Sunday, 13 March 2011


blogging's so like, last year?

fuck me, all that effort of the bloggers gone. Bwhahahahaha

Saturday, 12 March 2011


The other day I had a lift in a Jaaaag', a fackin XF super luxury or some such cuntedness donchaknow.

And the best bit? The air vents turned round, shut off and displayed a Jaguar logo when the ignition was turned off. Now, fuck me if I'm missing something, but why the fuck would they do that? you're getting out so you're not going to sit there admiring the fucker are you? And when you get in you have to wait for them to turn round again. Speechless.

If there's one thing I don't need, ever, it's a car that does that.


Yes, it's my fucking birthday soon.

And guess what my old man got me? A crown of rhubarb and a bag of compost, and I'm talking proper fucking compost.

The worst of it is, I am now a Gardener. Yes, I've hardened the fucking rhubarb off and I'm getting ready to plant it out in a week or so.

Then, I dug out a fucking shitty old rockery that had filled with weeds and cat shit, as only a rockery can. It was that solidly built I thought I was excavating a fucking pyramid, via the centre of the earth. A fucking 6" concrete foundation with broken slabs thrown into piles glued together with cryptonite.

Now, I've even seeded the bastard patch of earth with grass seed, and the worst bit, once I'd done it, purely by guessing, I looked up how to and I'd actually done it bang on. Fuck me, this gardening lark must be in my blood, passed down by the old man.

Now what worried me was not this fact, the fact that I've avoided gardening for a huge number of years, but the cunt that served me in Wilkos. I handed him a 500g bag of "luxury" grass seed and it was all the cunt could do to lift it, I kid you not. I've seen more muscle on a fucking stick insect, the cunt was useless, the draught of the fat bird in the queue nearly blew his of his fucking chair. Usual modern day future human being, trousers hanging round his arse, stupid fucking haircut greased across his pasty complexion. He tried to lift a pack of carrier bags and I thought the cunt's arm was going to break.

And I thought to myself, that skinny wanker needs the same treatment as my rhubarb, hardening off. And I don't mean in a 'hard, ffnaar way, just a quick stint in a boot camp or 5 years in a south American jail, that sort of hardening off, where he has to actually be able to lift a shank and do more than just piss someone off with it..

Gok Wan, hang your fucking greasy head in shame.

Take care, yeah?


It seems the perennial good bye was originally replaced by 'Later mate, take care' and now by the puke inducing 'Bye mate, take care, yeah?'.

Mate? Who the fuck? And the worst bit?

The stupid cunts actually expect a reply. Well, with me they fucking well get one.

"No, I won't actually. Next time I'm walking along the bridge over the Thames and see a good looking woman coming the other way I'm going to toss myself off. Or, instead of carefully avoiding crossing the road when the No.9 bus is bearing down on me at 29mph (limited) I'll step out in front of the fucker. In fact, if someone said take care to today you and you replied "I will" then you were fucking mistaken. You've just upset a complete cunt who's now going to kick you in the bollocks until you're wearing them like a pair of raisin ear rings".

Now take care ya'll.

Thursday, 30 September 2010


All this stuff on the news tonight. Banks being given money, rows of empty houses and the all usual moaning.

Look, it's fucking simple. Leprechauns, I tell ya. How lucky is is that they've got them? And Guinness. Pot 'o' gold at the end of every rainbow, so all they need to do is get the leprechauns to fetch the fucker and hand it in to save the country.

Either that, or if they won't give it voluntarily, tax the little green-hatted fuckers. Yep, simple, they're creating wealth for the country by finding pots 'o' gold so it's only fair that they pay their taxes. Let's see them doing a merry jig after getting a tax bill.

Just like the others taxed into exile (Where are you now, Leprechaun Bono?), the wealth creating leprechauns will soon fuck off. And those leprechauns whose pots of gold were found at the end of the European Bank development rainbow, well let's see how they get on now, shall we?

Tonight's prayer

Dear Lord,

Thank you for creating lesbian porn.


Wednesday, 29 September 2010

There's gold in them there hills

It's black, gold is. Isn't it?

I bought fifty kilos of the stuff today. 'Smokeless coal' it said on the thick, white polythene bags - obviously they disguise it so you can get home without getting mugged for your precious cargo. Nineteen pounds and fifty pence for two bags of coal for fuck's sake. Three-hundred-and-ninety quid a tonne.

All I have to do now is fit CCTV, security lights and get a staffordshire terrier to guard the coal store. That's if I can find a Staffordshire Terrier that isn't clamped to a baby's face of course.

Still, having received a three-hundred-and-sixty quid for a quarter gas bill last winter I'm going to persevere. I'm not sure what will burn without emitting poisonous gas into the house but I'm about to find out. Library books (in the wife's name), road kill, politicians and even the Avon Lady can fucking kiss goodbye to those silly brochures she keeps sticking through the letterbox. Fuck it, I might even invite the Jehovah's around as they should burn well with all those copies of Watchtower on board.

I did enquire about a buying a few bags of anthracite but when you get the reply "that can be hard to light unless you work at it" you have to wonder what the fuck is the point of a ten pound bag of coal that's a pisser to light. I've got some bricks out the back, maybe I should spray them black and sell them as coal. Might be a bit tricky to light but if you work at it..