Rejection/Routine - Living in the shadow of 40, part 2

Following on from my recent and depression inducing sad indictment of life farting and wheezing its way towards 40, I have been analyzing, potentially more so that I should, my life, and trying to really feel and acknowledge those things that make middle aged men fade out into insignificance to young people, an analysis that goes beyond just the wrinkling behaggarment and copious amounts of time staring at younger girls and people doing cool stuff. This is in no means a way of trying to find a way to avoid said disenfranchisement and isolation from the youth, quite the opposite, I want to enjoy it, every new creak, every new noise and fucking insipid little whine at the state of the world, and the synchronized raising and lowering of quality of life as I cruise nicely towards a shattering and most likely lonely death, probably by something stupid judging by my near misses so far, run over by the largest car in production at the time, nearly choked to death trying to eat a swiss roll as a dare in college, and almost killed by an electric shower that was hung up using a single nail, it exploded. The reason I say raising and lowering of life quality is simple, its raised by the fact that I do have a bit more money to do stuff with, I can have a holiday without shoving the lot on a credit card and worrying about paying for it all many years later (but cheers MBNA..). I can go out and buy a big TV and then sit and curse the amount of controls and hark back to the days of simple things, like Video+ and Philips DCC cassettes. But then at the very same time, the lowering is just the general fading into the background, while younger, better healthier shinier people take their decade or so in the limelight, drinking all the drinks, chatting all the girls up, getting all the STi's and pumping their unwanted offspring up various holes, waking up and slapping their wrinkle free foreheads in short lived regret. Also, having a child makes you feel the slow rejection from main stream life also, as you slowly drift from being in their eyes, a 9ft tall warrior, story teller, dragon slayer, killer of kings, creator of feasts, and adventurer to magical places (zoo’s and shit) , to just farty doughy and embarrassing dad, whose entire existence is greeted with a spotty tut and headshake of disapproval, and usually some unintelligible new age street slang or ting? The rejection started a long time ago for me. My trainers were no longer being stared at and analyzed to see if they were cool enough by "yoots". In fact, the last comment I had on my clothes was about 5 years ago, while on the Woolwich ferry when a young cool lad asked me where I got my jacket from, and then didn’t call me a tramp when I said it was from a charity shop, nor did he mug me with a knife, nor in the zenith of this scenario did he act out some bizarre fetish of arse raping a man older than he, (all of which were on the back of my mind at the time). Since then, I have just blended in to the background, I've never been a fashionable person, mostly because I don’t like the sheep attitude of it, but mainly because my awkward shape excluded me from most of the stuff deemed fashionable, anyone who knows me, knows I generally look like a lumberjack who was not only laid off from his job, but suffered a close berevement, grew a bigger beard and started a new life as a Chris De Burgh tribute act (without shaving). I grow fearful and usually decline when anyone I know goes "out out", I draw the line at dancing, I will dance, very badly, but only if I am shit faced, the sober thought of me lolling my tripe filled husk around in various directions to bleepy music that I don’t know, from uber trendy DJ's such as "DJ D8 r8p" and looking like a pig being machine gunned fills me with dread. I'd much rather be in a pub, with people around my age, talking bollocks and drinking warm and overly expensive real ale and making brash but age sensitive comments about girls in the pub, such as "cor, I wouldn’t mind sticking my wotsit up her thing-a-me-jig and then spraying my you know what over her doo dahs".. The rejection does go upwards also, for instance in the way I sometimes see old people (the venom of this usually peaks when I am trying to get somewhere, shopping at the weekends is a good example). Staring at them while they shuffle along, slowing pigeon stepping and sliding their feet after a token lunge of their zimmer frame, soulless decades of anger etched into their parchment faces just going about their usual routine (routine is an important word here, we lead onto that shortly, it would follow on seamlessly but I am not a professional writer, so it will jolt in un-expectantly like a drunken partner coming back from the pub and expecting a blow job..). "What’s the point of you?" I think, while the old fart robs me of a few seconds of my day while I try and navigate around them, "Just how much f*cking time do you need on earth you selfish old bundle of bones rags and piss". "Oh for f*ck sake, why can’t you shop in the week, in the day time, you Saga magazine receiving old fart?" "why are there SO many bus stops, its for you isn’t it, you aged old bingo playing shit hill" Are all just some of the things that whizz through my mind while I scowl, tut and generally becunt my forbearers. Don’t get me wrong, I love old people, but I'm sure that most of the people reading this can’t say they haven’t thought similar thoughts while trying to race to Argos, or similar? No? You fucking liar. The above level of hatred is only what’s visited on us at, or approaching middle age. The looks at festivals or concerts, "Oh fuck me, look at the older man at the gig, tut" "Why are YOU here (watching this band that came out before I was even a teenager and although its probably more relevant you being here than me I’m still going to stare because you are older and shit and this is a gig and you should be at home doing something shit like reading, or putting some sort of collecting in order?)" "Why are you chatting to that younger girl, as if she would be interested in you?" "Why are you in THIS shop, the clothes in here have different colours and stop at waist size 34, and there is no xl?" and "What are you starting at my young pert bits and bobs for THIS long?" are just some of the unreasonable intergenerational examples of passed up hatred. It’s a shame that we can’t just stare with abandon and not be made to feel like an utter pervert? In my own research I find that there is also a level of self-exclusion from mainstream life. The thing that does this to us like nothing else is settling into a "routine". As you get older you start to get comfortable with certain things, you know this when you try and arrange a quick beer with mates of similar age, only to find that this can only be "penciled in" for 3 weeks later as they all have a lot on. They don’t, they are just finding it increasingly hard to shake themselves out of their own routine. I can’t Tuesday, its chicken kiev peas and night". The routine is so indoctrinated that nights have names. The other reason why a quick beer is no longer met with an enthusiastic smack of the lips, but instead a sharp intake of breathe, is because beer now has consequences, "Psssss, its a School night.." You have to entice them out with silly primary school things, like come, just a quick "naughty" or "cheeky" one. Making that phone call to try and get a "permission slip" from the dull missus, who you probably would have just gone home sat awkwardly with, and eventually watched her fall asleep (at the same old time) while trying to think of other ways to sort out the sack full of surprisingly still enthusiastic semen, and release them from their fleshy prison papoose. Unlike most of my writing, which ends on a bleak note, suggesting suicide, or enthusing for a nuclear holocaust, this blog has hope. Read on…. Routine is a train spotter, a stamp collector, and probably wet the bed and lived with its mum until it was 38, that you have let into your lives, and given sole access to the calendar to. Routine is a long highway to death, the admission that you will do these set things until you die, an acknowledgement that your "life", life being a collection of experiences, is now over, the slow winding down of something that was once amazing. You don’t have to accept it, you need to threaten to shop routine to the police for those questionable pictures it has one its hard drive, they will soon scamper off and let excitement back in. No, you don’t have to be a complete cock, trying to force the years back and getting your receding hair dreadlocked and going to Bestival and trying to f*ck an Emo girl up against a tree while high on MDMA, just let a little bit of excitement into your life, go for that beer, go somewhere new on holiday, get the house to yourself and sit in that wardrobe and try one of those strangle wanks everyone goes on about, just make sure you get the order right, wank first strangle after, or something. Another way to beat routine is surprise, surprize the missus, cook her a nice meal, them suddenly jump up and shove your cock in her gravy and scream like a banshee, rip your practical shirt off and scream you are going to burn all your utility clothing, take her, she will be wetter than drowned otter cubs. Surprise yourself, go out for a chat with your boss, talk about that promotion, inbetween words, punch yourself in the face, scream like a banshee, shove your erect cock in their coffee and put another layer of utility clothes on. Go to a meeting, try and pick a biscuit up with your arse cheeks. Open an office door, fart inside, shout “west coast” and run off. Do it, fuck routine. Wear butter to work, it’s a layer? Don’t fade out into the night. Part 3 to follow, I’ll have lost my job and my woman and will probably be round the back of Kings Cross station giving hand jobs to business men..

Withering in the shadow of 40

I wrote a piece some time ago about the differences in life when in your 30's, the unquenchable horn, the inability to look at 90% of women and not see them as a potential sexual conquest, and the onset of involuntary noises when doing mundane things, like picking the remote control up, or bending to get into a car. This was greeted with mixed results, but ultimately, that the future is bleak, one reader is now suffering from bouts of depression.. I'd like to follow that up now with the epoch that is between the ages of 35 and 40, which is where I am. The flickering dulling embers of anything about you that was remotely cool now slowly being piffed out by the acrid pissing drizzle that is onset middle age. I write this from the male perspective, so if you are a woman reader, then either empathise, or relate to, by replacing the words cock, dong, wand, fanny dagger, clopper club or winkle with vagina, minge or cunt. I am also tired, and a bit bored and depressed as I write this so be warned, this isn’t a Lighthouse Family record, if you want chirpy uplifting shiny happy shit then click away now or go on to Cliff Richards website.. When you are a young man, full of reasonably hardy and healthy(ish) albeit cider marijuana and quavers addled semen, spending entire weekends jerking away at your "fanny dagger" in a manner only usually seen on a survival programmes where Ray Mears is rubbing his fat hands desperately trying to start a fire. You don’t normally think about the future, fuck all that, it’s all about the here and now. You don’t have to worry about sinking 18 pints of snake bite and a large donner kebab and turning a pavement into a thoughtless, but probably still artistic turner prized considered gastric meaty Pollock. You do though, occasionally think about getting older, and make bold ridiculous statements, like when I am 30, I won’t ever go to a music festival again (unless its folk or acoustic based), I won’t go to all night Indie clubs (with a little room for Hip hop) club nights in Brixton, I won’t dance again, ever, for any reason, I won’t go in any high street fashion shop, I'll blow my brains out with a shot gun like Kurt Cobain. I'll never be 30 plus, its the most uncool thing in the world, before going back to a 22 hour straight session on Championship manager, or some ridiculous acne inducing online role playing game where you are a level 12 magic, level 8 short sword skill set robe wearing friendless c*nt... You can save yourself these tortuous thoughts about what the future holds by doing a simple thing to show you EXACTLY what’s in store for you. Get hold of a catalogue, such as Gratin, or Littlewoods (no, not Argos, you turd) and go to the start of the Menswear section, this is the young you, bright, toothy grinned, confident, a label splashed and firm muscled spunk flagon, as the pages progress, this is how you will age, the labels suddenly disappearing, and you enter the casual/practical wear stage, with greying models standing in various awkward grotty uncle poses, wearing chinos with a thin belt and a frankly awful shirt, or v neck jumper usually tucked in, comfort over style, this is you aged 35-40, a style-less crooning dithering bore. If this isn’t you, and you still dress like a 25 year old, then you are just in denial, and I expect the brunt of your peer group think you are a bit of a wanker and talk about you behind your back, when will you settle down, are you a paedo, etc etc. It even gets worse as you get even older, you will actively start looking for trousers with Teflon in them, and jackets with gortex, and will probably pay the price of a long weekend away for a North Face jacket, or gilet, the lining of which is extra special, hence the price, its not just duck down, its downs duck down, or some other crap that has lured you in. You will wear this with pride when you go out with your partner for some animal crud infested walk along some shitty featureless fell, or some national trust land, sitting in a 4000 year old pub in the middle of Birdsbeakshire drinking a pint of Shanklings old C*nt-husk, presenting the ruddy faced and racist barman with your CAMRA membership before checking the pump for the alcohol content, and, (hopefully), some tasting notes. How did this happen? your younger self screams from history, you creaky dull fart. What next a fucking metal detector? (Oh, by the way, Women, the catalogue clothing test doesn’t work for you, as it passes a lingerie section (with youngish pert models), and that was most likely never, and never will be you, the closest you will get to this is a once in a blue moon depositing of your drunken shapeless body on a bed draped in some grubby lingerie from Anne Summers before watching your just recently wheezing partner fall into a state of grunting shuddering sleep apnea and regretting the whole finger fucking thing). You will however end up wearing the huge gunt emphasing pleated front tree trunk covering shapeless trousers and bellowing floral blouse ensemble.. In the Autumn of your thirties you will also notice that your ability to seek out a woman that you WOULDNT have sex with starts to dwindle, from your cool mid 20's when you would consider rejecting a potential partner for having a misplaced mole, wonky boob or annoying teeth/Norfolk accent, to the less convoluted check list of your late 30's, in which a woman would need to have a Burt Reynolds moustache, at least one entry on the sex offenders register, a discharge from her garish pendulous tuppence that was the consistency of Dulux bathroom paint, and an odour of a fish market after an horrific gas leak (and an undiscovered mongers cadaver) and even then, there is Stella Artois.. Oggling with the confidence of an older man, just becomes part of the daily routine, like the hopefully bowel cancer averting fiber based breakfast, and trying to get the same seat on the train every day. Even though there is the potential of your brain writing cheques the body cant cash, there will never be a time when you are not horny. You will even start making audible comments to yourself when younger girls walk by. Your only chance now with the younger girls is thanks the dearth of today’s twatty and effeminate floppy haired sperm production inhibiting tight trouser wearing body-hairless and over groomed mid 20's men, literally spending so much time self-aware and posturing and literally boring the c*nt off girls and driving them into the arms of (some) older men. New unwanted noises happen when doing routine daily things, an over appreciative "ahhh" when drinking a cup of tea, much more swearing when silly things go wrong, the remote control doesn’t do what it was supposed to, the battery slot swiftly opened and the batteries turned and perhaps breathed on, one of those back of the throat warmer than normal breathes that fix about 90% of today’s electrical appliances, a higher success rate than even CPR. A sudden walk off a step or very small drop can induce an involuntary fart. Lots of frowns and stretches and sucking air in through gritted teeth to acknowledge one of the bodies many daily aches and pains. A slow headshake of disapproval with pursed "I told you so" lips, usually at the thrashing stupidity of younger men. The occasional disapproval, and same slow head shake at girls dressed like 80's prostitutes (or Madonna as she was called), this is usually only in front of other women, or your partner, usually followed by a comment like, "that’s somebodies daughter", or, more horrifically, "oh that girl will catch a death". All the while the inner younger man busy conjuring up images of a filthy uninhibited encounter with the mostly clothesless girl, and the inner sexual imp queuing up to put the mental image into the "wank bank". You'll watch the news with less fear, as you will by now have accepted the inevitability that the world is a couple of hip thrusts and a gurn away from being proper fucked, a part of you, the echoes of your 25 year old indestructible self, sort of wishing for a full scale global nuclear war, (with a 2nd wave chemical strike on all major cities), (oh, and then finally underlined with the rag tag survivors being vapourised by a month later full on thermo-nuclear assault by all the submarines popping up like a perverts cock on a drunk girl at a party, and just as they were getting back on their feet and adapting to the nuclear winter).. You'll find some solace in the news though, and something to talk about in the pub, when the Government announces its going to be easier to get planning permission to build that extension, or conservatory. Brilliant, more room for more armchairs and tat, a sudden acceptance of the concept of wicker furniture. Whereas In your 20's the mere suggestion would probably end in separation, you'll now struggle less with the thought of trudging through Ikea with the lines of insipid slack jawed couples, nutless little yes men and heavily pregnant women huffing and blowing looking for flat packed shit to pad their "nest" out with. Usually spending more than they have, sending them both into sleepless nights and thumbing through lists of payday loans companies before settling on one, of which the advert they saw on a 60 inch 3D LCD TV and full blown Virgin Media package... You'll start to see death as something you need to have on the very back of your mind, you'll still feel a fear of it, but for different reasons, when you were 25, the only way you could die was overdose, choking on vomit, or suicide, everything else slipped off you like the unnecessary fried eggs from a teflon pan onto a fat man’s breakfast. Aids was even curable, couple of Aspirin and run it off, pneumonia, fuck it, huck it up and spit that shit on the pavement, death was for wimps. Now though, you are out of the trench, and in the firing line of shit that can "actually" kill you. Every bum wipe met with a background fear that it could be festooned with bloody streaks, like some silly spotty pallid ugly Goths hair. Each new dull ache or sharp pain could be that final trigger which ends up with some smug prick of a doctor telling you, through pursed patronising lips, that the prognosis is not good, eventually shriveling up like an uneaten peach and dying a humiliating shit/piss drenched death with huge bits of you lopped off by people who (despite all the letters after their name, and years of research) don’t actually have a fucking clue what they are really doing, between bouts of being bombarded with radiation by something that wouldn’t look out of place in a bond villains castle. Fuck that, get a shot gun license, keep it handy, and if that time comes, take the hint.. You will now be furrowing yourself nicely into a daily routine, trying to consider your health in everything you do, and regretting even more, those heavy old school boozing sessions, the 2 day hangover underlining the fact that you are no longer that 25 year old. You'll start accepting things that you once pointed and laughed at, Yoga, or perhaps if you are not adverse to being mocked to cockery by your peer group, Pilates, you'll have a last desperate attempt to try and build your core muscles, that were never actually there in the first place, in order to try and prop your semi worn skeleton up and hope that it holds out for the 2nd phase of your life, and can endure your new found hobbies, walking etc.. You finally start accepting that its normal to have a bit of a paunch, you are not Hugh Jackman, and don’t have 6 hours a day and a personal trainer to ward it off. You'll still be on the cutting edge of technology, but whereas in your 20's, when you were abreast of developments, today you will struggle with things, jabbing a finger repeatedly onto something’s touch screen and recoiling from Siri like a wronged Cobra, or from anything trying to plan your life for you, including women. You'll have a monthly spend of about £70 a month on a TV subscription, but will spend far too long watching the History channel, while you may not have been out, off of your flat pancake tits on the latest designer drug, dancing until 6am on a Wednesday night, you will know EXACTLY what goes into the building of an Airbus 330 airframe, bolt, by sky+ fucking bolt.. I know it sounds bleak, but fear not, it’s not all bad, you might get hit by a Bus before then?.. Cheery bye.

Internet Dating, a microwave ready-meal for your penis

I've decided to write about my experience with online dating, it may paint me out to seem quite shallow, I hope not, but my experience on one forced me to make some blunt judgment’s and act in ways I wouldn’t do in real life, anyway, if you don’t want to get called a pig, don’t roll around in your own shit and make oinking noises.. To begin, let’s just be clear on something, I hate dating, I hate it a lot, I hate it more than I hate going to a doctors to have a crude swap stuck up my japs eye, thankfully this is something that has only happened once, I can happily sit in a room full of women and make them all laugh, sometimes standing up to gesticulate crude jokes and observations, however, put me in a one on one with someone I don’t know and I can either be funny and charming, or more likely, awkward and plain old weird. I'm generally emotionally oafish, fearful of rejection, and two left footed with relationships to the point that I have been known to avoid potential ones. I've been fortunate though that the ones I have had just seem to "happen". One minute I'm dancing to Wham, or some other 80's crud on a pneumonia inducing smoke filled dance floor in a godless most likely Essex located shithole, and the next minute I'm in the back of an illegal mini-cab dry fingering some poor cow while the driver looks on boggle eyed in the rear view mirror (and who says romance is dead) sometimes they wake up... I've never been the sort to go and chat girls up, I've missed several opportunities in my life, having been chatting to a girl and making her laugh for ages and not a sign of pepper spray or a hastily written restraining order, and having no clue whatsoever that whereas in men, the way to their heart is through their stomach, the "best" and closest way to a girls stomach, was through her vagina, and entry to this wonder world was helped with a good sense of humour (GSOH). I was too busy making them laugh to realise that I'd practically made an in for myself, and they were probably wetter than a Fukashima Sushi bar circa April 2011 (and probably fishier..), ho hum, live and learn eh.. After a disastrous attempt at settling down and starting a family, then regrouping (sorry, moving back home to my mums) and then fucking up several attempts at "starting over" I decided it was a good time to take a time out. When after far too long, I grew weary of effectively almost erasing my entire reproductive region away over all manner of fruits from the internet porn tree, I decided that I need something more than my fast RSI becoming right arm. I was older now, beyond the age that I had already decided was too old to go clubbing, but also beyond the age where it seemed acceptable to be jacking off over grainy downloaded German frothy piss porn, added to which, pulling girls in bars was as about as attractive to me as Cossack dancing naked in a field of empty champagne bottles. It was time to do something that I had never considered, or had seen myself doing in my life, Internet Dating. I'd had mates that had done very well on Match.com, but being a consummate tight c*nt, and seeing any form of money changing hands as an around the houses way of paying for sex, (which is completely against my morals), I googled the words "Dating" + "free", the first thing that came up was the website Plenty Of Fish. I hadn’t really heard of it, so I signed up and wrote a witty profile which after two lines turned into an absolute abhorrent but honest rant about the things in life that I hate (and the fact that I liked pubs and country walks) and started to look around the site. The tiny photos of people left much to the imagination, the women would mostly post that photo of them, that rare moment when a camera caught them looking absolutely wonderful, every woman has one, perhaps not Susan Boyle, but everyone else. They had probably just come out of Champneys spa having just had mythical sea shit from Atlantis rubbed over their crow’s feet. Also, the pictures were probably over a decade old, scans of old yellowing Kodak moments, the perm should have given it away. Also half the women on there were only probably on there because they had come home and found their other half pumping away on some nubile little thing from down the gym, or had some other form of soul shattering experience. It was basically a huge dumping ground for the emotionally compound fractured. But like any dump, if you want to find some treasure amongst the trash, you had to be prepared to get your hands dirty, and possibly get up to the elbows in hot shit. Reading the profiles 95% the women on the site wanted to travel the world, and had extensive and interesting hobbies, and large circles of friends and a keen interest in wine and current affairs, given the fact that they were in the purgatory that is Plenty of Fish, I assumed this was all bullturd, and it was more likely that the only hobby they had was buying a new jumper online for their poor surrogate child substitute cat Mr Frippins, the interest in wine amounted to sitting at home alone with a 3 for tenner deal of shit CabernetMerlotSauvignon Vinegar pissé from Tesco, listening to Dido, no Angel, and then a desperate on all fours hunt around their childless flat for some AA batteries to put inside their fast wearing out Rampant Rabbit XL Ghia before cuddling a tear sodden pillow and quivering off into a wretched semi-drunken sleep. Their so called extensive circle of interesting friends had long since moved on, started families and spend their spare time with similar such folk in intellectual dinner parties where being singleton there would be about as welcome as Gary Glitter at CBeebies Live. Using my same tact as in life, I was the prize and I would let the women come to me (Yes, I realised this could likely turn into a long lonely experience as I am only a catch in so far as Chlamydia is). I had emails from girls, werepigs mostly, friendly, weathered by rejection but still upbeat and hopeful, aim high shoot everywhere types, probably surfing profiles while their little cake claws worked entire packs of Mr Kiplin french fancies into their aptly named cake holes, but sadly, and not being shallow, I have but three rules to meeting girls, never go out with a girl who is heavier, taller, or has a larger neck measurement than you. And as shallow as it is, It serves me well. (Bah, I hear you hiss, no, sorry, I am heavy and tall enough for a girl that if she breaks those criteria she is likely to be morbidly obese, something that I find utterly repugnant, and something which would make the titanic more likely to rise than my poor feted fuck-flute) (You've hissed at fuck flute as well haven’t you?) Depending on the nature of the email, I would generally just not reply, the odd normal woman, who from the pictures appeared to have their own teeth and motor function (given that were standing unaided in the picture, or slumped against a bar in Spain) would message me and we would get into a bit of dialogue, my honest and recently taken expressionless, bordering on gormless photos, had led me to think that there was some genuine interest from the woman. What soon became apparent though was my seeming disinterest and rustiness in relationships generally and the fact that I find dating as harrowing as waterboarding. I had received an email from a women who after one message started slagging her ex off, the father of her numerous kids, I don’t mind a bit of baggage but when it comes on an airport reclaim belt, I bail. She was obviously on there to exact some sort of revenge, trust me, I'm not revenge sex, others would start talking about their inherent distrust and nice ones would usually meet someone in real life days before meeting up, lucky them, their hell was over. Eventually I struck up dialogue with a girl who seemed quite nice and we ended up exchanging phone numbers and email addresses, hers, her life ones, mine, my made up exclusively for dating website one, and my piece of shit pay as you go mobile, both of which I was ready to ditch in 30 seconds flat if the girl turned out to be Glenn Close or that woman from Misery, or indeed a chick with a dick. As it happened we had a nice date together down in Brighton and would meet up again, and eventually started going out for a few months until the frayed edges started to show and after a drunken night it became apparent that this poor lass had quite hefty psychological issues, with mine too (made apparent by this blog and my general attitude to relationships) I called it a swift day. I soon managed to meet someone off the site using a podcast I do with a mate, pure humour and hopefully some errant charm, she turned out to be possibly the one of the most confusing people I have ever met, It was a massive headfuck and days after telling me she loved me, she ended it (violins..) Anyway, I blame booze, and I was sullen like a child with its favourtite toy snatched away (her snatch) I had finally been dumped, and it wasn’t so bad after all and in fact, much better than the usual mutual fizzle out, or me hitting reverse gear and spinning out of control in the process and having to end a relationship like a dithering flaffing Hugh Grant with Parkinson’s. I decided that this experience wasn’t even worth wound licking over so got straight back onto the wretched mange riddled lame horse that is Plentyoffish. I struck up conversation with a girl who only had one picture up, a picture which made her look a bit like Anna Friel from Brookside (exciting), but nothing else, it was just her face and a black background. Again, we started talking on the phone and arranged to meet up (she sounded owt like Anna Friel), I was nervous, but in my head I was waiting for Anna Friel and was going to recreate that girl on girl kiss from Brookside but with my wang. I took a vantage point up high where we was meeting and I waited, nervous, smoking.. Eventually She came through the entrance and fuck me she kept coming through, like one of those freight trains that never ends, my drink was rattling like the glass in Jurassic Park with every thunderous step. I watched open jawed while "Jabba the Hut on ice" slinked up to the bar with all the grace of a tazered manatee. She had caught my eye already, like a cataract, so jumping out of a window was not an option. I sat with her frantically chain smoking my cigarettes in the hope of causing impotence should she try and jump me. She was a nice person inside (if you had a deep sonar scanner), but had seemingly made a keen hobby of ravaging herself with booze fags and pastries. Even my attempt to freak her out only served to make her laugh, would you sit with a man who just told you that he would film himself each morning gagging on a toothbrush eventually knitting the gags together on video editing software to recreate Paul McCartneys Frog Song?? Towards the end of the night through power drinking, I got involuntary Hubble beer goggles and the thought of going home and emptying my sprog-satchel out over her cavernous husk crossed my mind, but thankfully only in the same way as the thought of setting fire to my eyes does. One more attempt on the site, and I met someone else, we got chatting, and by strange "its a small world" bugfuckery she just so happened to work with one of my mates, who gave me a heads up and warned me that she was precious and hard work. I didn’t go on a second date. I'm not even sure I had the option. I decided that with all of the shit on there, and the fact that the site was more akin to a mental home than a dating website, just left the account running occasionally checking it. I wasn’t bothered if I met anyone else on there, or anywhere in fact, It had been a crazy few years and I was quite happy to skulk back to watching grubby avi's and rubbing away like I was trying to make a Genie appear out of my bairn-baguette. Thankfully the story ends well and through perseverance I ended up meeting the girl who I am with today (but probably not if she reads this shit) and she, like me, had similar experiences on the site. So if you are on there, or some other shit like it, stick with it, you have to kiss a lot of frogs to find a prince, or in this case, a lot of toads to catch warts. PS, if you have joined Match.com because of that "Girl on the platform ad" I kind of home you get some sort of raging STD that leaves your private bits bloated like some sort of pus Kiev. I hate that prick, and anyone who plays Ukuleles.

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"..