rituals.

“I hate all beer though?” I hear you say, well, thankfully, the ‘Beer’ festival has chucked you a bone in the form of a cider area and some of them right faggy fruit beers which are just wrong, raspberry cider, fuck right off, the cider line ends at pear ok, stop fagging cider up? Anyway, the people serving the cider were as usual the hard core, too pickled to acknowledge their own demise (probably several years ago judging by the smell) and each with bits missing, from diabetes destroyed finger loss, right up to the “person” on the last pump who bubbled advice from inside a large sarsons vinegar jar like something off Doctor Who. They also had an actual bar where a cunt could go and get themselves a carling, I cant believe people actually drink carling?

The highlight of the entire day was standing outside having a cig and seeing the spittingist image of Ricky Gervais, a group were starting to suggest that he did ‘the dance’ he must have been there for a laugh and if he wasn’t and didn’t want the hassle, consider not slicking your hair back, having a goatee and wearing the exact some suit as Gervais wore in the office. Oh, and the other highlight was seeing the Hamsters play live again, I hate it when people just see a group of old men on stage and cant look past the bad clothes and pattern baldness and see what was probably the finest bit of live guitaring they will ever see in their miserable non guitar appreciating beer hating shitty lives.

I wish I could give you a more thorough run down of which beers I had and their hoppy fruity undertones, but to be honest, its Saturday morning and my head feels 4 times heavier than normal and all I want to do is drink tea, eat toast and watch Dragons Den, the only points I can remember are Welsh beers were very nice, erm, don’t drink Beowulf, and be nice to your girlfriend and women in general.
Right, time to put the kettle on.

I hope you don’t think that I am saying that the core of real ale drinkers are sex offenders and all the other things I have said, not the case, although I saw nobody that I would trust my child with, I did see about 13 or so people that I would have another beer with, the rest, ppppppppppffffff, sorry guys, I only write what I see, you might want to have a shave, pull your trousers down from around your throat and throw that weird gillet thing out with all the badges on it, just saying..

** I will never use the word cruisy again, sorry.

Natures Pathetics/Champions

I witnessed something special yesterday, something that most people just ignore (unless they are gormless and walk along open jawed like some fucked up land basking shark and end up eating half of them), but in Ant terms, its their Glastonbury festival, the World Cup Final, or to put it in human terms, like when that Primark opened and dick-brained shit people fought pitch battles to get their stupid insipid thrifty claws on clothes that are made out of material which is basically thick kitchen towel and will not survive a single wash.
This unflinching greed in the ant world is the unveiling to any Pratt with eyes, or an open mouth of the super ant, the Andre the Giant of Ants, and to make it even better, a flying version of this mega giga Ant, the flying giant gargantuan mega fucking titan cunt lord of an ant. Imagine if you will an 8 times bigger version of yourself with wings, like Avatar on steroids, you would be pretty impressed? The purpose of this avionic insecta, well, nobody seems to know? One theory is that they fly to find new nests, an other is they fly off and rape other ants to spread their seed, another is that its just a show of force like a Russian Military parade. In any case, the preparation for this huge feat of nature must be immense, like your kids first day at School times a trillion.

The end result of this huge almost biblical natural event, a magical pilgrimage of ant tribes? No, is it fuck, its just pavement full of splattered giga ants, crushed under cheap shoes, I’d imagine that of the billion or so Hyper Terra mega zinger ants that launch, about 3 make it to the promised land and stand there like the end of a Rocky film with nobody to witness the journey, its actually quite pathetic, and shows that ‘God’ shares his humour through the animal kingdom (like human men and their ball bags), if Ants had thumbs they would have fucked us off years ago, they have strength in abundance and live together in huge colonies, if you equate this in human terms, say Newham, where every cunt is stabbing each other, shooting, raping and in most cases not working at all, let alone together. Ants are better than us in every conceivable way, but in earth terms, they are pathetic, and in the order of things, like grains of sand with legs. Keep training hard you little black or red bitches, you’ve got a long way to go before you take the crown off the humans, we will fuck you up and hang your queen on fishing tackle and rape her with a sewing needle. (OH IF BY SOME STRANGE QUIRK THE ANTS TO TAKE OVER THE WORLD AND READ THIS, IVE HAD A BEER, LOOK UP EFFECTS OF ALCOHOL ON WIKIPEDIA, IM SURE YOU WILL KEEP THAT IN YOUR NEW ANT WORLD ORDER, I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT I WAS SAYING, YES ITS TUESDAY I KNOW, YOU WOULD DRINK IF YOU WERE ME…)

Nature does pathetic well, the mole rat, an ugly creature of the highest order that comes out of its hole solely for the purpose of putting its fat goofy body into the talons of a great eagle and dying screaming through its goofy arsehole mouth. If the mole rat was a person at your school you would bully it. It’s the only creature on the planet I enjoy watching get killed, most of the others I sit there sobbing like a menstruating Dido enthusing fat girl who has just recently been dumped.

Aphids, pointless, its ok Glenn Hoddle saying that sinners come back as disabled people (yeah you insensitive once be-mulleted diamond lights singing cunt) but if disabled insects sinned, they would come back as an aphid, these fat sap sucking cow like cretins only live to be brutally raped and eaten by lady birds, or sucked off until they look like Alex Higgins by the same ants that strive to protect them.

Pandas though, pathetic, fuck you idiots, you will become extinct if you don’t have sex, whats the problem?

Donkeys, fight back for fuck sake, bite a couple of kid’s faces, kick the Spaniard who tries to throw you off the church roof? Get a rep, get out of Blackpool, be like the mule on buckaroo? And whatever you do, don’t let Russian business men make you paraglide, buck someone in the face?

Now, nature has its fair share of idiots, but let us give a shout out to the champions of the natural world, the best of the beasts.

Number one, octopi, you smug looking fucks, I’ve always wondered why you look so cool, the squid has a look on panic on its face, but you have that relaxed learned look on your huge face, we all know why now, not only are you psychic, but you can shit like a leaky parker pen? Simply awesome, humans can shit blood, but not on cue or when in danger, usually when they have bowel cancer, nothing to brag about, it might save you a beating in a pub if you can shit some out, but it’s a risk, you might just end up offending people and end up a battered shitty blooded cancerous wreck.

Cows, what is it you know? You four or six stomached full fat milk spraying nutters, we have smashed you into meatballs, burgers, joints, sausages, ground your bones into gravy, licked your spinal columns dry and you still look at us in that strange way like you have some horrible dirt on humans, I reckon you have been fucked by aliens and you can fire lazers out of your eyes or can shit aids into milk (something Nestle have probably been trying in Africa for years) and you are just waiting for your moment, I expect it will be when I am walking through a field full of you, I’ll probably get Bull raped and tortured, anyway, please consider the many years I ate no meat.

Other great animals, Eagles, Swans and pugs, the rest of you should be ashamed and you deserved to be coated in breadcrumbs and shallow fried.