The Tragedy of Gadgetry

I'm sitting here now, my whole body trembling in anticipation, the thought of getting my hand on something long, something sleek and magical (so that’s my penis ruled out then) finally getting alone with it and turning it on (so, if it wasn’t before, that’s definitely my penis ruled out) slotting something inside it and watching the magic unfold before my eyes (its not a vagina either, its not a sexual organ at all, well, it sort of is. Its the new Sony PS Vita, I want it, I want it, I want it.

I would have had it too if it wasn’t for the following facts. 1) I’m 37, almost 38 years old. 2) I have an 8 year old hammer handed child who I have not allowed to have a 3ds because its too much for his little eyes. 3) I need to be financially sensible with uncertain times approaching. 4) I have a girlfriend, and we live together, and although we are not financially bad off or dependant on each other, I just feel guilty spending what would amount to paying out £300 for what is essentially a gadget (A LIFE CHANGING, ALMOST SEXUAL GADGET, NEXT GENERATION GAMING ON THE MOVE, THE THING I DREMPT ABOUT AS A CHILD, AND ALMOST UP INTO MY 30'S..) plus I owe her money..

I've had two dreams about owning one, which is sad in itself and I've gone through the rigorous process of trying to justify buying it to myself. I have brought other gadgets in the past with the promise that some feature of them will help improve my life, a palm pilot, this was going to help me to be more organised, it didn’t, it just served to be a portable device to view porn on, right back to a Psion Organiser II, the two lines of text, and 64kb expansion pack was just enough ram to write a suicide note on, to explain to the world, that at about 18 years old, I was a complete and unabridged tool, the method of suicide, just beating myself around the head with it, It was heavier than a house brick.

I've made some very big mistakes with gadgets and technology over the years. I was one of the first people in the UK to own a Gameboy, I paid I think well over £200 for it to be imported over on pretty much on the same day it went out in Japan. I had people staring at me on the underground, most likely not amazed by the gadget, but at the face I was pulling, screwing my eyes up and looking like a pig in a gale, trying to understand the sea of blur on the screen to see what was Mario and what was a hole in the floor, Tetris was ok, so essentially I'd paid close to £300 to play Tetris on the tube, my open jawed amazement serving only to breathe in more carcinogens. What a tosser.

I also made the huge mistake of running around the shops after I got my first (very low paid job) like some fat Sultan of Brunei. I got rejected from every credit check in every shop I went in, this wasn’t helped by the fact that I was applying for credit to get "everything". The final shop I went in was the now defunct Rumbelows. To my trouser rubbing pleasure, I saw that my dodgy mate was working in there, I explained my credit plight and he did a few tweaks on the computer, changing "trainee structural engineer" to “Consultant Architect” and adding a couple of zeros on my salary. This all meant that I was able to be one of the first people to own a Dolby (pro logic) Surround TV, which cost me well over a grand and weighed more than Rick Waller after an all you can eat Chinese Buffet. I also now owned a VHS video recorder that could rewind a full tape in 15 seconds (snapping some of them) and allowed you to plug a microphone in and dub over films, I did this with most of the ones in the house, to sometimes humorous effect. I was often called a cunt when someone would try to watch one of them and hear my bad Schwarzenegger impression over it (regardless of the film..).

Worse was to come when I discovered Championship Manager on a 486 PC round the same dodgy mates house (who helped me in Rumbelows). A two day session without sleep, an almost murder over the attempted 3 way signing of text based Pele "Viktor Leonenko" and several spits on the computer screen like some strange fat angry managerial cobra. I decided, I had to have this game. Only problem was that I didn’t own a PC, or have any money.

My credit rating was improved with the epic Rumbelows agreement, PC World were more than happy to sell me a Compaq Presario Pentium 1, 166mhz PC with a full gig of hard drive and 64mb of Ram, which is probably the power needed to just start up one of today’s smart phones. I started to play Championship Manager at home and eventually lost two years of my life and got my first grey hair. The fact that I have got Tottenham Manager from 1995-1998 on my CV raises lots of questions at Job interviews, but the way I see it, I have lived the stresses of a Football Manager and I raised the European Cup with them, why can’t I reap the fruits. The interviews usually terminate early, if its not the football thing that does it, its the next entry, Baltimore detective. I went through the stresses of the Wire and thought fuck it.

I don’t know what became of my Gameboy, the TV ended up on a skip, as did the Compaq, as did my numerous other ill thought out gadget purchases. The day I traipsed around London for 8 hours going to all the old haunts trying to get my fat claw on something called a PC Engine GT, which was essentially a games console that was never released here. I ended up having to practically grovel to get a market stall owner to sell me theirs, I would have probably sucked his cock for it, I kept that card to my chest, thankfully he wasn’t that way inclined and instead just fired a couple of salvos up my back passed, I pressed a couple of hundred pounds into his hands and limped off with the machine in my bag, happy days (happy day, erm, happy about 4 hours or something until the novelty wore off).

Back to the Vita and the reason for this self confession of bleep gadget patheticary, I spoke to my girlfriend about it and explained "well, it’s like a PS3 but as a handheld, incredible bit of kit, and would save me money, I mean if I wanted to get my XBOX online, it would cost me £50 for a wi fi adapter and the same for an Xbox live account, whereas with the vita, I could sit in the front room and play online with no wires!!" I expect she just heard me repeating over and over "I’m a c**t, I’m a c**t, I'm a c**t, I’m a c**t,im a c**t, I’m a c**t" I then slipped into the conversation that if my mate blows me out for our trip to Poland, Latvia, Hungary next month I'm going to use the money to buy one, I told her I would need something to cushion the blow...

So, what next, I've talked over the finances in my head, I can afford one, I wanted the girlfriend to say "If you want one, and it makes you happy, just buy it" - Well, I actually wanted her to say "I love you, I want you to have one, I fully support you, I'll buy you a couple of games, something like this will better you as a person, I love you, I'll go and buy it for you, its your birthday next month, I love you, I won’t stop until you own one, you are my Viking love god". She has said nothing, she has no opinion either way, she knows not the murky twatty inner workings of my brain..

Next (and I mean in the next few minutes, I'll walk to HMV, I'll touch one, I'll see how it makes me feel, I won’t buy it today, I'll smell it, I'll see if it talks to me. (OH JUST BUY IT YOU HAIRY TURD!!) No, it’s not that simple any more. Leave me be while I go through my gadget ritual...

Update - I have been through phase 2 of the gadget courting ritual, I went to HMV where they are selling it with a free game (Fifa, the one I want) thankfully they didn’t have a display model, or I would have been rubbing up against it like fat Ipswich based lorry driver (haulage) picking up a hitch hiker. I managed to walk out, bit hot under the collar and called the girlfriend twice, she didn’t answer, She called me back at work so I thought I would test the water and told her I had brought one, I said I'd tried to call her to get her to talk me out of it and she didn’t answer, so in a long math’s way its kind of her fault.

I was merely testing the water, if she had said something like "Oh well, its your money, do what you like" I might have gone back and got one, or "You are my Viking love god" etc.. I told her I had brought one and bunked the afternoon one to play it in the park and that it was wicked. There wasn’t much of a reaction, but from the strange clicking sound on the phone, I could tell she was thinking I was a bit of an immature prick.

Phase 3, I will demo one, I will play fifa and imagine myself running through blossoming fields, me and my vita, hand in hand, stopping and sitting down to send an email, or a tweet, downloading something over the PlayStation Network before skipping home....

The reality of the above fantasy would be me on a 432 bus, cutting my J**s eye trying to fit my p**is into the mini memory card slot before getting violently mugged and my face nicked by a butterfly knife by angry hooded youth and having my yet to be purchased Vita ripped from my wanty trotters, watching the four or so fuckling bouncing off doing that silly "hip replacement walk" and my credit card details getting raped off the PlayStation Network.

I'd get up, summon strength like hulk Hogan and rush after them into the belly of their beastly council estate, the first one coming up with his trousers round his arse doing arthritic hand gestures and giving me an illiterate talking to about disrespecting him. I would surprise him (and me) by executing a perfect axe kick, getting my leg about my waist for the first time since I foolishly tried to self fellate sometime in the 1990's. My foot cracking down onto his collar bone, following this up with a straight right, knocking him out cold, his eyes rolling in his head like a slot machine. The second one would run at me with his butterfly knife out, an errant stab, I would grab his arm and throw him about 12ft in an arcing motion through the air, he would land on his neck and probably end up with the same nervous system as a boiled turnip, somewhere in one of the tawdry flats, his mother would feel a twinge in her womb, where her offspring had been turned into essentially something of the same cognitive ability as a spilt cup a soup. The others would run, but I would be enraged and chase them, catching them like a horny hungry lion, hunting to impress the females. The first one letting out a cry as I take him down, a single punch to the temple(s) knocking him out for the duration of a long all inclusive holiday, he would have duty free, but it would be the duty to not be conscious. The last one, I would let him go, to give his dopey mates a graphic description of the mixed martial arts extravaganza that just happened and to say that if they see a man who looks like an angry Poseidon, not to f**k with him. I would take my stolen vita back, hold it aloft and break it in half, a lightning bolt would come down as the Gods acknowledged my mortal strength and I would be serviced (down there) by Angels with dirty mouths**

** The reality is, I would literally piss my pants on the bus whimpering, "I've been stabbed" and "Is my face hanging off?" People would actually find me quite pathetic and probably walk away.

I'll update if I buy one and hope it fares better than the psp one that ended up gathering dust in a drawer.

Roar like a lion

I'm having another one of those reflective moments in my life, where I look back and reflect on why I am where I am right now, these reflections are probably the pre-cursor to a huge midlife crisis where I will most likely end up in Thailand being alternately mouth and arse fucked by a unusually well endowed pre-op transsexual, then coming home with every STD known to man, and probably even some that are unknown to man, and sadly only known to my pus weeping cock and balls. Getting out of the airport (after a body cavity search of cattle birthing proportions and looking for something other than a fender stratocaster to buy (as I already own one) probably a Kawasaki Ninja (the 90's one) then struggling to find a crash helmet to go over my fucking moon like head, and eventually riding off full revs into a petrol lorry at 190mph and turning my entire body into one hairy fleshy origami, ending up bleeping away in a hospital wired up like a bomb vest listening to my relatives (the ones that could be arsed to turn up) deciding with Bupa, which death tone I would like to have on my life support machine, I could have the “lose a life” jingle from Super Mario, which would make my passing easier to my son, the doof doof from Eastenders, or the shutting down Microsoft windows music.

I would then reflect (finally) on my life from the hospital, (I wouldn't be in a bed, from the extent of the injuries I had suffered on that motorcycle, I would probably be in a lasagne dish, or the dustpan from a dustpan and brush set), on all of the things I had reflected on previously, and possibly summarise that I spent far too much of life reflecting and not actually having lived, a reflection of reflections, what a waste, what a terrible insipid dribbling life to have absolutely ruined my mothers vagina and my dads sex life to spend a life pondering.

My mates (the 4 or so people I actually consider to be mates) would probably stand around, joking amongst each other, recounting some of my nights where I was mildly amusing, and made bold statements about the state of the world (well out of my depth I might add), and after some debate they would conclude that I was actually an acidic nasty bitter fuck hole, and clock watch until they heard the super mario death music, and fuck off to the local pub and oogle the barmaid. I expect even my staunchly tee-total brother would go along and raise a rare glass of stella artois so my twisted guts out painful ending, the entire treacherous group instantly forgetting about me, the fucking cunts, then from the after-world, if I was actually interesting enough to have made it there, I would wish death of them, slagging me off as I died in hospital, and even then having the neck to turn up to my budget funeral and go back to my mums house and eat her food which she would have lovingly prepared from Iceland for less than £20, wankers. I'm deleting all of them off my phone as soon as I have finished this latest reflection....

Sorry about that, I lost track, unusually wallowing in self pity, I'll reflect on that another time.

Thankfully, unlike those who look up to the stars and question their place in the world, I know exactly why I am right here, it isnt divine intervention, fate, it is much more simple than that. It is because in 1992, I roared like a lion, that very action back in 1992 set off a chain of events that would shape my life (which was cock shaped) and lead me to this point, a sliding doors moment that was over in almost an instant, but was pinnacle in me sitting here and writing this drivel.

I was at School studying 3 A-levels, Geography, Chemistry and Government and Politics, I soon realised I had made a massive blunder going back to the same school that I did my GCSE's in, chock full of the same cunts and a few months in I dropped out of one of the A-Levels, Government and Politics, which was essentially the requirement to read the paper every day and know who the chancellor of the exchequer was.

Soon after that I sat in the library and had the first of my “guiding voices” which were probably unbeknownst to me mild schizophrenia (this will become clear later..) the voice told me to leave, leave now, leave, just leave, why don't you leave, leaves on the line, leave it out, leaven bread, leaver arch file, leave all your troubles in your old kit bag, etc, it went on and on. Suddenly, I said to one of the other students, “I bet you 15 quid I leave school right now, we shook and I got my bag and walked out. He never paid, the cunt.

Then, the following Saturday I went into my weekend job at the now defunct Texas Homecare, where I was constantly given the cream of the shit jobs, creosote spills, angry customers, plumbing enquiries, I was 17 for fuck sake. I was given the task of unloading about 2 tonnes of fibre board and suddenly the voice started again, quit, leave, go shazam, adios etc, eventually, and after I had vomited up the milkshake that I had downed in one on a hot summer day, the worst possible drink to have after heavy lifting, I left the rest of the wood and went home, and told my mum I had quit, everything. She gave me the “you cant sit around here on your arse all day” talk and then Texas rang, the manager, my mum was talking to him and I was in the background saying “tell them to fuck off” I then went into a ponder in my bedroom, a ponder that lasted about 2 days, solid sitting and staring out of the window.

Most people would have formulated a plan and set about it. I just sat there. I had wanted to be an architect, this was never going to happen on account of my walking out of A-Levels, so instead I had to settle for an apprenticeship as an architects little bitch. A structural engineer. It was an awful job and an awful place, opposite a crematorium, with the windows opening we could tell when some poor fuck was being toasted, a sort of smell of bacon. Hours would seem to pass and five minutes had gone, a clock watchers nightmare, seemingly even time didnt want to come into this place..

I eventually realised that I would end up in the crematorium if I didn't leave and set about getting another job, as it was the early 90's things were OK and you didn't have to go through the pointless HR self affirming rubbish of a multi psychometric interview and tests etc, firms were willing to just take a punt on you. I had a phone interview with a “quantity surveyors” that was looking to take an apprentice on, the money was over double what I was earning where I was and I needed it. I had ran down to Argos with my first pay packet and brought a camera (advanced photo system) and a Sony tape walkman that was brushed chrome and had settings for normal or ferric tapes, auto reverse and bass boost. I came home with my bounty only for my mum to ask me for rent. I was furious.

I had arranged a phone interview with the quantity surveyors place at the time when my bosses would be down the pub. The call came in and I was having a cordial chat with the director of the new place and it was going really well.

The other apprentice, who had ghastly acne and was very pale and looked like an uglier anaemic Andy Murray (with full blown aids), was listening intently to how phone interviews should be done. I was nailing it and the bloke was saying he was interested in offering me the position and we were going about dotting the t's and crossing the eyes whatever, and then it came back, that thing happened again, that voice, my inner guiding voice, like Morgan Freeman, and this time, the instruction....Roar, roar like a lion, roar, roar like a Lion. This went on and eventually I could no longer hear the mans voice, just the inner voice and eventually I cracked and obeyed its command, and out of nowhere, just roared, loudly, just like a lion (as the voice suggested) there was silence on the phone....the other apprentice was beetroot out of confusion and embarrassment for me, then on the phone the man just said “eh?” I slowly put the phone down and turned back to my drawing board and continued my work, the other apprentice, still open jawed said to me “what the fuck just happened?” I just said “roared like a lion” and that was that.

Who knows what would have happened if I hadn't listen to my inner guiding voice, I'll never know. I just know that things didn't pan out well where I was. I was made redundant, the whole firm went under and I spent my last day in the office stomping around, breaking things, axe kicking the typewriter and finally wearing my bosses suit jacked doing a very bad impression of him and finally flexing my muscles ripping it down the back like the hulk, (he was a tiny little man).

I did have a few more brushes with the inner guiding voice, telling me that if I didn't jump down the last two stairs the world would end and I would get cancer (after?) or something equally as bad, I went along with it for a while and it sneakily became 3 stairs, I think I got up to 6, my mum was asking what the huge thumping noise was every time I came down the stairs, I started to blank the voice when it suggested one day that I leapt down the entire staircase.

Another incident on a bus when I was talking to a pensioner (woman) and the voice started to instruct me to spit in her face, spit in her face, spit in her face and make it better after, etc, I had to get off the bus and walked home confused. Its still with me in some ways, when I am in meetings its suggests the worst possible things to say or do, not in the way of an order, but just as a way of cheering me up and pulling me through some dull as dishwater (that Ken Barlow has drowned in) meetings. Thankfully, with the help of forums like twitter I am able to vent these out as they happen, thanks for listening.

I would just like to confirm that I am in control and would never act on these voices, I don't get stabby and knifes never come into it, its just goof ball stuff like walking into a meeting and picking up a biscuit with my arse crack and seeing how everyone reacts, before explaining I would use my hands but they are dirty. Its probably mild schizophrenia, but fuck it, its a giggle.....(go get a knife, get a knife...I'm joking).

On the whole the inner guiding voice has thankfully subsided, its not mythical, its probably myself playing a prank, I love a laugh, even if its on myself and ends up financially devastates me and ruins my life (hey, go out with her, get engaged, moved out of London, do it do it do it...), its a chuckle, its a good story for down the pub with my treacherous back stabbing death disregarding fuck bubble mates...

I have no idea why the roar like a lion thing happened at the time, I later went on to another job, outside of he building industry where I met the strange chain of people that resulted in me having a child, a drunken random meeting with the women who would end up front shitting my perfect son out of her vagina, (its a wonderful memory), (although the whole thing ended worse than the TV series Lost), I'm still blessed with a son (and I'm doing alright on the women front).

To summarise, I wouldn't change a thing, I would just like to be a better friend so the cunts cry like little bitches when my pilot light finally goes out.

Sixth Sense, gut feeling, telekinesis.

Warning, this article contains a graphic reference to a hippo rape and the murder of a parrot.

Human beings are strange creatures, some see us as the stardust sprinkled children of god, some as the super evolved self titled kings of planet earth, and some, including me, the distant offspring of an alien gang raped ape (see previous blog) and we the deserted half star children are frantically trying to invent things like the ipad and email so we can communicate with our great space fathers and get some long over due backdated child support and get off this shit hole, that doesn't feel like home, most animals hate us.

Regardless of your beliefs on the above, the fact is, that humans have some pretty special skills above those of animals, such as dexterity of the hands, being able to open a tin of Heinz big soup, let-alone the ability to invent and manufacture tin openers, the delicate touch of being able to glance through the pages of a rare marvel comic, or mint conditions copy of readers wives from 1986, the one with the horrid bullseye contestant looking woman with the sopping bedraggled odd sized tits, Gene Wilder perm, and gaping vagina that looked like a bearded Mick Hucknell vomiting up a large Friday night kebab, the kind of woman that stunts your sexual development, and the kind of stunt Evil Kenevil would have run away from.

The power in ones hands to come home from a night out, call the wife a cunt, smash a perfectly lovely house in Cheam to worthless bits and then punch her in the stomach with almost surgical accuracy to not leave any bruising, all while holding a can of Heineken in the other hand and not spilling a drop. The masterful feather touch to be able to create masterpieces of art, such as that, erm, view of the bridge in the garden with the flowers and stuff, and the other one, the view of the castle with the odds and sods and clouds in the background and countless other unforgettable art works.
The ability and intelligence to masterfully deceive seemingly intelligent people, for example Tracey Emin, for whom every intake of breath she takes deprives a starving African child of life, and I expect, causes a landslide in a part of Bangladesh.

With technology we have started to turn our backs on our natural senses. Our sight, men are fooled by the pearly glow of fake white teeth, the sweaty night club glistening from swollen silicon tits and the seemingly healthy glow from an otherwise dreadful parchment like skin, and the general fakery that woman have to use in order to fulfill their seemingly endless need to have the semen of cretins fired all over their said fake appendages like a creamy party popper.

Our smell, the invention of perfumes to cover up the natural hormonal attraction. 48 hour deodorants, who doesn't shower for 48 hours thats not so homeless that superdrugs wouldn't even let them through the door lest peruse the various smellies? Various ointments and creams for women to disguise natures warning signs to men, such as the smell of a fish mongers on a hot summer day that should tell you that, “under no circumstances should this pungent prick pitta be entered. (Oy you misogynistic cunt) (wait a sec, men's bits undoubtedly stink, its just that men are not so reproductively aware, and girls will suck anything, so back off bitch (im joking).

Taste, it is now possible to eat a turd thanks to the invention of Encona Hot Pepper Sauce.

Touch, I don't really know what to say about touch, only that the blind girl in the hello video was so about to go down and suck off that clay Lionel Richie head, such was its accuracy, silly bitch.

So, the next time you wake up in bed next to Michelle McManus on a Saturday morning with the smell of chip fat and way out of date haddock, blame all of the above, your sensual laziness caused by the various camouflages described.

Outside of the base senses, we have others that we no longer understand, in part because we simply don't need to. The ability to detect when a Lion is coming up behind you, triggering an adrenaline rush so powerful, that for a few moments you can run like Usain Bolt, fight like Bruce Lee, and climb like spiderman. We still get these huge rushes of adrenaline, but its usually for something shit like getting a massive bollocking at work, and not knowing if you are going to have a job in the morning, in this case the adrenaline giving you the power to quiver like a jelly, cry like a little bitch, and fight like a butterfly soaked in ghee. This is medically referred to as a panic attack.

Sixth sense. Deep down all humans are connected via a mysterious network of “shit that we don't understand” we have an inbuilt ability to just know when those closest to us are in dire straights, and from any given point, and out of nowhere, we can just seem to appear and save the day, sadly, we are usually to busy to answer these psychic emergency calls, and more than likely the brain signal for these is probably being interfered with by todays mobile phones and other connected gadgets and pointless gizmos. What probably happens now is a next of kin sends a signal to the house is on fire and they are asleep upstairs, we start to pick it up, and instead mentally intercept a bogus text message about being entitled to claim for an accident, meanwhile, the relative bubbles and cracks away in a desperately horrible house fire like a drunk cooking the meat on a cheap BBQ.

Despite not actually ever being able to properly see, or smell our sexual partners, we still have a secret weapon in the war of knowing whether you are with the right person, the gut feeling. Gut feeling is exactly what it says on the tin, the tin in this instance being your most likely flabby sagging toneless paunch, the unsettling feeling that something just isn't quite right. You try but you cant quite put your finger on it. Most of the time you don't act on this, and you then find out that your partner has been having a 6 month affair with a top race horse, in hind-site you've seen the hoof marks on the carpet, but you've put it down to signs of good luck, you come home one day to a harsh nasal neighing and walk into see a huge equine penis thrashing in and out of your once lovely girlfriend/wife/partner like a veiny fleshy pile driver. Added to this, the jockey is round the front having a nervous but flowing piss on her hair, it turns out, she was into this.

Gut feeling is by no means a safe bet, you could well have just seen the signs, lack of interest, change of clothes, attitude, the fucking smell of a recently sexed horse. The gut feeling can also get you into a whole heap of trouble. You have met a girl, a feisty zesty girl that you would have thought was out of your league, things are going really well, yet deep down inside the horrid burning knotting feeling in your stomach hurts your every moment apart, you've been burnt before and this feels exactly the same, there are no hoof marks on the carpet, but could it be that the adulterous stead has found a way to wear a trainer or boot? You cant talk, the worlds bottle neck in your throat like that Mexican Bandits cancer warning off the cigarette packet. She isn't acting differently, but this feeling in your gut is taking you over, so one day you sit her down and you just do it, rather than risk the humiliation of walking in to a better cock up her, you just call it a day, she cries and asks why, you just tell her its your gut feeling. She tries to talk you round but there is nothing she can do. She leaves and you are sad because you are going to miss her blow jobs, cumming on her tits and back, the fact that she is willing to do a2m, and also her company..You are sad, but the feeling in your gut reassures you that you did the right thing, it doesn't feel quite right though, and its at this moment that you realise that your gut feeling was actually just trapped wind, you let out a fart that sounds like a weird Barry White/duck hybrid stubbing its webbed foot on sideboard on a winters day. So, because of your so called gut feeling, you are left in a room with a huge fart that is so pungent that it actually forms a human shape that sits starting at you, tutting and slowly shaking its head, finally writing the word cunt in the wall in a light faecal colour, and leaving you forever alone. No point in calling the ex, she's already found solace in the arms of some gym cunt with washboard abs and a cock like Fatima Whitbreds throwing arm.

Then, you have the cretins that not only believe in a higher psychic power, and that not only do they have that higher power, but they have more higher power than you, they are the highest powerist of them all, clairvoyants, psychics, those who pray on the foolish and the bereaved, a very scary combination of general lack of common sense, and the vulnerability that watching the person who made sure they didn't walk under a bus each day suddenly thrash their way out of life, turning blue, shitting themselves and vomiting in front of them with the indignity dial turned to ten. If Nigerian fraudsters could get hold of the UK register of deaths, they would have a field day.

I wont mention any TV psychics, especially those that are female and have the initials PS as apparently the four eyed cunt has penchant for dishing out legal warnings for anyone who dares to challenge her power, the four eyed blond haired Essexy accented lying exploitative bucket of shit.. I am not for one second saying that there isn't a soul on the planet that can communicate with the dead, I am not saying it because I don't understand it. But I just know that she cant, the dead, even lying in wooden boxes a sea of worms have some semblance of class and would never channel their thoughts from the misty unknown of the afterlife through that twannock. They would rather subtly put love hearts on cream crackers and occasionally fart through the line between life and death and you can stand there and reminisce about your dearly departed and their mustard gas beery shit farts.

Animals however, despite their seeming simplicity have mastered next level communication and psychic ability, there is no other explaining that smug look on a cats face, that look it gives you that says, I know something you don't, I have seen your death and its nasty, I will rub my anal gland over your still warm corpse and then move in next door for my food and milk.

Dogs, despite their lopping tongued loyalty and stupid ears probably have means of communicating with each other over vast distances, forming complex breakdowns of their days, “Owner is a massive cunt, I shat all over his hearth rug today and pretended I was ill, took me to the vet and everything, 300 quid, ha, what a cunt, and he takes me on boring walks, I only put up with him because I know how he dies, and its going to be fun, I might even have a little nibble on his still warm body and give it doe eyes when the police arrive”.

Parrots, talking, oh how clever, they are taking the piss, silly accents, they are mugging us off, the next parrot I hear talk talking in patronising English, I am going to ring its fucking neck, wrap the cunt in breadcrumbs and stuff it full of garlic butter, if you go up to a lion and do an impression of its roar in a high tinny sarcastic tone and it will kill you slowly and painfully and wipe its anal gland over your corpse. Don t ever take animals as being stupid, they are plotting, all while we dumb ourselves down with technology and invention. You laugh, but you wont when in about 20 years you are a hippos bitch, listening to the creaking of your heavily lubricated arsehole praying it doesn't tear. You have been warned.

Despite all the potential in our huge melon heads, on a sensual level, we have failed to live up to the hype, instead relying on invention and technology, we will die in stupid ways surrounded by 3g next generation shit, we have been a massive disappointment, we are all shit (apart from Derek Acora)

Its not too late to get in touch with your mystical side, look around you now, you are probably alone in a room about to log this crap off and look at some porn, but if you are around people, try and send them a telepathic (telepathetic) message, just call them a name and stare at them as you do it, feel the word in your head like an aneurysm and fire it at them like a fireball in street fighter, if they turn around and punch you, you have succeeded (or they have just grown uncomfortable at the sight of you starting at them trying to gurn a word out of your face) fear not, keep trying, eventually, if the numerous punches to the face have not robbed you of your ability, you will be an amazing enlightened human, and at the very least will be able to put dirty messages into womens minds and be devoid of prosecution, woop woop

Right, at 6.43 on the 24^th Jan, I sent you a psychic message, did you get it?**

**I called you a cunt

The internet – part 1

I'm starting to dislike the internet now. I can remember firmly (I believe I was fully aroused) when I first connected to a bulletin board via a 56k modem (most plebs were struggling on 33.6k or would fax each other). My first connection was with Compaq, and the reason for it was to repair the several issues that came with my brand new still in the box Compaq presario 166mhz Pentium 1 that had the same memory capacity as a piss stinking Nan slowing marinating in a high backed chair, wilting away with dementia while the family stood around her smelly bed tapping watching and egging the reaper on. I'd paid over two thousand pounds for it.

I didn't want this to change my life, to school myself in the new wave of technology that was taking over most office based professions and revolutionising the way dirty trouser rubbing men would harvest their need for grot. No, I wanted this for the game Championship Manager, a text based game, that through some sort of magic, that I still to this day do not understand, gave you all the thrills and spills of managing a football team, it also gave me my first grey hair and I believe was a large factor in my peptic ulcer and irregular heartbeat and at one point I actually spat at my monitor after a 2 hour attempt to sign text based legendary footballer Viktor Leonenko, who, according to the game, made Pele look like Stephen Hawkin.

After a 2 day and night solid game of this without sleep round a friends house before leaving caffeine addled and burgundy eyed, I decided that I must own it. I eventually wasted about two years of my life on this game. I am still to this day questioned on my CV where it claims I managed Tottenham Hotspurs to the Champions league and Premiership title (its just underneath Baltimore police officer, which is on there due to the experience I gathered during my scary addiction to the programme the wire).

Eventually I managed to connect to the internet proper. I had a world of knowledge at my fingertips, sadly, my fingertips were rarely visible for being held in a tight fist thanks mostly to the buffet of porn available. It was all a little bit sad really. The sadness soon passed when faster internet came and entire films could be downloaded, music was free and it was possible to go to sleep and wake up having downloaded German shit eating piss guzzlers volume 1-7, the entire back catalogue of the band Texas, the flight manual of a Boeing 747 and the ability to make your own nuclear missile out of things found in Granddads shed (if you are into that shit). Then, suddenly, the internet became a corrupted pitfall laden shit tip which is no longer an enjoyable experience, pop ups, phising attempts, cookies, trick links, flash laden crap and over the top websites, I only wanted to see the news and all of a sudden my computer is straining like John Barrowmans arsehole and my 10mb line is struggling like an old man trying to piss out via a prostrate gland the size of that strange girl out of little mix's head. A simple tap on an offer for a half price fruit juicer will end up with every single instance of child porn ending up on your harddrive in an instant, terrabytes, well, thats what most paedo's say, "I was only trying to buy a juicer".

I don't understand the benefit of trying to shoot as many adverts into someones face while they are searching for something on a website. Try to imagine that in real life, you walk into a shop to buy some scouring pads and all of a sudden you have a wall of people shouting in your face enthusing about different products, you would walk out of that shop quick sharp, mostly through fear of being attacked. Pop ups are wholeheartedly offensive, again, to equate it to real life, you are walking down the road minding your own business, you know where you are going, to the train station say and then, suddenly from behind a bush, a man jumps up and screams “cillet bang” at the top of his voice, you would shit your pants.

Preemptive searches, not only has the internet and technology turned our youngsters into a bunch of illiterate low trouser mumbling fuck husks, talking a strange new language like “fk u u f@ prk” but they are now being deprived the right to even make an attempt at a correct spelling because Google already knows, with its knowledge on your surfing habits, an innocent trip to google and merely typing the letter m in results in it completing the sentence with “midgets fisting swans” takes you to the .com of that website, uses your pre-stored credit card details, signs you up for a platinum membership and then, via google+, assumes that you would like to share the best avian anal splitting parts of this website with your nearest and dearest on there, one of which happens to be your swan loving boss. The mere typing of a letter m and you have lost your job, house and friends, but on the bright side, you now have the best possible access to a swan fisting site, which you can laugh at until your internet is cut off and you kill yourself in a hazy boozy final last strangle wank.

Social media too has absolutely killed the whole premise of friendships, a friendship was something that you had to work on, it shouldn't take too much effort, the odd phone call, a visit round when your mate was feeling down, trips to the pub and the real feeling you get from being around actual people, the smell and feeling of warmth when you pat them on the back laughing, or when your mate makes a grab for your testicles, confesses he is gay and that he fancies you, and suddenly you wish you was back home, and on facebook.

Nowadays, when someone is down they will post a near suicidal tweet (a suicide post it note) and people, usually people they don't know, come back with 140 character tweets of support and advice for turning their life back from the brink, and then the inevitable follows from makers of carving knives, paracetamol and sturdy rope. The same thing on facebook will result in someone trying to support their "on the edge" “friend” by inadvertently liking their suicidal post. The whole "like" thing is lazy, “I had toast for breakfast with jam on it, nom nom” 4 people like this, how fucking creepy, if this was real life and you were sat there and having some toast with jam on it, and you looked behind you and out of the window and four of your mates were standing outside gurning, thumbs up, approving of your breakfast choice you would probably get a quadruple restraining order, 500 meters minimum.

I must admit, I am a little bit addicted to twitter, I use it to vent nonsensical negative thoughts and share them with mostly strangers, I have grown quite close to some of the people on there and have a genuine concern when things are going wrong for them, but I do find it a bit creepy trying to offer advise and support with such restraint, if were real life and people talked in tweets the world would seem a very cruel place. I am a hypocrite, I will be using twitter to get people to come and read this shit.

Its difficult to know what the future holds for people with the internet taking over peoples every day lives, we will probably be sat in small pods physically connected to machines losing the use of our limbs and gradually becoming grey featureless balls being constantly pleasured by a robotic hand on our flabby swollen genitalia, sending tweets telepathically (still 140 characters) and logging in to virtual work places to carry out needless admin jobs in a virtual world. If this sounds like your life now, you are in trouble and I suggest you send out that suicidal tweet tonight and see who loves you...

Very bad geographical jokes from Twitter

Me and a couple of people on twitter started banging these out in December and they were really making us chuckle, I dont normally look back on tweets but I thought I would pile them all together, so sorry, not the usual bilious blog, but fuck it, fuck you?...

blogstrop Ourmatedick

I just took my mother in laws murdered corpse to the indian capital of andhra pradesh. hyderabad? no, I did a good job. #indianjokes

blogstrop Ourmatedick

Ive just met a lovely girl in indias smallest state (by area). Goa? I dont now yet, we've just met #indianjokes

blogstrop Ourmatedick

Ive just been to a gay bar in the chief port city of the indian state of karnataka. "mangalore? - no, there was hardly any there.

blogstrop Ourmatedick

@@RockerRunner my girlfriend in pennsylvania has got a yeast infection with some dischage, oh philadelphia? no, just a bit of thrush.

blogstrop Ourmatedick

i've just got back from the capital of tamil nadu, cant remember the name. Chennai I reckon. No, honest, I was there. #indianjokes

blogstrop Ourmatedick

just been on a 1st date with a girl from the capital of chhattisgarh. raipur? no, I was a gentleman #indianjokes

RockerRunner Captain Spiderpussy

@blogstrop I've been shopping with my parents in the city formerly known as Bombay... "Mumbai?" No, Dad paid for everything. #indianjokes

blogstrop Ourmatedick

ive just been to the funeral of the comedian known as the diddy man in the 6th largest city in israel. Ashdod? No, he was buried.

blogstrop Ourmatedick

Ive just been to a land locked country in south america with an army mate. Paraguay? no, he was infantry.

blogstrop Ourmatedick

ive just taken my mates kid on holiday to the 6th largest city in france. Nantes? Oy, I never touched him...

the_spiz TIM@blogstrop I've written a long book about the capital of the Champagne region... Reims? Well, not quite that much

blogstrop Ourmatedick

I just met my japanese friend cordially mid-way on the Met Line - Harrow on the Hill? No, It was a Hi ya on the platform.

blogstrop Ourmatedick

They have just opened a safe house for paedophiles at the end of the central line. Theydon Bois? Yes, girls too, dirty bastards

blogstrop Ourmatedick

Ive just been vegetable shopping near new cross -Brockley? I brought all sorts.

blogstrop Ourmatedick

nobody would ever fuck my sister who lives between tooting and wimbledon. Colliers Wood? Yes, I suppose so, the welsh would fuck anything

blogstrop Ourmatedick

I always get excited when I drink dry sweet wines from a golden skinned grape. Semillon? yes, sometimes even a full erection.

blogstrop Ourmatedick

my father has just been buried in the capital of iraq. Baghdad? no, he had a coffin.

blogstrop Ourmatedick

im trying to transport some large male bovine livestock in the capital of afghanistan. Kabul? i hailed one but it didnt stop

blogstrop Ourmatedick

Im taking my girlfriend from karachi to the capital of azerbaijan for a holiday. Baki? fuck you racist cunt.

blogstrop Ourmatedick

im taking the female singer on the hit "dont go breaking my heart" to hawaii for some surfing. waikiki? well, im not going with elton!

blogstrop Ourmatedick

lady gaga told me she was going to montevideo for a video shoot, I said Uraguay? she slapped me and stormed off.

blogstrop Ourmatedick

ive just seen father christmas driving up and down a notorious gay strip in argentina. santa cruz? looked like it to me.

blogstrop Ourmatedick

my girlfriend in columbia has just dumped me for playing musical instraments in the shitter. Bogata? yes, and trumpet in the lounge

blogstrop Ourmatedick

my girlfriend has locked herself in the toilet and wont come out in st georges. grenada? bit harsh.

blogstrop Ourmatedick

ive got some wonderful footage of the ww2 hero of the desert rats in my house in uraguay. montevideo? no, its on dvd.

ImGarethDennett Gareth Dennett

@

@blogstrop I saw Jessica Fletcher helping a murder inquiry in Colombia's second biggest city. "Medellin?" Yeah she was interfering a bit

blogstrop Ourmatedick

ive just been doing some pest control in brades. montserrat? no, but it was a pretty big mouse.

blogstrop Ourmatedick

my girlfriend just had a smear test in tripoli. Libya? yes, they looked at the other bits too.

Ketherbound Gray Smears

@

@blogstrop Dealing with a distraught german singer; Nina. Under pressure to perform in the Danish capital. "Copenhagen?" Yeh, but only just.

blogstrop Ourmatedick

my mate got attacked by a flock of birds in south london. peckham? they did more than that, they ripped his eyes out via @baronbattersea

blogstrop Ourmatedick

my dyslexic friend in belarus keeps messing my order for fur coats up because of his spelling. Minsk? thats right, dopey cunt

RockerRunner Captain Spiderpussy@blogstrop Me and a downs syndrome kid just got back from a landlocked country in east Asia. "Mongolia?" He was, but his carer took him home

the_spiz TIz@

@blogstrop my wife went to the capital of Venezuela to get some banging things for Christmas table. Caracas? Yep, that's them...

DarkBeige Dark Beige@blogstrop my wife wants to go to Anchorage, but she's shy. Alaska? No, I'll ask her, she's my wife.

RockerRunner Captain Spiderpussy@blogstrop Saw a great band whilst on holiday in a prosperous state in south east asia... "Singapore?" Yes, but the drummer was brilliant.

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…..