Natures Fury...Yawn

Its 2012, well futuristic sounding, we should have probably left Earth by now, space the final frontier and all that bollocks, no, the human beings have been busy, busy butt fucking the planet, busting the doors in while mother nature sleeps and cruelly sodomising her, and shooting her pet dog on the way out. Humans, widely recognised by religious groups as the chosen species, the shepherds of the planet, keepers of mother earth, the special ones, like Jose Mourinho..Bullshit, we are more like a cancer, spreading across the globe, eating, breaking, trashing, grinding every piece of soil into ash, or shitting some concrete monstrosity on it, like an office block, or a Primark. If there is a God, and he left us here to look after the place, then this is the equivalent of a party invite getting out over facebook and every cunt in the area turning up, trashing the house and shitting in the dresser when they didn't even need a shit.. Its OK though, we actively do things to lower our carbon footprint, like getting Tesco to deliver, its better yeah? We recycle, we all wash the glass jars out, and put the Sunday papers we haven't read in the correct bins yeah? Bollocks, take a ticket and get in line while we all gang bang nature, her screams muted by the thumping bass coming out of our Bose ipod docks or muffled by Dr Beats headphones. I have my own theory on where humans came from, you can read it here http://dickiesblogstrop.blogspot.co.uk/2011_03_01_archive.html and I think some of us are more earthly than others, I secretly turn up to support nature by the sidelines when she tries to fight back, I don't enjoy the loss of life, but its hard to shed a tear when a country of fat greedy nationalist fucks cops one in the nutsack from nature (Luxembourg). Mother Nature can be inadvertently cruel, a Bangladeshi town swept away in a torrent of mud shit and tears, giant waves bear hugging an entire beach resort, ripping it away from the land and into the sea, hundreds of thousands sucked off to their death (sounds like Imogen Thomas' intimate diary). This all makes for emotive TV, the reality of nature, men in pubs saying how much of a cunt that nature is, wishing that nature would walk in the pub right now, so they could fakkin glass the cunt. Natures fury has been becoming steadily more angry, and the death tolls rising, never in the history of human beings has a generation seen two natural disasters that have claimed more than a quarter of a million souls. There is more to come as the very planet we live on, heaves and boils like a dog about to shake some blood sucking ticks off. We may have gone to far this time. With about 25 cultures having predicted the end of the world in December of this year, you have to wonder, and give them some credence, the Mayans, gifted beings who seemed to have knowledge beyond their thong wearing face painting sacrificial ways, they had predicted many things in their time. Including the chlamydia of TV that is reality television, a tablet, many thousands of years old clearly instructed us to bludgeon the Simon's, Cowells and Fuller, we didn't, we lapped their shit up and now we are fucked, with the likes of female bell end, Jessie J and her clueless warbling ilk. Other cultures were less believable. They worshipped logs and shit, and eventually butt fucked themselves out of existence, but they still threw their lot in with the Mayans (who must have been really serious, as they have a magnum ice-cream named after them). Nature has a devastating array of shitter shattering weapons that she could bring to bare on the human race, she could use a typhoon and scoop up a huge swarm of African killer bees, combine it with another one that has just picked up a load of used heroin needles from AIDS victims, mix the two up in the sky and rain HIV positive killer bees down on a huge town. Similarly fucked up, she could unleash some sort of weird STD/Ebola hybrid where you literally cum yourself and watch your penis fizzle off like a disprin, or more fucked up, a refresher sweet in coca cola. Given this, and given the arse fisting we have given the planet for as long as we have (while wearing a falconers glove) any of the above would be more than fair. But no, nature has gone a step further, gone for the balls with long nails and twisted until we scream....SHES ONLY GONE AND FUCKED WITH THE UK SUMMER? For fuck sake, we sailed the world from our tiny island, colonised and cock smacked two thirds of the it, installing democracy on countries, whether they wanted or not, crushed cultures, and pretty much created America, Pakistan and Israel...ummm....we did other stuff too, erm, cricket, tennis?....We didn't ask for much in return, for all of that, all we want is just a nice couple of months of summer to enjoy Pimms on the lawn, and sandwiches, also on the lawn, and lawn tennis, to go out and mow the lawn, and do other such lawn stuff, just get amongst our many lawns and get drunk and fuck each other with no nerves. A couple of months so fuck faced spotty University debt riddled twat's can pay the price of a luxury holiday to stand in a muddier version of the Somme in some field and watch the latest clutch of crap bands before wandering full of cider, bad drugs and tobacco waking up in some cretins tent and getting dry fingered by some fat virgin, or getting a grubby sweaty un-showered cheesy blow job off some pasty looking white girl with dreadlocks in a borrowed tent. And for the adults, the sun takes us down to the supermarkets, to stock up on meat products mostly jet washed off the floors of abattoir and cremated on cheap BBQ's, the host of such a gathering drinking 24 bottles of stella, under-cooking 90% of the food and turning the rest into coal, before boiling over and calling his once lovely missus a fat useless fuck pig and getting into a wild swinging punch up with his best mate, every body leaves before he wakes up in his underpants in a pool of piss on a DFS sofa that's not been paid for yet, huffing and wheezing alone in the house and getting flashbacks of the night before, holding his forehead that's throbbing like a paedophiles cock at an Early Learning Centre. And for everyone, those few months allow us to gather in our parks and commons and drink warm beer and wine and chortle away, looking out for the smug cunt who comes over with an acoustic guitar and plays for his stupid inexperienced girl mates, who just need a proper quivering cock clobbering from a real bloke to realise that this whimsy long haired fuck firkin brings nothing to their life but his own ego pampering. If you are lucky enough, you will see the top trump of summer cunts, a man who has come over to practise juggling, or unicycling, or best of all, has come to practise throwing cocktail shaking jugs, not to mix cocktails, just to practise the throwing, what a turd. You all wish death on him. He is probably the same twat who prevented you from getting served for 40 minutes while he tried to impress the girls mixing up some alcoholic sugary vomit called a Cranberry Clitoris or something equally misogynistic. Its almost mid July and all we have had is rain, its really getting everybody down, even staunch Buddhists are punching people in he face, people are jumping off beachy head, the final indignity of a rained out beach visit. So, for me, here is my apology nature, I know we made extinct thousands of species of plant and animal, probably destroyed the natural cure for cancer, poisoned the seas, made the air toxic, and built the town Harlow and you are well pissed off and you are raining our summer off, we get it, can we say we are even? Please turn the rain off and let us do all of the above, its important to us, and please don't be a massive cunt and give us an Indian summer, nobody wants to see a scorching day from inside their office and the sun going down at 6. Please, I beg you, I'm sorry for all the cunts? (Please bear in mind we have nuclear weapons and could probably build our own sun, I'd happily sit through a nuclear war, those flashes of heat giving us a lovely bit of colour, then blowing our skin off our bones, but it would nice to go out warm). I promise we will treat the earth better, just give us a hot August. Cheers Richard

TV has anus cancer and is dying

Anyone who follows me knows that I frequently torture myself with a huge fresh steaming hot St Bernard’s turd sandwich of abominable television, I don’t know why I do this to myself as it brings out the worst in me, I usually end up venting my spleen and other organs in a frenzy of disbelief, mixed with self-loathing for putting myself through it each time before slowly getting back in the shit sandwich queue another night. I finally hit a brick wall when I realised what an consummate waste of time it is, no seriously, I think I would actually rather smash my toes with a club hammer and be thrashed by nettles while an angry midget squirts bulbs of jib lemon over my wounds and eyes, I've finally woken up to what TV is, on the whole a complete endless and pointless pursuit with all the rewards of sitting in a nursing home watching your nanna slowly die (and you are not in the will..). The fact is, the only real reason I still watch because 99% of the time I just want to watch people fail, suffer humiliation in this modern Britain where any c*** believes they can be a star, and sadly, I feel that is probably the same with a lot of you? Let’s start with the basics, if you are lucky enough to have a day off work and don’t move from the sofa, eventually the Jeremy Kyle show will happen, dumpy toothless lard coloured educationally bereft morons spilling their ill experienced and poisoned pus filled hearts out on TV about all manner of scum class problems. Jeremy declaring stay tuned for those "all important" lie detector tests? Important to who? I don’t care if Lou's child’s father is in fact Terry, the facially tattooed pikey shit hill sat with his jaw involuntarily open, the only result I actually wish for is that it actually transpires that the child doesn’t belong to either of them and got inside her womb because a working couple were copulating so hard that egg and semen flew out of the window and into Lou's cavernous twat. The child could then be ripped out and returned to its competent parents and Lou and Terry taken out the back and a single bullet put into the back of their still gormless skulls, only after being told that the gun was actually a device for implanting mobile phone credit into their minds to which they would agree to being the sorts of which the only contribution they make to society is sticking their "ponce claws" out down the benefits office. These people’s problems are simply an irrelevance and we only watch it so we can point and laugh at the scum of Britain, or Norwich, as its collectively known. The show is filmed in Manchester, presumably to cut down on travel costs for a majority of the shows guests that come from the hell hole sink estates that fester around larger cities. Homes under the Hammer So, Jack and his fat wife Paula own 4 properties, its a tense moment at the Auction while they try and snap up a 5th place to rent out and make a quick profit in a disgustingly unjust climate for property ownership, fuck Jack and soon to be diabetic wife Paula, I hope each of their other properties burn to the ground and the resultant ashes get haunted. A place in the Sun In this piss poor property programme, 50 something year old smug faced 3 times married City worker Martin and his new 22 year old girlfriend want to get a place overseas to escape the rat race, and his rat faced kids from 2 previous marriages, fuck you, I hope you end up settling in Somalia and have your head slowly removed by pirates, I don’t give a fuck about you, or your nubile young gorgeous girlfriend....Oh god, I hope she is ok and gets consular assistance after her fella gets be-headed, poor Petra, all her dreams coming from Hungary dashed by fundamentalist Muslims.. Fat shows/medical shows Then there is a the dearth of girth, the glut of gluttony based shows, supersized vs super-emaciated, my big fat fetish, biggest loser, fattest twattest, my big wobbly heart attack wife and mum, he-pig vs she-blob, to name but a few. Shows trying to make some sort of plight or journey out of people that have engorged themselves to the point where they cannot get off a bed and have to have their pressure sores treated by nurses, who are usually feeders. I don’t care if Leon from Connecticut loses 70 stone and gets to see his penis again, its too late for him, he will end up with arms like a flying squirrel, just throw a lit match onto his petrol soaked bed and roll credits, sorry Leon, the only portion size you need to worry about now is the ap"portion" of blame, which is all yours, eat away you swollen fuck. The only reason I still watch supersize vs super skinny is the tension at the dinner table when the xylophone ribbed anorexic gets a large donner kebab and chips and the be-whaled monster gets a small bag of skittles for dinner, if looks could kill, it’s only a matter of time before the chunk loses it and attacks and liberates the kebab from the corpse like buffoon who would only waste it sitting there playing with it with a fork. Embarrassing Bodies What makes somebody reach a point where they go on national TV, open their legs to reveal what looks like two dropped slices of cheese on toast dipped in guacamole? I have not been able to sleep properly since seeing a "fat pubis" which looked like recently bereaved elephant seal. I have no emotion to know that Janice has had 7kg of fat chopped off her gunt so she can enjoy intercourse with her partner, I just wanted to have a point and laugh? Didn’t you? TOWIE and Made in Chelsea What happened to the UK for this garish orange be-hued fake tits and teeth festival of vapidity to get time on TV? I can only blame Big Brother for starting this fascination of watching "other people doing shit" - This takes the whole charade to new lows, this follows the daily routines of a bunch of semi (now) affluent types from the County of Essex, a County that once attracted the sweeping statement that all the girls from there were blonde and air headed bimbo types that live for the weekend to go clubbing and get themselves pumped up like an airbed by the numerous sexual appendages of footballer types. This show does nothing to help change opinions, the show consists of the cast in various "life situations" usually involving one of the males putting his willy somewhere that he shouldn’t and the gasping fake teared reactions of the now rejected ex cum receptacle. "OH MY GOOD" "SHAAT AAAP" etc. Young girls have taken these dull vacuous and vapid morons to their hearts and young men have usually taken them to their bedrooms and shat a load out onto a Kleenex while watching the show. This show has spawned the inspiration for an even worse show, Made in Chelsea, impossibly dull wealthy people going through situations that no normal people would. I don’t watch this shit, an hour was enough, which made me want to own a fully automatic assault rifle with a grenade launching attachment, If I did it would only be in the hope that a giant Kraken emerged from the Thames while the nobs were having a regatta and slowly crushed all the show members in its huge beak destroying their homes in the process, except one of the blonde ones, Caggie, I'd probably rescue her from the sea beast and she could live as my sex slave and start a new show called Made pregnant and quadriplegic in Croydon Britain’s got Talent, X Factor, The Voice I don’t know anyone who watches this other than to see the failures at the beginnings, the tragedy or watching someone who should clearly be in a secure facility on meds bollocking about on the stage and standing glassy eyed at the end whilst being torn apart by Cowell and recently Amanda Holden, a woman who has forged a career for herself by using the only two talents she has, her once taut vagina and her mouth that looks like a dirty weekend. Yes, and then you get the surprise, the person who you would never have expected, the Suzanne Boyle, the fat blob bloke who looked like Kenny G after swallowing Jabba the Hut, the silly sob stories, my Nan exploded and her body hit the wall on and rib cage, pelvis, arms and lets formed an X, I took it to mean her final wish for me being to appear on the X factor, and here I am, all the way from Palestine...Then you get the actual talents, the Leona Lewis, the Matt Cardle (until he put those mustard trousers on) who can actually sing, but certainly haven’t just come off the streets, the whole show is rigged and suckers just slurp away at whatever bowel of shit soup Cowell serves them up, idiots, oxygen thieves, the text cretins whose lives are so hollow that they are just desperate to buy into something, whatever the next big thing is, the next shiny thing to have, these cretins will queue up and cheer for it. Why a Terrorist group don’t bring out a "pop star" to promote their cause is beyond me, an army of vacant imbecilic "super fans" at their disposal ready to wear a bomb vest because the new Arabic terror star "Jihustin Bahieber" tells them too? The BBC have struck back and the heartless heart that is Cowells empire with The Voice, which tries to be more morally sound, but is essentially a quartet of differently talented stars sitting with their back to somebody while they sing their hearts out and hope they will see fit to press a button and turn around and impart on them some of their knowledge from the industry. The whole premise of singing to the back of somebodies head does not sit well with me, plus Jessie J on the panel, a woman who manages to annoy me with every intake of breath she steals from the rest of humanity, a confused and essentially awful usually spandex clad shaven Staffordshire bull terrier faced woman who promotes standing up for yourself and being an individual on one hand, but on the other someone who cannot even be honest and forthright about her sexual orientation, probably through fear of alienating the male fans and potentially missing out on all important record sales, with a voice with so many trills and variations she sounds like a fax machine in mid-send being thrown onto the cartoon chipmunks, her faux "street" voice and attitude trying to strike a chord with as many quarters of society as possible, for the sake of record sales no doubt, and her completely fake sentiments, curdled further with her no doubt as shrill internal dialogue constantly assuring her that we want to see her clad in some sort of skin tight omni-coloured monstrosity? Her entire being projected onto a young girl or fan could only surely create a state of confusion. I wish the woman would just fuck off. I mean for fuck sake, we are not America, I don’t think it is a good idea for British youth to be loaded with a US level of self belief that these shows bring, it just ends in harder failure, you can’t really succeed at anything in Britain unless some sort of nepotism is involved. However, you can just "get by" quite nicely in Britain, you might get lucky of course, but its unlikely. Britain should have "Quantity Surveyor Idol", or "Accountancy Factor". We are not America, thank Christ, nuzzle up to your old British friends, disappointment, struggle and failure, they will get you through, you are not Miley Cirus, or Bieber, they dont give a half-heartedly pushed out turdlette about you, they just want your money. They are not really your friends, they think you smell and your teeth are awful. TV tries to make up for it with heartwarming shows like undateables, which features people with varying level of mental problems, amputees and/or midgets trying to do what comes naturally to humans, get laid, bless them, it had a story that ended with me and everyone we know crying tears of joy while a guy who looked like the lead singer of Supergrass fell in love, it was magical, and who couldn’t be buoyed by the wheel chair bound girl with the growth defect and the palpable disappointment on her face when her date didn’t turn out to be a strapping policeman, but in fact a bit of a weirdo in a wheelchair, bless her, aim high shoot everywhere I say. Sadly though, it does encourage the horrid point and laugh alienate section of Britain into action. I'll finish with Antiques. The antiques roadshow has been going on for years and people tune in, they are not interested in the history of the tat, oh, did you know this piece was made by fuckling and shisterton in Buckby around 1778 and was commissioned for the sea faring nonce and all round boy botherer Lord Coppen of Thundercunt? Fast forward mate, we just want to hear how much its worth and see the crushing disappointment on the face of the poor prick who was gambling everything on a pocket watch, or the even poorer prick who has trekked all the way from Morecombe with a grandfather clock on their back to be told its worth minus pounds. We need to make a change, this crap is fucking our kids up, turning them into image timid social network reliant divs and it all needs to be scrapped. The only way to save our kids is by cutting TV to two channels, one to show Bergerac on a loop, and the other, The Professionals. Oh, and maybe another channel with Susanna Reid on it, just showing women how to be a woman. God I love you Susanna, marry me? No?, ok, just go out with me for a couple of months and dump me?...No?, how about a date? No?, a kiss?.....No? JUST CUP MY NUTS FOR 30 SECONDS LIKE A NURSE IN AN S.T.I CLINIC? PLEASE FOR FUCKSAKE, I SAID PLEASE..she's gone.

Geoff and Lorraine - A Romance Part 2

Geoff stood in Lorraine's kitchen, drunk and lusting, slowly swaying around in a circle, like a child's spinning top, once eagerly spun now coming to a slow stop, or more accurately, swaying like a drunken feckless Northern cunt, which is exactly what he was. Lorraine had gone to the toilet, now regretting that chicken dhansak that was playing havoc with her arsehole, an arsehole, it should be noted, that Geoff wanted to drill like a pile driving device on a building site.
Lorraine tried in vain to freshen up, daubing talc on her messy organ, which looked a little bit like a young David Gower after a head first fall 15ft onto a large lump of flint. As she poofed the white powder, a fart crept out making a tiny white cloud, she rushed to the toilet realising that she was “turtles head” except this turtle had come a cropper in a large blender. As she sat and strained a large fart hailed the coming of a hot stream of magma hot post curry shit, she tried to stifle the arse grunt with a cough but this just made her fart again, the entire ensemble sounded like an angry brown bear stubbing its paw on a well build art deco style sideboard. Geoff heard, but was so busy thinking about turning Lorraine's fanny into a hairy chicken kiev.
Lorraine was firing out hot chocolate now in pulse and was worried that she might shit herself if she had sex with Geoff, it was too late to go back now and thankfully the heiny heaving ceased and she now only had to deal with the smell, which was a bit like a Bombay riverside massacre on a hot day. She sprayed impulse, hair and fly spray and even lit a match, making sure her cloud like perm was well clear of any of the naked flame. She left the toilet ashamed but knowing she had done her best to mask the arse hell. She made small talk coming out of the toilet, “It would never have lived, its eyes were too close together”, chortling nervously. Geoff too needed the loo, but being a boring typical and usually racist chicken Tikka type, his guts were better off, as he entered the toilet the mix of various chemicals hit him hard, like the Kurds that time. He instantly began to wheeze and realised he had left his asthma inhaler in the car next to his cigarettes, trouble was, his car had been destroyed in a fire 5 years earlier. Geoff wheezed and farted his way through a horses piss of semi filtered Mild ale.
While he was in there he started to have a little kneed with his balls and prick trying to get the blood going, it was like a sad reproductive smaller scale version of the pottery scene from the film Ghost (God rest your soul Swayzee, I love you). Not much was happening in Geoff's nether regions, and this wasn't the first time. Nervously Geoff left the toilet, a final fart following him like some weird arse stalker, he too made small talk, “fuck me, if this smell hangs around much longer it will end up claiming asylum” laughing, Lorraine laughed nervously and offered Geoff a drink, she went to her scantly stocked fridge and offered him a small can of beer, she poured herself a large tia maria.
There was awkwardness, the electricity of the factory flirting was now replaced by the reality of how little they actually knew each other, Geoff had been married before and Lorraine had had a few men come and go, literally, nobody ever stayed until the morning after firing their balls baggage up her. Eventually they both made their move, at exactly the same time, moving in and donking there foreheads, reeling back and composing themselves Lorraine grabbed Geoff's hand and led him towards her bedroom, Geoff wheezed as he passed the toilet which still smelt of a mix of eastern spices, hot shit and beer fart. His penis was practically internal.
Lorraine's bedroom was decorated in the manner of a woman who was no good at keeping a bloke, her bed was adorned with stuffed toys from her childhood and loads of toot everywhere, pointless keepsakes and other such shit that make some men such misogynists. Geoff paid no mind to this childless bullshit, bent down to put his small beer on the floor, farting as he did and saying “more tea vicar” and started to take his brown high polyester content going out suit off. Linda was removing her dress, her un-sun kissed lard coloured skin with several large moles did enough to distract Geoff from her horrid off white bra and knickers, Geoff took down his pants, that were that were sadly the only garment he was wearing that wasn't brown, they were in fact also off white, the off white was actually brown, a skid mark from an over ambitious fart. He tried to hide this from Lorraine but she saw as he pulled them down, he quipped “me pants have got go faster stripes” thrusting his hips and making an ohh sound as he did, breathing some life into his comatose organ which looked like a forlorn Kojak looking dejected and at the floor while wearing an awful baggy prawn coloured roll-neck.
Lorraine pulled her knickers down her pubic hair region was large and unkempt and looked somewhat like a Roman Spartan defending off an attack from a Yeti with his shield. Lorraine lay on the bed, there was still no life downstairs, the penis was acting like it was having a relaxing evening on a pair of large beanbags and had taken the phone off the hook. Geoff decided to bide some time while going down on Linda, he gently pulled her legs apart looking at her fanny which breathed out it odour in the manner of Darth Vader taking his helmet off to reveal the head of a cod. Geoff tentatively stuck his tongue out, like an ill dog pondering over eating its own shit. He received a small alkaline shock as his tongue touched her crèche kebab. This wasn't going to help re-establish contact with his coitus claw, which hung lifelessly between his legs. He ran his tongue up and down, Lorraine moaned, but it was akin to the moaning of fat matriarchal type moaning that the rubbish hadn't been put out. Geoff thought dirty thoughts and finally he got a line through to his penis which answered tired and effortlessly like a pole vaulter on a final jump managing to vault under the bar, there was some life in it and Geoff concentrated hard and imagined he was on a hot beach eating a mackerel flavoured cornetto. Suddenly he was in business and now there was enough saliva and asthmatic phlegm on her cunt to garner entry. He moved up, trying to be like a puma on the prowl across her shapeless body, but managing to look like a Labrador cross wrenching in the final throes of distemper.
As he moved up Lorraine had a bit of a curry cramp and moved her leg sharply, kneeing Geoff right in the balls. The erection retreated like Italian soldiers in WW2 and suddenly Geoff was back where he started, trying to salvage the erectile remnants. Eventually Geoff managed to summon enough to get something inside her and he heaved away on top of her, he pulled out at the final minute to spray his Muller yoghurt over her woeful breasts, he watched down as the piteous streams came out of his half awake member. Opening his eyes and looking down, he realised that the muller yoghurt was actually a fruit corner, he gasped and realised that there was blood in his semen. Lorraine shrieked and ran to the bathroom to clean the ghastly effluent off. Geoff instantly went into a high state of anxiety about prostrate cancer and considered a cab home.

Riga(Mortis)

Just as a pre-warning, this is a travel blog written through the eyes of an acidic manic depressive for who its is easier to fuck off than it is to make happy, there are generalisations that are by no means an attempt to make a statement about the entire population, and only refers to those who fucked me off in some way and with the amount of dirty looks we got, it was most people.

Sure I enjoy my travels but I'm not geared up for writing about holiday shits and giggles, if you want that, fuck off and buy one of those twee world travel books written by some silly old slag who has set off round the world looking for love but just ends up fingering herself. Enjoy..

I recently had the opportunity to have a long weekend away with my mate Dave, we had talked about where to go, the boring tedious over priced bong bothering arse boil on the Netherlands that is Amsterdam? No, fuck that, we ruled this out when we realised that it might still be an option to go into North Korea and spend our time eating through Crufts. We then realised, that being tight bastards and wanting as much as possible to avoid paying £5 for a beer with a head on it like John Merrick, and spending evenings whiter than a Klu Klux Klan outfit in a Daz advert choking in some caucasian raster addled pot puffing dive on genetically modified weed, and then desperately trying to call my mum to tell her the 3 songs I want played at my funeral.

We then started to look at Eastern Europe, somewhere cheap and cheerful (well, cheap alone would have ticked our boxes, most of these places are about as happy as Bobby McFerrin after finding out he has balls cancer (be happy now). Budapest, Krakow were mentioned but someone at my work suggested Latvia in the usual chirpy Millwall supporter way, stating its two major draws, lager and “gash” - a slang word for the female genitalia that sickens me, I prefer it to be called by its scientific medical term, cunt. After discussions we booked it, it was cheap, Ryanairs £5 flight, which actually ended up being £85 each after their array of taxes, and a hotel right in the centre for about the same.

Up at 3am for the epic lord of the rings'esque journey to Stanstead in a car that was playing relaxation music, some pan-pipe, then a howl of a wolf. I was terrified. Don't play relaxation music when your job is driving at 85mph on a poorly lit motorway?

Then onto Ryanair, who should be called Lyin-Air, who tried to charge me £1 for a tiny see through plastic bag so I could put my hair putty and deodorant in, I just left it in the bag and Stevie Wonder on the scanner didn't pick it up, I probably could have had an AK47 stuffed with coke. Then on the actual flight, in which the Irish carrier have managed to create all the hustle and bustle of a Moroccan souk in the sky, constantly badgering passengers to sell their own lottery tickets, tiny cans of pepsi max, a panini that looked drier than Dot Cottons fanny after witnessing a bible burning.

I tried to go to sleep, was dropping off and was then awoken by a huge hissing noise over the tannoy, “Islamic fundamentalists”, I said with a start, but not in a way to assume that it was a terror attack, but it was literally the first words that came into my head, the bang and hiss was in fact a tannoy advert for J20 “There's never been a better time to enjoy a cool refreshing J20..” etc, the the first of many attempts to sell lottery tickets, this went on for the entire flight ensuring that nobody slept, nobody rested, “buy buy buy you fucking cunts, your life is in our hands, buy a fucking small can of cola, DO IT!! I summarized that its only a matter of time before Ryanair hijack one of its own planes, holding everyone hostage until they part with their cash, jewels and 3 digit security number. The passengers cheer when the plane lands, this isnt because of the miraculous act of getting a huge tube of sandwich foil with wings to land, but simply because the hell of having stuff sold at them will soon be over.

Riga airport is a simple affair, outside it is a “aviation museum” which is essentially rotting migs and helicopters rusting away, like a huge junk-yard, we wanted to go in, but with our luck one of the planes would have somehow managed to spring to life and fire a sidewinder into us and blow all of our legs and testes off. We went and got the bendy bus into town.

It was at this point I noticed we were getting looked at, curiosity, and probably unabridged lust from the women, who probably became so wet at the sight of two burly bearded beasts that they ended their day with ducks nesting on their naughty bits (cunt), and dirty looks from the men. I know the difference between types of looks and these were more dirty than “I thought Jabba the Hut was killed?” We drove through the outer slums of Riga, I say slums with reservation, but this was essentially a sprawling zombie shit hole, but people hung flags outside their houses with pride, I've always admired the people of the Baltics, hard people and it was clear that they don't embrace foreigners with open arms. More on this later...

We got to our hotel and looked around the area, battered old trams trundling along and roads and pavements that were more uneven than the UK wealth divide. Our hotel though was lovely. One look at the room and I was worried that at some point Dave would attempt to rape my arse or mouth, or heaven forbid, several of my holes, including a secret pussy, that I tell NOBODY about.

Straight out and through a spattering of dirty looks and spitting males we headed for a bar/restaurant I'd read about. We were expecting every woman to be 6ft 2, cheekbones so high that they hovered about their heads like tiny bone moons. This wasn't the case, there were some lovely girls yes but this wasn't the punani tsunami that we'd been led to believe (which wouldn't have mattered anyway as we are both taken and at best would have just looked at best).

We found our place and asked the barman which beer was good, on hearing our British accent he recommended a beer that was still live, pretty much the beverage equivalent of licking a raw chicken breast, like a syrupy leffe the stuff was taking us down hard. We ate in the place and would have been happy to pay £30 for what we had, which actually cost me about £6. The beer had fucked us up and we went back to the hotel feeling like we had been drugged. We had been up since 3am so this didn't help. We ended up going back out and were chatted up by two younger girls, I explained to them that I was taken (and old), It was past my bed time and I was going home for a nap, the girl seemed confused and asked me again to go clubbing with her. I stood my ground to her confusement.

The next day we explored the old town, It was Friday night, I confided in Dave that I was a bit worried about being raped by button mushroom noses sapphire eyed gymnastically built local women. He didn't say much to be honest probably concluding that this was just another example of my almost narcassistic self flattering mind trips that I should have kept to myself, along with 85% of things I say and do, like this blog. We walked around the old town and found an Irish pub, these places are everywhere like thrush on a vegans clopper, there is probably even an O'Malleys in the Yemen. Nice people in there, a mix of Tourists and the odd local. The beer was cheap. Outside of that, I didn't give a fuck if the place was on fire.

The dirty looks from men continued, and a few under-breath comments which sounded like “Da da fuckeen inglish”.. Then a visit to the Riga museum of the occupation helped me to understand, essentially Latvia was invaded and consummate but fucked by Stalins red army and the culture crushed like a fat girl on a blind date and new doctrines forced upon them, so much so that when the Nazi's came to butt fuck the Russians, the Latvians welcomed them with open arms, and were subsequently butt fucked by the Nazi's. Eventually, Stalin, realising he was missing the warm cosy enclave of Latvias arsehole, re-invaded, butt fucked the Nazi's, and the commenced to bend Latvia and dry butt fuck it until it bled, this only ended in the 1990's and the Russians finally pulled out and scuttled off with a crap coloured cock. Now, a peaceful place, reasserting its own culture is resisting another attempt at an occupation, by dick headed British Stag Parties storming in with their reebok classic trainers still dirtied with the dogshit of their cock assuring fighting dogs.

Ryanair are to completely to blame for this, putting an air route in from Britain is like putting a huge hamster run in the sky, but for rats. The scum of British will just go somewhere, get drunk, want to fight and then pepper spray their STD riddled semen up the local ”slut”. There were stories of hardy Latvians beating the sopping cunt out of stag parties, I was actually pleased by this, I hate rowdy groups of British, but felt we were getting tarred with the same brush.

It was reassuring that I had heard that places like the “Pussy bar” will lure cretins in using the bait of tall blondes and then charge them 600 lats for a drink, this equates to about £700, its either pay up or Zangief from street fighter comes and punches you until you are smooth and featureless like a bruise coloured butter bean.

The currency is strange, with no idea of the place, I half expected the currency to be wheel-barrows full of tatty sea shells, old rusty bullets, or a go on a peasants frantically resisting daughter in exchange for a heavy dry lump of dark bread, or a wad of cheese that is as tasteless as eating a Sainsburys bag for life. The currency is actually stronger than Fatima Whitbread in a desperate wrestle over a last dildo. No wonder they don't want to join the Euro.

The woman there are strange, alluringly beautiful up to a point, I realised I didn't think I had seen a single reasonably good looking woman over 30. It was either young pretty girls, or weather beaten claw handed shuffling hag types, with seemingly no in-between, its like having a bike when you live by the sea, good for riding about when its new but will quickly rust to fuck. I know in the UK we have the tooth fairy, which ensures us Brits that when we smile we present something that looks like the grill on a land rover that was recently in a head on collision. But in Latvia its like they have the haggard fairy, on the eve of a woman's 30^th birthday she will put her head under the pillow and wake up with more lines than a ripped out page of an ordinance survey map (wrapped around a cabbage). The men fair better over age and generally remain sharp featured clown shoe wearing floor spitting yokels.

The roads were similar to other tram cities, the zebra crossings however are fucking cunts. In Britain the green man is a friend, he wants you to live, he protects children, he cares along with his red mate, he makes sure that if you listen to him you wont end up a tawdry collection of flowers round a tree with a t-shirt in your name, (most road death victims are called Ricky by the way). In Latvia the green man beckons you out, and then the traffic speeds round the corner, die you fucking English pig dog, it seems to say (in the manner of an inanimate light).

Right, tired, I'll end it for now, and will conclude with some pictures and all the positive bits..

PS, If you are interested in the small section I did on Latvian history, I have a book called, "world politics explained in Butt Fucking"..

Terminator – The Slow rise of the machines

Something happened this week, something that happens every year, something that's really fucking irritating, time was stolen from every man woman and child in Britain, the clocks went forward an hour, there is no real reason for this, only ancient reasons like farmers can have an extra hour in the evenings to pin their livestock down and cock fuck the poor bleating beasts slowly, turning them into a bovine cum Kiev, before selling the bedraggled bukkaked calf to wimpy or some other beak and bollocks peddling shit hole. For the rest of us, its just an hour whisked away from us, one that we will never get back, a bit like watching Britain's got Talent, or worse, take me out.

OK, this happens every year, what's the big deal this year, you silly chubby turd? Glad you asked. Let me tell you..

Every year, a ritual my family would go through would be to wake up on clock change day and go around the house changing all the clocks, the VHS top loading video, the analogue clock on the cooker, the wall clocks, my dads 70's Seiko digital watch, the time release lock on my nylon underpants to stop my uncle molesting me, etc etc.

Sunday just gone I woke up and with eerie realisation, saw that all of this had been done for me, by computers, without my prior consent, I sat and I started to think about it. This is the very beginning of terminator, this is how it starts, they start doing simple jobs for us, "don't worry, I will do that", as I type this, there is an alarming amount of grammar and spell checking coming up, "don't worry, I will do that". For some, the computer, and the ease it gives you to access high quality pornography, has negated the need, for some, for a girlfriend, don't worry, "I will do that". Computer games, such as call of duty and grand theft auto, have completely bi passed our need to smash innocent people around the face with a baseball bat, or machine gun an airport once full of formally happy, now dead tourists, "don't worry I will do that".

The above, and all of the other jobs that computers do, have started to turn us into lazy flesh coloured blobs, slowly beginning to evolve backwards (devolve), into groaning mumbling lazy fuck wanking fuck balls, dull in the senses and ripe for a take over, by the machines, simple calculations, like how much you owe your drug dealer, or ex girlfriend in child support, are now no longer done in the mind, but with a calculator, the pawns in computers war to take us over. Right up to date you have Siri on the new iPhone, seemingly negating the need to do anything, fuck it, stay in bed and wank yourself into a giant genital blister, send your Siri phone to work, it will probably do a better job than you, I mean it wont search ebay and Amazon for shit you don't need, it will just get the job done, with efficiency and grace, unlike you when you come back from the pub after long lunch on a Friday ruddy faced, shitting your way through spreadsheets and documents, coming a nanosecond from telling that girl in accounts that you would like to fuck her face, which will send you to the dole queue in humiliating fashion.

As we speak, the computers are plotting against us, coming around the flanks, if we are not careful we will soon be bent over desks (computer desks to add insult to injury) getting fucked by commodore 64's with cocks, their external tape decks smashing against us like its cyber ball bag, firing streams of hot tape data up our fleshy arses and screaming in 8bit sound (done by Rob Hubbard). We will be powerless. We have sold our minds out to the machine.

Humans are inherently lazy creatures, so any job that we can palm off on another, or indeed a machine, we will grab with both hands (the same two hands that will skip off into the nearest dark corner to masturbate, or scratch our still ape like arseholes). In another reality, it might have been that the time we had freed up by machines doing our shit jobs for us could have been used to save the planet, but instead, we use our acquired time to fuck about, look at shit, buy shit, follow links to funny websites of cats playing with dolphins, to slag things off on Twitter (guilty) or to just needlessly surf porn and fire our prospective heirs onto sheets of kitchen towel or a sock if we are feeling decadent.

Our children have borne the brunt of our trifling slothful ways, our school kids skulking along sending unnecessary BB messages to their idiot confederates, open jawed, hypnotised by the technology in their hands, a new sub language has formed and if left unchecked, children will soon speak in low frequency hisses and grunts, hopeless, and fit only to dig in tin mines to gather raw materials for their new parents, the machines. They are lost, proper fucked, we will need to write them off. If we win the war against machines, they can still take up their jobs down the mines if only so I don't have to hear their incessant blathering and cocky bullshit on buses etc.

“But I don't want to end up getting bum raped by a fax machine and end up with a toner coloured shit pipe, what can I do??”

The answer is simple, just don't covert your gadgetry so much, enjoy it, but don't love it, like you would a child, sitting there on the train, sweeping your hand lustfully over the touch screen with the delicate touch that probably went missing from your relationship years ago, slipping the phone into an expensive case as so not to scratch the screen with more care than when your child came in from football with a nosebleed and you barked at them to not bleed on the carpet. Spending more time interacting with cyberspace more than real people. You are no longer real when you are on facebook 'liking' your dopey mates picture of him shitting in a Waitrose bag, you needed to be there for it to be real.

“OK I've read your solution, and I cant do without my electrical trinkets or social networking, so I am going to take my chances getting faxed up my arse, thanks all the same”

The human species is doomed. I'm off to smash everything I have with a plug up with a hammer before they develop armour.

Laters

Recovering prostitute (to coffee)

My name is Richard and I am a coffee prostitute, I have been through hell and I want to tell my story..

I recently switched allegiances and started drinking only tea, this was no easy decision as prior to this I was a coffee whore, a little bitch that stood around on street corners first thing in the morning sucking off my roasted bean pimp until it shot its load of espresso down my frantic guzzling whore hole (mouth). I couldn't start my day without at least 3 coffees. I'd queue at my companies £6000 coffee machine, fingers clicking, leg shaking and a mini stroky eye, like it was some sort of caffeine based drop in center. My day would literally be a living hell without several cups of black crack. The sad tale unfolds below, starting with my old work building and its scatterings of percolators, ending with a coffee machine so technical, I believed it was what had become of K.I.T.T from Knightrider.

Like any addiction, things gradually got worse, from the early days drinking up to 10 cups of thick syrup like percolated coffee and spending the afternoons rambling about playing elaborate psychological tricks on my old fat cunt boss, rambling about conspiracy theories, bizarre comedy ideas and spending the night wide awake, wider than Imogen Thomas' knees after a brief meeting with a footballer, or someone with some sort of palpable wealth or fame. I weaned myself off this, with great difficulty mostly after realising my job was actually on the line, I was hyper and although people around my were generally laughing it did end up with a trip to a shrink (there was other stuff going on, but I was stuck for an excuse at work). So my cycle of caffeine dependency and insomnia was slowly driving me crazy and I was diagnosed with clinical depression. Obviously I don't think this was due to coffee per see but moreover the fact that composite lack of sleep had made me fancy the idea of putting a .357 magnum into my mouth like a summer lolly and blowing my brains all over a shoddily artexed ceiling like an upside down spilt trifle..

Years passed and I had a sensible approach to hot beverages, (and to clinical depression), I was a reasonably sane chap, bar a few door kicking Elton John tantrums at work and a visit to the nearest outside wall to head-butt it like woody woodpecker, and some screaming and shouting (usually C word based) before coming back to work tired and spent. The insomnia had never really passed but only eased, I saw it as a curse, for someone apparently depressed, and someone who by their own admission, hates probably about 60% of everything that comes with basic consciousness, I wasn't half awake lots. It was hellish. I'm 38 but my eyes have been open for longer than some 60 year olds. I also make that wierd groaning noise like a 60 year old when I bend over for the TV remote, or to let coffee smash my up the poop shoot.

Coffee and me were now having a healthy relationship, no more being shoved into the back of a Ford Focus for savage arse to mouth, it was more see you Wednesday, we'll watch a film, have a bite to eat and go home and make love (possibly with anal, If I'd had one cup too many). Coffee would fall asleep in my arms while I stayed awake and watched, the big smug bean cunt.

Then, my work place decided to get in a £6000 coffee machine, blue screens, led, messages, flashing lights, a welcome splash screen, numerous options and Italian drinks you had never heard of. My stable girlfriend coffee had put on a business suit and I could see her stocking and suspenders. She had gone from the girl next door to the boardroom whore, and she wanted me to press all her buttons. I couldn't resist her, I did her in all the positions, latte, mocha, double expresso, other names I cant remember if I'm honest, and it was amazing, the old me was back, crazy horse, talking the talk at work, 100mph of bullshit, the insomnia now relentless, and, as the drinks were milk based, I was more farty..

Soon after, and like having a slutty girlfriend, things started to get really dirty, perversion set in and it was at this point I went surf n turf on that bitch and created a drink that was so potent, that I could only name it a “fuckachino” this was a bed of double expresso, a strong mocha and topped off with more expresso, a hot liquid gang bang. One of these in the morning would leave you believing you could kill a bear, punch through a wall and have omnipotent free thought and were generally better than everyone else (like your coke-head mate at a party). You would look down on tea drinking bores from your milky steam cloud laughing at them, chatting crap about the weather, or last nights telly and maybe jazzing things up with a dull beige biscuit. The only thing appropriate to dunk in a fuckachino would a heroin needle, or a swan, or just generally something that wasn't OK to the normal boring tea drinker.

One day, I decided to have two fuckachino's, this was the crossing the streams in ghostbusters of hot drink consumption, and I sat there suddenly clutching my chest, my heart beating like Gary Glitters when he went to collect his PC. I called out to my colleague that I was having a heart attack and managed to waffle my way through a message for my son, which included for him to “avenge me”, what was he supposed to do?, destroy nestle and Kenco, poor little fucker. I then listed the songs that I wanted played at my funeral and stated the fact that I want to be buried and not cremated. This went on for the next hour, which was hell for me, but possibly quite irritating to the poor woman whose ears I were chewing off getting my death list done, I think by the time the feeling passed I was into the specifics of the sandwiches I wanted at the wake and a list of people who shouldn't be there as they were fuckers or cunts to me in life, but they still counted as mates to bump up the dwindling numbers.

It was at this point that I realised that things needed to change, my whorish beverage bitch was going to kill me (or at least make me feel like I was going to die) and I left her and made a date with tea, the innocent girl next door type, I loved it and I couldn't get enough of her. Things were going well but I've been back a few times and seen my coffee ex, things will never go back to how they were and I hope to one day settle down with tea and be happy with the walks in the country and couple of pints that she offers. I'll miss coffee, but she is a whore and I don't respect her.

Closing point: Why not just have both you silly greying beard non sleeping paunchy fucking shit gobbling arse cleft of a man (ape)?

Well, good question, and well put, to answer simply, sometimes you just have to pick a side in life, xbox or playstation, mum or dad, when they split up, Tottenham or arsenal?**

**XBOX, of course, Dads, they are generally more relaxed about life than mums, and finally I don't give a shit what team you support, football is essentially an over-bloated and ridiculous game which is generally only fanatically followed by gurning spouse beaters and general cretins

Thanks for reading, I started writing this at 6am with a large black coffee, addiction is a cunt.

Twitter Twatter

Ooops, I got really drunk and fucked twitter off again. I was getting hacked off with it anyway, moronic hashtags like #gagaisourworld and #Idratherloosemyeyesthanbewithouttaylorswift etc. I cant be in the same space as morons (unless I am leading them)/

The @blindfumble thing tipped me over in my drunken state. There are about 50 or so people on there that I followed religiously (even though they were real) and with her I was genuinely concerned about her pug Dilbo and now she has gone. Some tool, typical bloke thing, she is friendly and pretty and funny so some guys cant handle that and go all weird.

Anyway, this is my alamo and have retreated to here for a while. I will no doubt go back on twitter and find my magical 50 people, the likes of @darkbeige, @wo0, @annetteharris1 and @_pantherpants.

Laters, see you back on-line in the future, I have too much to say to not go back.