Dickie Does Rye/Scum

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

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

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

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

Dick does the Beer Festival.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Natures Pathetics/Champions

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Inventions - Steal and I will find and kill you.

I'm desperate to get on Dragons Den, here are a few of my inventions.

Dildlight – I'm no sexist, but I've yet to meet a woman who can lay their hands on a torch in a power cut, but, and amazingly, and probably something to do with me personally, I have never known a woman who cannot lay her hands on a significant length of latex cock, eg a dildo, fuck stick, love length, disco stick, call it what you will, now, there are two ends to this, the battery end, and the pleasure end, I have designed the Dildlight, which has a torch on the other end, which is powered by kinetic energy, so needs a punchy slogan, “hit the clit, to get well lit”, which is actually repulsive, erm, masturbate to illuminate? Better these (please) Testing will begin soon with a fluorescent tube and more than likely on my budget, my own arse hole.

Teas-maids, great invention, sadly outlawed by every single electrical safety convention on earth (and space, you cannot according to the Russian Space Agency, have one on the Mir), you can still get them on ebay, but you could always go to sleep with a flask of hot tea and a fucking alarm clock, what do you really want when you wake up (no, after blow job), a bacon fucking sandwich, unless you are a Muslim or a Jewish, in which case it couldn't be a worse start to the day (unless they woke up together??) Anyway, for lovers of all things porky, I bring you, Bac-awake (pron BAKEAWAKE), a George Foreman style grill but in the shape of a cheap plastic vacuum formed pigs head, set the timer on the snout, go to sleep, and then its “hands off snake, for bac-awake”, erm, women can use it too, but would be something like 'hands off labia for some pork ciabatta' (No) all assuming that everyone's first thought of the day is ritual masturbation of course.
So, you've woken up to the smell of cooking pork, all you need to do now (after you have established that its not you aflame), is get some ketchup, turn piggies left ear for this, and ketchup comes out of the eye. Lovely. Sleep experts have warned that it would be possible to murder your other half in anticipation of bacon, mistaking the pigs head with that of your partner, especially if she is of a larger disposition and has a flat ungainly nose and pointy ears, experts have warned that it could be possible to wake up to a cadaver, chewing lazily on their ripped out tongue with eye juice running down where you have tried to get some ketchup. A risk worth tak'on, for some morning Bacon? - One of the things that I cant quite get my head around is what happens if you have been farting all night and its trapped under the duvet, Bac-Awake comes on and you waft, will there be an explosion, not a risk I'm willing to take, perhaps it will be safer to not drink 9 Stella and eat a large kebab. I might put a methane sensor on Bac-Awake, although this will take it above my RRP of 299 sterling (325 for the deluxe model with authentic pig snort alarm).

I'd also invented Pigarettes, which was a pork based tobacco made from whats left over at the pork scratchings factory, sometimes in the morning, we are too busy for a cooked breakfast, if you were too scared to have a live cooking device next to your highly flammable memory foam bed you can smoke your swine, and seeing as smoking is not classed as eating, these may, subject to testing, be open to all faiths. They would also appeal to rebellious types as they would definitely cause cancer rather than dipping their toes in the terminal sea like normal cigs.

I went to Kew Gardens the other week, and although I never paid to get in, I noted that it would have cost $13.50 to get in (pounds, I don't have a pound sign on my computer). I also noted that the payment window was about 3ft from the ground, and came up with an idea for a tray which attaches to your chest allowing you to run, slide and glide under the eye line of the booth and get into scores of places for free, possibly football matches too. The name for this device, the cheapskate (thanks to my unwitting marketing partner for the name, her ability to come back with a cracking name for one of my inventions is both phenomenal and also reassuring as it means she is actually listening. Anyway, she doesn't want to be named, your secret is safe).

Human hemorrhoids

I'm not really a believer in destiny or fate, although some strange things have happened in my life that have pretty much shaped it and only seemed to have happened due to a bizarre set of circumstances (fate, I hear you say) no, a bizarre set of circumstances, I think I've covered that, you astrology reliant fuck funnel (sorry).

If I was to believe in fate though, I would believe that I'm fated to have to deal with all the cunts of the world, the bum feeders of life, living hemorrhoids, the ones who are put on this earth (you could say its their destiny) not to create things, make a difference, leave a mark, change something, save people, no, just simply to annoy the fuck out of others, they usually live to about 90 too, they go from annoying pedantic children, to sycophantic adults, right up to moaning old codgers. Their sole purpose in life to make the journey of my life a little bit more difficult, not that I'm important or anything (but I do believe that the whole of everything around me is of my making and the people in my life are figments of my imagination created to bring me pleasure and/or pain – I'M ONLY JOKING) Anyway, these people, these barnacles on the gooch of life, simply gravitate to me during my simple daily routine and make mundane things like traveling flick from doable, to mildly irritating, right up to, I suddenly want to scoop their face off slowly with an silver spoon (blunt). This is a tribute to you..

Supermarkets – You fucking nags who turn your trolleys sideways and natter incessantly about nothingy things, you are usually down the embarrassing isle, gobbing away to Trace or Lisa, Ohhh, I know, so I said, and then he said, and then the donkey made a noise and then he said, and I.... All I want to do is get some stool softener or anusol, and I have to navigate around you while you watch. And you at the till, pale fuck face, buying your mung beans, and bean-curd in your little life saving hemp bag, unpacking it at the till, then repacking it while all manner of poor hard working** cunts like me queue behind you waiting for your to take twice as long and paying with cash to save the <1 nano-watt needed to work the card machine. If you are so worried about the world, you could always kill yourself, your vegetarian gastric combustion's and constant trumpeting probably produce a far more harmful effect on the ozone layer than a normal eater, for when a fart is merely a fart. Please shop at non peak times with the elderly?

**employed

Public Transport – You've seen the bus a half a km away, the talking bus stop has told you in no uncertain terms that the 319 will be here in 4 minutes, you have been party to this information, but you get on, just in front of me, and then you cant find your Oyster card, you spend 8 minutes doing this, when you finally swipe it, it bleeps, because its been at the bottom of your ridiculously large bag for ages, because you probably normally drive a large people carrier and block the roads up. You then insist that its got credit on it and get into a spat about it with the driver, tutting in a cunty way, you then have to go back to your bag and fish your large purse out, you only have a 20 pound note, the driver cant take it, you argue again, meanwhile behind you, the other people waiting to get on the bus are tutting and sucking their teeth and making all manner of hand gestures to you, one of them (usually me) has sucked their teeth so hard that they have almost swallowed their tongue, another enraged passenger has sucked so hard they have imploded, and one of them has even wished full blown aids on you, I've given up and walked off, I'm so angry I could cry. I really think you are a steaming new shit, and I hope you get a visit from the Herpes fairy soon. I also want you to get hit by a bus, but not die, but bleep a lot awkwardly with your family standing round you in the hospital like some sideshow curio, you even bleep in an irritating way.

Also on buses. groups of “yoot's”, thanks for getting on my bus, while I struggle to hold my attention enough to actually finish a book, and then for talking in a broken version of Klingon, playing your crappy garage/dubstep shit out of your over the top loud mobile phones, I never say anything because I like the feeling of being unstabbed, but I want to come over and play classical music louder than your tinny shit, I also want to throw your phone out of the window and run down and river dance on it while you pull that stupid pre-knifing face because you have been “disrespected”. I feel for you because you are probably unplanned, unloved, uneducated and unemployable, I understand this, you put the C and T in UN, and you make life a tad miserable for everyone apart from your similarly unintelligible 'brethren”. You wont be reading this, because you cant.
Tube drunks, thanks for believing that everyone around you thinks what you and your dopey mates are doing is cool, wrestling, singing, swinging on things, peeing puking, snogging loudly like a wildlife programme. Anyway, I don't wish death on you, I was you once. I just want you to know there is life after this.

Morning birds, Whoopedy fucking do, its the morning, don't you get bored of singing your stupid be-beaked hearts out? Yes, its Thursday, great, bully for you, got and get a worm or something but please fuck off until about 8am, evolution, I want badly to climb to your nest and slow roast you in front of your chirping young and suck the meat off your bones with some Reggae Reggae sauce, then teach your young the virtues of silence by gluing the beaks.

Foxes – I've never liked you and today this was justified, you twin baby eating ginger, stinking, flea ridden bin bag ripping dead pet digging up, duck murdering, bum bats, you make neighbourhood watch that much harder, screaming like a gang rape because you cant get the lid off the wheely bin or you are in some dispute with another one to spray your smokey bacon smelling piss all up someones house, or a bus stop, or whatever takes your fancy for that matter. I hate huntsmen more than I hate you, so I don't really know how to deal with you?

Babies, thanks to all parents for bringing your precious screaming little should-have-been-a-wank baby into my ear space while I'm trying to zone out or relax and them merely watching them scream and crying out for something simple like a cuddle or a tit or for you to just dangle your fucking keys down for a few seconds, they will 98% be completely amazed by this, and stop, if they don't its probably meningitis and you should leave the train immediately. Thanks for doing exactly nothing to stop it, while it traverses the colour spectrum from summer poppy to light scarlet red right down to ribena berry black. It could have stopped breathing and you wouldn't notice, just standing there in an irresponsible semi insane paralysis.

Lol'ers, RAOTM, lmao's and incessant status posters or tweeters: Is there any need to exclaim that you are laughing, especially as you are not, “going to bed, LOL” - Nanna is on fire again LMAO” - Its deceit, you are not laughing, you are desperately trying to reach out to the world with your sad little life and try and fool someone into thinking you are happy, when you are actually a fucking mess and should probably go for urgent counseling and get on a course of SSRI's. Same with the incessant posters/tweeters, who are you kidding, why don't you just put the truth on a post, “I am desperately lonely and I want and need the warmth of another human being – LOL....”

People in Barbour Wax Jackets, why do you always sit next to me, you smell of hot sweat and dung?

Apart from that, I love everything and am a happy soul....xx

Bad rap edits

I've never been able to write song lyrics, I do try, but they sadly turn into fucking Pam Ayers or Richard Digence within a verse, I am passionate about things, but I just dont have the personality to sit and think someone wants to hear about me pouring my heart out about lost loves and such like. I'd much rather write something about a nan falling down the stairs.

Anyway, these are from a while back, and if you dont know the original song, then turn back, as will not make any sense...

This is to be 'rapped' to Ice Ice baby, and is about asthma.

Breathing device-vice baby (x2)
All right stop collaborate and listen
I cant even deal with my own ventilation
Something grabs a hold of me tightly
Stops the flow of air, daily and nightly
Will it ever stop yo I don't know
Turn off the lights and I'll go
To a&e and to a Doc to get a handle
My breathings all fucked its mother fucking scandal
I cant rush to the Docs waiting room
Its killing my lungs like a poisonous mushroom
Deadly when my breathing gets ahead of me
Anything less than a breath is a felony
I could probably appease by losing some weight
But I love Captain Birdseye and that captain don't play
I've got breathing problems and yo I cant devolve it
Get a prayer book while the docs try and solve it

CHORUS
Breathing device vice baby (x4)

Now that my lungs are stunting
My medications not kicked in and the pumps are pumpin'
Quick to the floor and the floor no faking
How fucking long is this ambulance taking?
Burning lungs that ain't quick and nimble

I couldnt be arsed to finish it, this is to be rapped to MC Hammers, You cant touch this, and is about kidney failure?

I can-not piss
I can-not piss
I can-not piss
I can-not piss

My, my, my, my kidneys have failed so hard
Makes me say oh my gawd
Fuck you for cursing me
With a mind to wine and two kidneys,
that are fucked, and I'm always down
A super-yellow homeboy from the Old town
And I'm known
as such
And this is a beer uh I can't touch

I told you barman, I can-not piss
Yeah, that's how I'm livin' and ya know,
On dialysis
Look in my eyes man, I can-not piss
Yo let me bust the funky machine, dialysis!

Fresh new kicks and dry pants
I've got back ache so I cannot dance
I gotta, get out of my seat
And get to hospital all discreet
Machines rollin' so hold on
Pump a little bit and let them know it's going on
Like that, like that
Urinal inhibition and confined on my back
Let 'em know I dont come out much
And this is a beer uh I can't touch

Yo I told you, can-not piss
Why you standing there man, I can-not piss
Yo sound the bell dialysis time sucker
I can-not piss

And another MC Hammer, this is to be sung to, Have you seen her..

MC Hammered - I am a cleaner
ah yeah, I'm glad I picked this mop up,
I'm just gon' cruise down the hall,
look at the shit on the floor,
and drift off into the shitty smells that I have,
of a love that my heart has been searching for,
for so long, and I know somewhere,
If I keep searching, that I'll get a proper job,
the picture grows clearer and clearer,
from the back to the front of my mind,
and like love, a love I know I'll have,
the job that I want, It'll be mine, minimum wage, and it'll last,

I see lots of faeces everywhere I go
In the shitter in the street, so i'll let you know,
(I'm a cleaner?)
I'm a cleaner?,
(stop telling me im a cleaner?)
I've got a hoover and the make is a hen-ery,
There is shit everywhere but where could it be,
(I'm a cleaner?)
I'm a cleaner?,
(tell me have you seen her?)
I'm looking for that special love,
(Gloves, oh gloves, gloves are something that you need)
Gloves are something that the Hammer definitely needs,
(to make a shine)
to make it shine,
(I need your gloves to clean it)
I need your gloves to clean it,
so why don't you shine,
the scrubbing is going on,
from coast to coast,
a women for the man, who's mopping the most,
(I'm a cleaner?)
I'm a cleaner?,

Blame Bill

Bill Tatchel was dull, probably the most outwardly dullest but inwardly frustrated 32 year old in the world, to describe how dull he was you have to go right back to the beginning, ‘Bill’, a name that sounds like the noise an unremarkable stool would make dropping into a plain white toilet in an average terraced house in Peterborough.
The only slightly redeeming feature of his name was the surname, ‘Tatchel’ which sounded like it could mean a small trendy shoulder bag that hadn’t been invented yet used for carrying documents, and a blackberry thing, and could ‘synch’ with an ipod and charge it with its solar ding dong, its £179 price tag would bring a brief moment of joy to the fashion/tech obsessed gap shopping trendy bespectacled cunt who was adorning it. It could also mean a large horses cock, or a small hamlet in Somerset, where apples grew and women carried children on the hip, while rosy cheeked men with hands like shovels drank 13% Perry straight from the trough and fought clubbing pitch battles with bare fists over silly things, with no police involvement, proper men, hairy muscular Mungo Jerry men, sparing only enough energy to go home and give the missus a swift cupping slap round the chops and send her on her way. Knowing Bill though, it probably didn’t mean anything, or even went into the negative, its meaning cancelling out a meaning for another word. Not exciting, like a similar standard of Indian name, like ‘Prabat’, or ‘Pratar’, which, although essentially were based around the word ‘pratt’, could still conjure up a more exciting image than ‘Bill’ did, Bill was like erectile dysfunction, Bill was a cold rainy day in Worthing, Bill was a lynx box set for Christmas when your Gran knows full well it gives you asthma.
It was a Tuesday, the worst day, and drizzling, poor mans monsoon, wannabe raindrops, gay rain, just enough to make you wet but an altogether irritating experience, like really average sex.
Bill’s Matalan leather coated loafer style one size too big £18 all-they- had-in-his-size shoes pounded the pavement with the slow and unenthusiastic beat of a recently widowed pensioners heart, they were probably made from BSC cattle, if they were cattle at all, probably squirrel hide, or missing Kurds, or just plain old leatherette.
Despite the unremarkable nature of Bill, and the almost suicidal greyness of this particular Tuesday, Bill, (and a small bird) were about to set off a remarkable chain of events and change the world forever, and possibly knacker it, not just EC1, where he was walking to a job interview after 10 years number crunching in the same shitty soul destroying job, but the actual whole world, even those little islands where the French did all that nuclear testing, and Magaloof, and Wales, Greenland etc, everything would change, the whole of mankind would united in their collective feeling of global fuckedupudtyness, and little would they know, it would all be the fault of gormless Bill Tatchell, who still lived with his Mum in Penge (Oh, and the small bird, that didn’t still live with its mum and flew the nest right on cue, at about 12 weeks old).

Bill tripped up the last step in Liverpool Street, nobody looked, it was a tepid trip, not worth straining neck sinew for, not like when an old person falls over, laden with Somerfield bags and shatters pelvic bones into a calcium talc, gets bruising on their whole body and dying alone in a nursing home, and eventually putting a whole family out by having to spend a perfectly good Thursday watching the old sod put into a hole in the ground while distant relatives pretend to be upset, hoping to get their grubby and ghoulish hands on that carriage clock/co-op savings, taking the clock on the antiques road-show and getting absolutely soul destroyed finding out it was worth a minus amount of money.
He moved to the crossing, just missing the sprightly looking green man, dithering before a motorcycle courier secured the next 4 minutes of Bills life standing with the drizzle dribbling all over him like a bad kiss, his life briefly being governed by a silhouetted man with a scarlet bulb behind him, big red Nazi luminous posturing cunt.
Finally, Bill crossed, tutting timidly when barged by a man whose eyes where so close together he would not look out of place in Jason and the Argonaughts, slowly making his way across the road and staring at a legal secretary whose wore a cut of clothes well about her salary, probably got a rich bloke in tow, a meal ticket, ‘slag’ he uttered, (in his mind). You would also have to be Steve Wonder in a darkened room (just in case of a miracle) and a blindfold on, to not see the sparkler on her finger too, it was like everything Elizabeth Duke at Argos had in all its range on just the one ring. Bill, who didn’t know a thing about jewelery mumbled under his breath, ‘fuck me, even bugs bunny doesn’t have that many carats, the woman, of course, never even gave poor old Bill a glance, her eyes even more distracted by a small topic wrapper that was caught in a gust and rolling across the pavement in a comedic manner, (the kind of comedy only really gifted people see, like your Uncle, the one with all them pills?), not at all like the herds of Saturday night TV cunts who find Cilla ‘lorra lorra’ Black funny and find Davina ‘shit bag’ ‘shit bag’ McCall refreshing and vibrant. Bill, as dull as he was, found Davina as refreshing as a pint of warm homeless persons piss with a foamy head and some fag butts floating in, with a used syringe for a straw that was downed in one on a hot summers day. Despite his hatred of her, he had spent many a night watching her Toucanesaque profile rocking back and forth eagerly, screeching sound bites into the mic to crowds of soulless needy gossip addicted 3G enabled phone voting reality TV obsessed viewtards, praying that a lighting rig would fall on her and not quite kill her, just enough to confine her to a wheelchair, and possibly some kind of drip and a machine that dealt with flushing her urine out in a hit and miss manner, turning her yellow occasionally, gradually poisoned by her own piss for the rest of her life, and hopefully a long life at that, Bill didn’t want her dead, he knew she had kids, why should they be without a Mum as such just because theirs was an irritating screechy she-cunt? No, he would allow them to have something they could call ‘mum’ even though she had more machinery around her than Metal Mickey giving Robocop a piggy back in PC World, and could only reply with a beep, a blink, or a special intake of breath that, in time, the children would learn to interpret as an acknowledgment, she would also be able to hear their tears reverberating in her uber-spazzed brain but would not be able to offer a hug or any comfort as she had less motor functions than a Battenberg cake, fair deal, Bill thought for parrot nosed and surely hell-bound ex coke shovelling Countess of Cunt.