Another random rant

Hello.  It's been a while.  I've done some things - saw the Foo Fighters again, that was awesome - bought some tickets to see the Foo Fighters again next year, that was awesome - got my car crashed into and had to stand in the middle of a busy London road just outside the Blackwall tunnel shouting obscenities at a PRICK, that was awesome - we've also had a family death, and a family injury, in fact, a family full stop!  Family and life sometimes get in the way of the important things.  Important things such as MOANING!


So for my first trick, I'd like to potentially alienate a whole village of readers.  Do you come from Wellow, near Bath?  Do you have children at a school in Wellow?  Are you anything to do with Wellow whatsoever?  If so, you're a stain on the gusset of society.  We had to drive through Wellow the other morning, right at fucking school run time.  I have rarely encountered such a bunch of arrogant, rude, snooty fucking TWATS as I did that morning.  Wellow is a small village, so at busy times the traffic is a problem through there, however that does not give one the right to act like a complete SHITWIPE.  Snooty wenches in their fucking wellies and 4x4s, I'M COMING THROUGH GET OUT OF MY WAY, beardy hipster men who have no ability to reverse a car and instead sit there NOT MOVING until you are forced to reverse UP A HILL AND ROUND A CORNER for about 15 car lengths because they can't be fucked to reverse two car lengths back to let you through, and then here's a great idea, let's all have our fucking MOTHER'S MEETING about where Tarquin's going to have his birthday party or who we're going to invite to Felicity's Halloween bonfire RIGHT OUTSIDE THE FUCKING PUB IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD.  Wellow - breeding ground of the absolute CUNT.


Talking of Halloween, what a load of Americanised bollocks that has become.  In my day, you used to slap on a bit of your mum's lipstick round your eyes, rip up a sheet or a binbag, put on a woolly hat and go and annoy your neighbours who would chuck a Blue Riband biscuit in your bucket.  Oh no, not nowadays.  The kids are all done up in costumes that their parents have either paid top dolla for or made themselves over the course of the last three months, and people decorate their gardens like it's fucking Christmas.   And if the kids visiting you are slightly older, and you don't give them a decent bit of loot, they egg your fucking house and then YOU are the one that gets arrested when you beat the fuck out of the little shits!  How is that fair?  And also, what's with 'candy'?  CANDY?  NO.  IT'S SWEETS.  Does your birth certificate say Beverley Hills?  No it fucking doesn't, it says Princess Margaret Hospital, Swindon, so take your CANDY and STICK IT UP YOUR PUMPKIN.


There's been a lot of talk lately about 'gender'.  Gender neutral this and that. Does it really, really matter?  There was a right hoo-haa because John Lewis decided to advertise it's kids clothes as 'gender neutral' rather than 'boys' or 'girls'.  Are they not just 'clothes'?  Bits of fabric that you put on your kids to stop them getting cold?  Does it really matter if they're pink, or blue, or green, or stripy or what is written on the label?  They're just clothes.  If you like them, buy them.  If you don't like them, don't buy them.  Don't use up all your energy on complaining to Twitter that John Lewis are twats (although, if you do, make sure you tag in the right John Lewis, some geezer in America gets all their tweets because some people can't actually read) - clothes are clothes, it's really that simple.  Cavemen didn't give a fuck whether their loincloths were labelled M or F, and they got on just fine!  At the risk of sounding like a massive cliché, we really must stop sweating about the small stuff in life.  If people weren't getting so worked up about insignificant shit like this, we'd all be a lot happier and healthier in my opinion.


I saw a lady of ample proportions come out of Gregg's the other day, wearing a vest top, and her almost entire LARGE TIT was hanging out of the top of her vest, you could see the nip and everything.  Put me right off my Steak Bake.  (And no, it wasn't my own reflection in the window of Poundland, you wankers!)


So adverts are still pissing me off.  Who on earth thought that using cartoon characters would make you take out a mortgage with the Halifax?  I couldn't give two FLYING FUCKS if Top Cat has shacked up with Officer Dibble, in fact, if it's true, somebody needs to call his superior officer as I'm sure that's fucking illegal.  And the cast of Scooby Doo, what's that all about?  They always, WITHOUT FUCKING EXCEPTION, failed to realise until the very last minute, that the villain was THE MOST OBVIOUS SUSPECT.  If they can't even detect the obvious perpetrator of the heinous crime of wearing a spooky mask in a derelict museum, then like FUCK am I giving them 700 quid a month for a two bed new build on Paxcroft Mead.  Also this - and I may have mentioned this before - adverts for jam rags.  NO WOMAN EVER IN THEIR LIFE HAS HAD A HAPPY PERIOD. The end.


This week at work I had the following email conversation with a stupid person:
Me - Hello Bob (not his real name) - thanks for emailing me this invoice, but it's not for us.
Bob - Hello - oh, really sorry, my mistake, I'll send it to the right person.
Me - No problem at all!
(Literally ten minutes later)
Bob - Hello - please can you pay the attached invoice?
Me - Hello - Bob, it's the same invoice that you sent before, it's not for us.
Bob - Oh.  Please could you send it to me so I can look into this?
Me (in my own mind - uh, YOU JUST SENT IT TO ME ON AN EMAIL, SO YOU HAVE IT ALREADY) Yes, here it is.
Bob - thanks, I'll check this out and let you know the outcome.
Me (in my own mind - I CAN TELL YOU WHAT THE FUCKING OUTCOME IS, THE OUTCOME IS I'M NOT PAYING IT) Ok, thanks.


I am fat.  So I'm on another diet.  This involves buying lots of lovely health items, like fat free yoghurts, sugar free jelly, lettuces etc etc.  While emptying out my fridge to make room for these culinary delights, I came across a load of sugar free jellies from my last diet that had gone out of date.  Quite a while out of date.  In fact, as the fridge opened, my eyes started watering, the skin on my face started to melt, alarms started sounding and somebody reported me to Environmental Health.  Next thing I know, NASA has surrounded my house, with people in white boiler suits and big-ass vans, just like that scene out of ET when they're trying to squirrel him away to their underground lair to do experiments on him, except this time, there were no teenage boys on BMXs to come to my rescue.  But, then I realised, THIS IS HOW DIETS WORK.  You buy a load of shitty, healthy food, you leave it in your fridge for ALL ETERNITY, and then you eat it!  You will then be shitting your actual ring out for the next week and lose half your body weight!  I really think this time it's going to work!

This is just a massive rant

Well, it's been a while.  What a lovely few weeks of weather it's been, which has meant for the most part, when I've arrived home from work, I've stripped off to my underpants and melted into a blob of beef dripping in the armchair until it was time for bed, I just haven't had the energy to do anything.  Also, the old man has not been very well - he was confined to bed and unable to even get up for a crap after catching leprosy of the knee, and thus all our holiday plans were thrown into the air, more of which later.  This also meant that I had to let two doctors and two nurses into the house, the house which has won the annual Mr Trebus Shithole Award for the last 9 years running. So that was a bit embarrassing.  I just laughed nervously and gabbled on like a twat to make them think I'm a bit mental....oh wait.......


Anyway, first, I have to get this off my chest.  Yes, I know everyone is fed up of Trump, but honestly, really?  So these poor people in America have had a hurricane, and they really need help to sort themselves out.  So what does he do?  Him and his gold digger wife rock up in their fucking ridiculous baseball caps (hers said FLOTUS - really?  Float-us?  Taking the piss, no?)  and he's all like 'oh wow, look at the turnout, look at all these people out here come to see me' - uh, no, you ABSOLUTE FUCKING CITRUS WINDBAG, they're all outside because THEIR FUCKING HOUSES HAVE BLOWN AWAY, YOU COLOSSAL FUCKING TURDGAP.  These people have lost their homes, their livelihoods, in some cases their families, the last thing they need is this total fucking clown with his face like a deflated spacehopper gurning at them and saying how great everyone is doing.  AMERICA - WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING?


We were supposed to go to Silverstone for five days of MotoGP fun last month - this year we'd decided we would go an extra day, pay for spangly tickets to get in the paddock and have the chance to meet the top riders etc, however as my luck would fucking have it, the old man got struck down with this knee lergy (CPPD, or Calcium Pyrophosphate Deposition disease for those medical experts amongst you).  It's basically a bit like gout but not gout.  Anyway, the long and the short was he couldn't even get out of bed, he was in absolute agony, and our trip was mostly ruined.  What a selfish bastard.  We were supposed to go on the Wednesday, however after lots of different drugs, including finding a secret stash of Diazepam in the back of the drawer, by the Friday he was mobile enough to walk a short way, so we booked a last minute room at the Hotel Paradiso in nearby Milton Keynes, and up we got very early on the Saturday morning and salvaged two days of racing, despite him still being in considerable pain.  Now, I understand that it was nobody's fault that we couldn't go for the whole time, and we lost our money on the special paddock day tickets and the camping charge, but we'd still paid around £240 for the Saturday and Sunday tickets, so imagine my absolute fucking RAGE when we got there to discover that they also expected me to pay TWENTY QUID to park on the Saturday, and then another THIRTY QUID to park on the Sunday.  Very cleverly, they didn't publicise the price of the parking (except on their website, which I didn't look at) until you've parked and walked to the entrance, where a sign tells you to ring up the thieving sharks and pay over the phone.  Well FUCK THAT, I thought.  So I didn't.  And inevitably when we got back to the car on Saturday afternoon, I had a parking ticket, for twenty quid.  The same price as the parking.  We went back on Sunday, I didn't pay again, and I had another parking ticket, this time for thirty quid.  So for not paying for parking, they've just charged me the same as what the parking cost.  So it was worth the risk of not getting a ticket if you see what I mean.  Anyway, this rather garbled and lengthy rant leads me to my point, that is, these robbing fucking TWATS made enough money out of us that weekend, including food and buying t-shirts etc we spent in excess of £600 (not including the hotel, which was another £130 but that didn't get into Silverstone/Dorna's very deep pockets), so to charge that extortionate amount for parking is DAYLIGHT FUCKING ROBBERY, I felt like I'd been fisted by Dick fucking Turpin!  Sort it out you GREEDY BASTARDS!  It doesn't take Stephen Hawking to work out that if it was a little bit cheaper, more people would come, and you'd make more money in the end!


I know I've mentioned this before, but it is becoming more and more prevalent on the telly, and in turn is making me more and more ANNOYED.  These bloody adverts that use old songs sung in a breathy, slow fashion - but oh no, that's not good enough for Fairy Fucking Washing Liquid or whatever the shit is - no, they have to do it with nursery rhymes now - Heads, Shoulders, Knees and Toes, not sung by a bunch of little cute kids, but by a woman who sounds like she's just been dumped and is about to jump in front of the 1745 from Paddington.  IT'S SO FUCKING ANNOYING!  I mute it whenever it comes on and I will never buy Fairy Washing Liquid again (unless it's on special offer).  And when I find out which pony-tailed, bum-fluffed advertising TWAT is behind this campaign, I'm going to fire a crossbow into his head, shoulders, knees and bollocks, knees and bollocks.


We've been following the latest series of 999 What's Your Emergency quite keenly, as it's following Wiltshire Police (which is where I live, stalking fans).  We like to keep an eye out to see if we know any of the total bad-asses that find themselves on the wrong side of Hot Fuzz.  Because there is mostly fuck all else on telly, we've also been watching all of these other shows like Police Interceptors, basically because we like shouting at the telly 'FUCKING HIT HIM WITH YOUR TRUNCHEON THE SCUMMY LITTLE SHIT' a lot.  But, you will not be surprised to learn, that it WINDS ME THE FUCK UP.  These double-hard little gangster wannabes that think it's fun to drive while banned, or with no insurance etc, in their pimped up Micras, giving it all the 'I ain't dun nuffink', they all need a fucking good hiding or a spell in H Block with Knuckles and Big Ron - but no, what do they get?  ANOTHER FUCKING DRIVING BAN.  What in fuck's name is the point of that? These little ratboys don't give a shit if they're banned, that's why YOU'VE JUST CAUGHT THEM DRIVING WHILST BANNED.  So why does our judicial system feel the need to give them another ban and a shitty little fine, that they will pay at a pound a week out of their jobseekers i.e. MY FUCKING POCKET?  They need to be hit where it's going to hurt them and possibly make them think twice about doing it again - a decent spell in the nick, and then in lieu of a fine take away their 50 inch telly, iPhone and X Box, and put their Micra in the crusher.  And yes, I know prisons are overcrowded, so here's the solution - bring back the death penalty.  That would free up some space if we fried murderers and paedophiles, and there'd be enough room for all these little badmen to be housed for a year at Her Majesty's pleasure (and Big Ron's).


Well, that escalated quickly, didn't it!

Balls to surgery!

Hello there.  Well, another month has gone by and now it's nearly August, doesn't time fly when you're working your bollocks off just to give it all to MasterCard and Halifax.  We had a nice week away on holiday in Cornwall, when the weather was mostly good (apart from one whole day of spectacular thunderstorms) and I nearly had a coronary walking up Tintagel Castle.  Let me tell you this - when you see two fatties halfway up a steep flight of stone steps looking out across the sea, they are only PRETENDING to look at the nice view while they are actually trying their best not to vomit from exertion.  Not only was I surprised by the number of steps (that we only noticed AFTER we'd paid), but I was also surprised by the number of GERMANS wandering around in their shorts and sensible hiking boots.  What is it about King Arthur that attracts Germans?  I have nothing against Germans, in fact I don't know any Germans, and I'm sure they're all jolly nice people (apart from that one guy).  I didn't take German at school, so I didn't understand anything any of them were saying, which is probably a good job as no doubt it was 'look at ze two Inglish fatties trying to climb up ze steps in zeir unsuitable footvear'.  Hmmm.  Hiking boots and shorts didn't win you the war though, did it, Herr Flick?


Is there anything more FUCKING ANNOYING than that Ribena advert? Zoobydoo zoobydoo zoobydoo, stick your fucking zooby right up your doo.  I can see it now, a load of topknot tosspot advertising bellends sat round a table with their skinny lattes and bumfluff beards and names like Sebastian and Barnaby, 'Right, come on guys, let's throw some ideas around' and the best, the absolute fucking BEST they could come up with was the most irritating jingle in the world, even more irritating than I Know A Song That Will Get On Your Nerves.  Every time it comes on, the old man starts singing it, and giving me the eye, it's like he WANTS me to punch him square in the cock.  And Ribena is well dodgy anyway, a few years ago, I bought a bottle of the ready to drink stuff, and when I got to work opened it up and took a massive swig, only to gulp down a mouthful of what tasted like strong bleach.  I proceeded to try not to throw up all over my desk, and on investigation, there was a huge lump of actual MOULD in the bottle, and I'd just drank it!  What the fuck! I'm going to die!  I took it back to (where else) Tesco, who sent it off to Zoobydoo Headquarters, who eventually wrote back to me to tell me that they'd investigated and it appears there was a great big lump of mould in the bottle.....uh, no fucking shit Dr Watson, I told you that!  And how kind, they'd enclosed some vouchers for me to buy.....MORE RIBENA. Absolute purple faced CLAMS, I tell you.


This week's comedy car singalong on the Devon Expressway, starring Coolio -
'Been spending most our lives, combing through our pubes and finding lice' (yeh, yeh, nobody said this was going to be a MATURE blog, did they?)


This conversation happened sometime over the last few weeks -
Him - 'How's your minge, still wetting yourself every time you sneeze?'
Me - 'Actually, it's much better, in fact my pants are pristine.'
Him - 'Pissed in, more like.'


I went and saw the film 'Dunkirk' on Friday.  It was very good - powerful and moving and quite shocking too, and I learnt stuff which is always a bonus.  My predominant reason for seeing it is that I want to bone Harry Styles, who, by the way, looked SUPER FINE in it, however the old man is a big fan of World War 2 stuff, so I used that against him -
Me - 'Hey love, I know it's not my thing but if you want to go and see that film tonight, I don't mind coming I suppose.' (hehe, he'll never realise that I only want to go because it's got Harry in it)
Him - 'You only want to go because it's got that dickhead Styles in it.'
Damn.


Vorderman.  Carol Vorderman.  What have you done to your face?  She's in the paper this week because she has done a skydive.  There's pictures of her falling through the air at 459 miles per hour, and her face has gone all stretchy and weird, like when you stand in a wind tunnel or blow your cheeks up against a window.  And then there's pictures of her afterwards, and her face looks EXACTLY THE SAME.  Why, WHY do these women do this to themselves?  I have NEVER seen anybody that has had facial surgery that looks better than they did before (with the probable exception of that woman that got her face eaten by a chimpanzee).  Blokes do it too, sadly, because in my opinion most men get better with age.  I defy you to look at before and after pictures of Renee Zellweger, Mickey Rourke, Meg Ryan, Leslie Ash, Donatella Versace, Shane Warne, Nicole Kidman, Barry Manilow, John Travolta, David Gest, SHALL I GO ON!  They all look worse than before!  Why can't we all just be happy with what we're given?  In the grand scheme of things, it doesn't matter if you have wrinkles, or a bumpy nose, or tiny tits - CELEBRATE YOURSELF AS UNIQUE!  Now I do admire Vorderman for doing a skydive, she's obviously got massive balls - but if she continues with the facelifts, those balls will end up on her chin!

In my last blog I moaned about putting the heating on in June......

JESUS CHRIST!  WHO MOVED MY HOUSE TO SATAN'S BUMHOLE WITHOUT TELLING ME! IT'S FUCKING HOT!  I HAVE CANKLES!  I'M SWEATING LIKE MICHAEL BARRYMORE IN A BROOM HANDLE SHOP!  IT'S MOIST ENOUGH TO GROW CRESS IN MY GUNT! (Google it, kids).  You have to have your windows open in this weather, and that of course lets the flies in.  Now, just because I live in the vague vicinity of Salisbury Plain, does that mean that the local houseflies have to be the size of fucking Apache helicopters flying round my lounge?  I have become a Death Ninja with the fly swatter, and I even swatted one the other day in mid air so hard that it splatted against the opposite wall.  Don't fuck with me, you buzzing little bastards, because YOU WON'T WIN.


Right, that's the weather talk done. Let's get on to some moaning.


Recently, it was Pippa Middleton's wedding. WHO?, I hear you cry, and you might well ask.  Pippa Middleton is Princess Katie's sister, the one who's ass was all over the Royal Wedding pictures.  Now, I can understand her being in a few photos then, but we are now a few years down the line, Wills and Katie have been married enough years for Wills to call Katie 'Old Dyson' (doesn't suck anymore), so nowadays who gives ONE SINGLE FUCK about Pippa and her ass?  Why was her wedding all over the papers?  Every day?  For fucking weeks?  It is NOT NEWS.   It is BOLLOCKS.  She didn't even marry anyone remotely famous.  The BEST thing that happened that day is that Katie was caught giving little George a bollocking behind a bush because he picked his nose in the official picture or something.  Reminds me of the time one of my cousins trod in a dog turd at a family wedding just as he was on his way into church.  I may have remembered this wrong (but never mind if I have, it's still funny) but I think my auntie made him take his shitty shoe off and wrapped it up in tissue and put it in her handbag for the duration of the service.  Let's hope she didn't get mugged on the way home, those bag-snatchers would have been in for a brown surprise when rooting through their ill-gotten gains!  Anyway, I digress - the point is, any old fucking NO-MARK like Pippa can get themselves in the papers these days, and all you have to do is get your sister to bone the future king.  Simple.


Things that annoy me #942 - twats that limp like a bad man.  You don't look like a bad man, you just look like you've got a particularly irritating verruca.  Walk properly you absolutely fucking CHEESE-GLANDS. And while you're at it, stop talking like you're from The Bronx because you're not, you're from Dilton Fucking Marsh, and pull your fucking trousers up - I may have mentioned this before, but some years ago, there was a particularly funny story in the local paper about a total SADDLE-SNIFFER that had his trousers drooping round his ass like he was Snoopy Dogg Dogg, tripped over them, went down like a sack of shit and sustained a severe head injury on the pavement.  I obviously wouldn't normally laugh at someone that has sustained a severe head injury, but in this instance I will make an exception. AHH HAHAHAHAHHAA YOU MASSIVE NOB.  And he was probably more intelligent after the injury than before.


Saw Guns N Roses last week in London, they were AWESOME.   They were either going to be shit or fabulous, and they were fabulous.   We rocked for nearly three hours on a gloriously sunny day, to all the good old favourites and a couple of shit ones too.  Well worth the FOUR HUNDRED FUCKING QUID it cost for four tickets. Plus 30 quid for a T shirt.  Plus FIVE POUND FUCKING FIFTY A PINT.  We dug out our old Guns N Roses tickets from Wembley in 1992 - 23 quid!  Bargain! And we spoke to some kids who weren't even born in 1992!  In fact I have a GNR T shirt that is older than them!  Time is flying by so quickly - when did I suddenly become a nearly 44 year old porky old bag reliving her youth by relishing the opportunity to shout/sing 'WHY DON'T YOU JUST.........FUCK OFF!' really loudly along with 80 thousand other sweaty drunken buffoons?  And that's exactly why I did spend silly money on the experience - because time flies and before you know it you're sat in a pile of your own excretia in the Sunnydale Home For The Terminally Incontinent - so enjoy yourself while you can!


So - fidget spinners.  What's that all about?  Apparently they're for people that fidget.  Here's a novel idea - KEEP THE FUCK STILL.  Kids fidget.  It's what they do.  We're too mollycoddling of kids these days.  If I was fidgeting, my dad would just shout 'KEEP STILL!' and I would! For a minute at least.  He wouldn't say 'ooo poor child keeps fidgeting, let's buy her the latest crappy fad to try and help her release all that pent up energy'.  He'd say 'BUGGER OFF OUTSIDE AND PLAY'.  Which is why I blame him for me being a fat, lazy bitch now.  Because I used up all my energy when I was a kid and now I have no energy left to do anything except sit here and moan.  If only he'd bought me a fidget spinner, I'd be nice and fit and thin wouldn't be growing mildew in my underboob in this FUCKING WEATHER!


Finally, today's Top Tip - OLD PEOPLE, TAKE YOUR FUCKING COATS OFF!

Wankers and wanking

Heating on?  In fucking June?  Get to fuck!


Hello readers!  Well, what a fun-packed couple of weeks I'm having - went to see Jimmy Carr (very funny), then went to see Iron Maiden (very loud), then went to the Superbikes (also loud) - going to see Robbie Williams tomorrow and Guns N Roses next week!  Ooo get me!


I'm not going to get all political, as I'm sure we've all heard enough of that bollocks over the last few weeks, and there's plenty more to come.  We went to see Iron Maiden two days after the despicable attack aimed at predominantly young people in Manchester, and that coupled with the latest incident in London over the weekend has made me feel slightly wary.  Of course we should try and continue our lives the best we can, and be defiant in the face of these absolutely CUNTISH cowards, but a small part of me says have a bit of common sense and perhaps don't put myself in a situation that could be a target for this minority of total DICKWADS who think that creating a climate of fear is the way to get what they want (I don't even know what it is they want?).  Anyhow - I'm going, and if I get my ass blown up, then at least I'll have been doing what I do best - ROCKING!


Have you ever been in an Apple store?  My advise is don't fucking bother.  The iPad shit its pants a couple of months ago, barely weeks past it's year's warranty (I swear they program these things to go wrong on the stroke of midnight on the date your warranty runs out).  After trying everything we could find on Google to fix it, I took the frankly IDIOTIC decision to ring and make an appointment at the Apple store, which is ten miles away in Bath.  I made the appointment for a Saturday afternoon, and persuaded the old man that if he lowered himself to go on the train with plebs, it meant we could go and have a few pints in Bath, so he readily agreed.  Anyhow, made the appointment for 3.30pm, and they said 'get there 15 mins early so we can take all your details' (even though I'd given all my fucking details when I made the appointment, but whatever).  So we got there at 3.15 (after a bottle of very expensive beer in a very expensive bar), registered our presence with an annoyingly thin and chirpy girl, and sat down to wait for assistance.  The Apple store - what an absolutely soulless pit of despair.  Accessories and tabletty things are on display around the edge of the large room, and banks of tablets in the middle, and about 427 staff all done up in their lovely t-shirts, skinny jeans, quiffs, beards and daps - most of them doing ABSOLUTELY FUCK ALL BUT STANDING AROUND.  So we waited for 3.30, that came and went, still with these absolute fucking HIPPIES standing around trying to look clever, until eventually we were attended to by a young man who was a trainee.....hoo fucking ray, YTS at it's best (google YTS from the 80s, younger readers).  Anyway, they took the iPad, came back about two minutes later, and said 'yeh it's fucked' (they didn't actually say that but you know) so we said 'well fix it then please' and they said 'we can't, but we can replace it for 250 pounds'.  YOU FUCKING WHAT?  We paid over 400 quid for something that has gone wrong barely minutes after it's warranty expired and you want us to pay ANOTHER 250 QUID for you to give us another one (and not even a new one, one that has gone wrong previously and been fixed).  And that was that, they weren't prepared to help at all, so Apple can fuck off and we bought a Samsung, and I can tell you this too, when my iPhone expires they can shove that up their skinny-jeaned asses and I'll buy a Nokia fucking 3210. And I'll have more fun playing Snake on the bog!


Unfortunately that was not the end of my customer service woes.  Being the dirty old slag that I am, I have two children by SHOCK two different fathers.  Both fathers no longer have the pleasure of my company, therefore I was forced to make maintenance claims through the CSA for both of them.  The other day, they rang me up about the claim for my eldest child (who is actually 23 but they've only managed to start getting maintenance out of the useless twat in the last couple of years).  They said 'we're ringing you to tell you we have to close your case as we're transferring to a new system, the CMA, and we're checking that you still want us to chase the £4000 you're owed for Child A under a new case'.  Sorry?  Uh, what do you think?  NO, I'm so fucking rich that you know what, who needs four grand, tell him to keep it and have a few beers on me!  OF COURSE I WANT YOU TO CHASE IT YOU TOTAL BUFFOONS. And I suppose it will take you another 23 fucking years to get it as well!  By the time I get what I'm owed, I'll be dead and you'll be lucky if four grand will buy you a pint of milk and a packet of Jammy Dodgers.  Anyway, you'll never believe, but the SAME DAY, I got home to a letter from the CSA about Child B!  Which surprised me somewhat as I closed that case last summer when she left college - he's all paid up and owes me nothing and I never have to speak to him again in my life, which is great.  But the CSA wrote to me to say 'thanks for your claim and Mr X owes you this much'. What?  I HAVEN'T EVEN MADE A CLAIM YOU MONKEYS.  So I rang them up and spoke to an Irishman called Connor, who was the singularly most unhelpful human being I have ever had the misfortune to deal with.  I gave him all my details, including the size and colour of my pants, and explained that they have made a mistake as I have not made any new claim about Child B, but because I closed the old claim nearly a year ago, and had had no reason to phone them, I could not remember the password on my details (didn't even know there was one to be honest) so Connor said 'sorry you've failed security I can't help you'.  I patiently explained why I couldn't remember the password however Connor had suddenly turned into a robot who's batteries were clearly failing - 'sorry you've failed security, I can't help you' 'yes but...' 'sorry you've failed security I can't help you' 'yes but Connor..' 'sorry you've failed security I can't help you'.  What a complete wanker.  By this time there was steam coming out of all orifices, so I said 'Ok Connor, let me speak to someone who can help me then' - you guessed it 'sorry you've failed security so you can't speak to anyone' 'JUST GET ME A MANAGER PLEASE' 'there is no managers' 'I DON'T BELIEVE YOU CONNOR' 'ok hold on' CLICK BURRRRRRR - the spotty fucking scrote hung up on me.  Oh dear.  I rang back.  I spoke to a man called David - who was the loveliest man in the world, reset my security with a couple of simple questions and sorted out the problem there and then, admitting they'd made a mistake and apologising that Connor had been such a twat.  So Connor, from the Child Maintenance Service - you're a prick, and I hope you catch syphilis. And the moral of this story is - don't have children.


Things that annoy me #783 - those little gnat things that start flying round your windscreen when you're driving down Bradley Road, and they make you flap your arms around trying to get them out the way while you're driving and your arms are flapping all over the place so that you look like you're Vogueing or waving to random strangers.  Twats.


Urine update - last weekend we went to Donington for the World Superbikes weekend, very fun and the rain held off, which made a nice change.  Anyway, at the end of the day, we packed away our camping chairs, and trudged up to the bogs.  I put my chair down, took off my rucksack, turned round to walk to the toilet and went absofuckinglutely flying over my chair, down like a sack of shit.  The old man stood there and said 'you clumsy woman' while a young man rushed over 'are you all right love, shall I help?'  'No no, I'm fine, thank you, just being a clumsy twat' I laughed, but the truth was, readers, I didn't want his help because in the trauma and shock of the fall, I let out some wee.  WHY?  WHY DOES THIS HAPPEN?  WHY DID I HAVE TO HAVE LARGE CHILDREN THAT RUINED ME FROM THE WAIST DOWN? I had to walk back to the car with my hoodie tied round my waist so nobody noticed the Moist Gusset of Shame. 


Guess who had this conversation -
'I've eaten a whole pack of mini scotch eggs'
'Well no wonder you're getting spots eating all that sausage'
'What's sausage got to do with scotch eggs?'
Fucksake.


Last month saw the premature demise of Chris Cornell, lead singer of Soundgarden and Audioslave.  This stemmed a conversation at work speculating on the cause of his death, and one suggestion was that he may have done a Michael Hutchence (allegedly) and perished from a stranglewank.  Now, I'm not being funny, but, if I was a man, and I had a cock, and I was having a wank, the very LAST thing I'd think was 'hmmmm, I know what will make this more fun - hanging myself from the rafters with a crocodile skin belt'.  There's been a couple of high profile deaths of this type - the actor David Carradine (allegedly) and Conservative MP Stephen Milligan (allegedly).  Now, if you ask me, Milligan had it right, because not only did he die whilst giving himself a tug, but he was also eating an orange!  And any pastime that involves food is all right with me!


Lastly, this conversation happened between me and the old man - 
Him - 'My T-shirt has shrunk in the wash.  If only my belly would shrink every time I washed it'.
Me - 'I bet your cock is really clean.'

What a good egg!

Well good evening viewers!  And what a moist week it's been.  And I'm not talking about the weather either.  The inevitable happened yesterday.  I was chopping up some peppers to go in the salad (me and the old man both stood on the scales at the weekend, and we are so fat the scales actually said out loud 'FUCK THAT YOU TUBBY CUNTS, I'M OFF' and legged it out the back door, so we are now both on a health kick, and if I never see another fucking lettuce in my lifetime it will be too soon), so there I was chopping away thinking to myself, 'I bet that sneaky kid of mine will come down and try and scare me, well I'm WAY ahead of her, she'll never get me' and within 3 NANO-SECONDS of me thinking that, she MumRah-ed me from behind, well I jumped out of my fucking skin, screamed like a girl and promptly pissed myself from fright.  Genuinely soiled my underpants, had to go and change my soggy joggers (soggers, if you will) while she stood in the kitchen laughing her tits off.  BITCH.  Why oh why, when God or whoever did it, why did they make a woman's bladder her fright-sensor?  Why couldn't he have just made her hair stand on end when she is startled?  Proves that God or whoever it was is a fucking man.  BASTARD.


I'm going to see Guns and Roses in a few weeks, so I really, really hope I can stop singing 'Welcome George and Bungle' instead of 'Welcome to the Jungle' or I'm going to look a right TWAT in that moshpit.


I had the sad task of buying a sympathy card this week, popped in Tesco's (where else?) and perused the cheesy selection of sickly verse.  Well, I TRIED to peruse the cheesy selection of sickly verse, but I couldn't, because there was a couple stood there looking at the cards themselves, for quite some time, in fact FUCKING AGES.  I tried to make it obvious that I'd quite like to look at the cards too, in fact it couldn't have been more obvious if I'd shouted GET OUT OF THE FUCKING WAY YOU DAWDLING BUFFOONS, but they stood there for a fucking lifetime, so long in fact, that I thought if I wait here any longer I'm going to fucking die myself and you'll be buying ME a card, so I stalked off to the multi-pack crisp aisle instead.  I haven't got time to fuck around when there's FRAZZLES to be eaten, you know.


Guess who thought a kebab was an actual animal, like with legs and a tail and everything?  That's right, my kid.


Adverts that are wrong - 'McDonalds - enjoy a 99p cheeseburger' - YOU WHAT?  Are you taking the piss?  I will not enjoy a 99p cheeseburger - at 99p I will enjoy FIVE, thank you very much!
Things in the news that have pissed me off this week - a total JIZZTUBE of a woman complained to the Google Streetview thing because the Google car took a picture of her house as it whizzed by, and her kids were in the garden in the paddling pool naked.  Now, this might just be me, right, but she wasn't that bothered about her kids running around naked in her front garden for all the neighbourhood weirdos to look at, was she?  But when there's a chance to get her fucking thick mug in the papers, oh yes let's grasp that with both chavvy hands, shall we!  Let's be honest - parenting isn't really that hard - and I don't mean the sleepless nights and the constant worry that little Tarquin will get in with the wrong crowd and shank his Geography teacher, or darling Chardonnay will come home at age 14 tubbed up with twins by the local skag-merchant - those things ARE hard and I would never dismiss them.  What I mean is the basic common-sense parenting stuff - don't leave your baby in the bath while you get pissed, don't give them a can of lighter fluid and box of matches to play with, DON'T LET THEM RUN AROUND THE NEIGHBOURHOOD IN THE BUFF, thicko!  Give it a few years and she'll be sending them to the Henri Paul School of Driving (ooooosh, too soon?)!


Finally, in a few short hours, my smallest and most annoying child leaves her teenage years behind her and turns 20.  I cannot quite believe how quickly the time has gone by, it seems like only yesterday I was growling at the grumpy midwife 'HAVE YOU HAD ANY FUCKING KIDS?' (in my defence I was off by tits on gas and air) to which she replied 'Yes, three actually', and then once the blotchy little bundle of shit and puke arrived, I was sat in the back of the car with her trying to think of a suitably stupid name (one that she then spent the next ten years fucking MOANING about because she could never find a keyring with her name on).  And now, in a flash, she's an adult - driving, working and going out on the piss and coming home in the middle of the night, falling asleep on the kitchen floor and then vomiting in a glass because she can't be bothered to move.  I'm a proud mum.  Happy Birthday Egg!

Piss, Quorn and Childline

Hello there.  Sorry for the lack of blog the last few weeks.  I was on holiday, and then I wasn't feeling very well.  I'm on some tablets that make me feel really shitty and tired in the evenings, and I just haven't had the mojo to do much.  But worry not, for I have still been saving up things to rant write about.


Now, I'm not proud, I'll tell you what the tablets are for.  They are to try and stop me constantly pissing my pants every time I breathe.  This happens to lots of ladies, especially those who have shelled out a few 9 pounders in their time, and ended up with a flange like the top of a fat man's welly.  I sneeze, I piss - I laugh, I piss - I cough, I piss - you get the soggy picture.  I was, quite frankly, sceptical that these tablets would work, and thought I might end up having to have that surgery where they mutilate your flaps with a bit of wire fencing, but so far so good, I haven't dribbled for a month.  Until today........


So I saw this funny guy on Twitter, he films himself scaring the shit out of his mum by doing the MumRah at her when she's least expecting it (MumRah, for those who are wondering, is when you go up to your Mum and shout RAAAAAHHHHH at her really loudly when she's innocently peeling the spuds or knitting).  So I thought it would be really funny to do it to the kid, as she's always making me jump when I'm doing the dishes listening to Simon Mayo and singing along to Harry Styles Iron Maiden.  So she was making her tea earlier, so I set the video running on my phone, snuck round the corner and went AAAARRRRRGHGHGHGHGHGHGHGHGHGGGGGGGHHHHHH at the top of my voice!  Hilarious!  Except she didn't even flinch.  She just gave me a look of pure disdain and said 'Why?'.  My plan had backfired.  Spectacularly, in fact, as not only did she not jump, but I pissed myself, not through laughter, but through the sheer exertion of shouting REALLY FUCKING LOUDLY.  So off upstairs I trotted to change my pants, and the pissy joke was on me.


Has anyone seen that Quorn advert?  The one where the bird has been working late, gets home and her boyfriend has cooked her a 'lovely' Quorn spaghetti bolognese?  Let me be absolutely clear, potential boyfriends - if I worked my bollocks off and came home late, and you'd cooked me a 'lovely' spaghetti bolognese made out of bits of brown polystyrene, I'd fuck off back to work, do I make myself understood?  I'm not dissing off vegetarians, in fact I love them, for the most part because it means there are more great big fucking meaty burgers for me to eat - but please, Quorn?  And why would a vegetarian want to eat fake meat anyway?  Surely the clue is in the word 'vegetarian'?  Perhaps I will start to eat carrots made out of Peperami.


This week's mis-sung lyrics - The Cranberries
'You know I'm such a fool for you
You've got me wrapped around your finger ah ah ah
Do you have to
Do you have to
Do you have to smell my finger'
(I know there's two fingers in that, but hey, why change the habit of my lifetime?)


Anyway, we went on our hols to the seaside, and a mostly pleasant week it was.  Where we go on hols isn't really hols, as we stay with family and we go there loads of times a year, so we're not like actual annoying tourists, but we still sat in the sun on the front drinking cider and watched all the annoying holiday urchins go by.  The small town where we go is not really built for cars and they have to really squeeze their way through the very narrow main street, which is always pretty busy with pedestrians at holiday season, and it's always amusing to hear the tourists complaining (in the regional accent of your choice) 'oh Derek, they should make this bit pedestrianised to stop the cars getting in our way'.  Yes.  That's right, you absolute fucking CHEESE-BISCUIT, let's pedestrianise a 100s of years old fishing town just so you don't have to manoeuvre your big, fat, pasty-filled ass on to a path to let a car go by.  BELLEND.  Anyway, while we were sat having a moan, we heard this approaching 'squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak', just like a dog's toy, but we couldn't work out where it was coming from.  Then it became clear.  A toddler was, uh, toddling along towards us, and his parents, in their wisdom, had bought him novelty squeaky shoes, so every step he took sounded like a Jack Russell humping a squeaky bone.  But the kid seemed happy enough, so I thought 'fair enough, no need to report them to Childline' - how wrong could I be?  The toddler was toddling along, and his mum called out to him - get ready for this - I shit you not, absolutely 100% genuine truth - his mum called out 'Elvis, wait for Mummy'.  Elvis.  ARE YOU FUCKING SHITTING ME?  Now to my knowledge this kid did not have a quiff, a schoolgirl wife, or a monstrous cocaine habit - however what he will have when he starts school is a big target on his back saying 'KICK ME'.  Parents can be right cunts sometimes, and I now have Esther Rantzen on speed dial.

Nothing in this life is guaranteed except death and dickheads

Hello there.  This week, I was ranting about something in the Daily Shitrag, and my kid said 'why do you read it if it's full of shit?'.  Well, let me tell you.  I read it because it's so literally full of shit, that I sometimes cannot believe my own eyes, and it makes my blood boil (also it's the easiest format to read on my phone, because I'm fucked if I'm paying to read the fucking Times).  So if I didn't keep reading it, my blood wouldn't boil, I wouldn't have anything to rant about, and therefore I would not be able to keep writing this blog, so I'm actually doing it all for you, the lovely readers.  I'M SUFFERING FOR MY ART!

 

I made the frankly WANK decision to watch Crimewatch this week, for the first time in years.  The last time I watched it, it was that bloke that used to say 'don't have nightmares, do sleep well'.  Yes, you've just shown me a story about a gang of masked men busting into my house in the dead of night with crowbars and cyanide, with the intention of stealing my life savings and bumming me to death, SWEET FUCKING DREAMS.  Anyhow, what a mistake I made.  The programme was literally FULL OF CUNTS.   Evil, despicable, low-life, total SHITS not fit to walk this earth.  How fucking BRAVE of someone to break into a elderly lady's house and beat her to death.  I absolutely believe that capital punishment should be brought back for cases where there is absolutely no doubt of someone's guilt - don't give me all this bullshit about rehabilitation and giving someone a chance - if you think it's acceptable to beat an old lady to death, you have nothing to give to a civilized society, and I would much rather my taxes were not spent on keeping you alive in Wormwood Scrubs for the next 20 years.  A rope and a shovel are much cheaper.

 

Now, I love a bit of meat, me (easy, ladies).  Steak, sausage, bacon, pork, chicken, I'll eat any of it.  I'm fully aware it's a dead animal.  But here's what really gets on my tits - meat-eaters that say 'oooo no I'm not eating that unless it's been HUMANELY KILLED'.  Sorry, what?  Which part of being killed to be eaten is humane?  Stun gun right in the middle of the forehead - DEAD.  Slit throat and hung up to bleed to death - YEP, STILL DEAD.  Electrocuted or gassed before being shot - YEP, STILL DEAD.  However poor Ermintrude met her fate, she's DEAD and you're EATING her, so in my opinion you have no moral high ground here - if you're that bothered about how an animal is killed, go and be a vegetarian.  Leaves more burgers for me.  I'll even put some lettuce on them if it keeps you happy.  I draw the line at gherkins though.

 

Before the obvious big news story this week, the papers were clearly a bit short on things to talk about, so the Daily Shitrag printed a really fucking handy article about how useful peanut butter is.  These absolute fucking MORONS masquerading as journalists must be really skint and I bet their parents are so proud they paid thousands of pounds for them to attend university in order to build a career writing ABSOLUTE CACK.  Anyway, amongst the things that peanut butter (as opposed to nut butter, which is a whole other sticky substance that is not very useful) is supposed to be useful for are the following (please note, it must be SMOOTH peanut butter - which is absolutely ridiculous as nobody buys that shit anyway):

 

• 'Removing odours' - if you cooked fish pie for tea and your kitchen smells like the gusset on Mad Lizzie's leotard, if you fry some peanut butter it will remove the smell of fish - YES, AND REPLACE IT WITH THE SMELL OF PEANUT BUTTER 
• 'Repair a scratch on a DVD' - just rub some peanut butter over the scratch - your DVD will work, but your DVD player will be full of PEANUT BUTTER 
• 'Remove dead flies from your windscreen' - just rub some peanut butter over them (I'm detecting a pattern here) - the bugs will come off but you'll have MASSIVE SMEARS OF PEANUT BUTTER OVER YOUR WINDSCREEN 
• 'Moisturise your hair' - just rub some peanut butter in your hair then wash it out - your hair will be shiny but you'll smell like a MONKEY'S BOG PAN.
• 'If you run out of butter when cooking, just use peanut butter' - WTF?
• 'Popcorn flavouring' - if you want peanut butter flavoured popcorn, just add peanut butter.  REALLY?  What is this radical new concept of adding something to cooking to give it the same flavour as the thing you've added?  Why has GORDON FUCKING RAMSAY never shared this NUGGET OF CULINARY GENIUS with us before?

 

I've got one more tip for these Happy Shopper journos - save room in your kitchen cupboard by shoving your jar of Smooth Peanut Butter up your arse.

 

Things that annoy me #8215 - people that say '2am IN THE MORNING'.  If it's 2am it's obviously in the fucking morning, you ignoramuses (ignorami?)

The weather seems to be on the up, and it's guaranteed that a bit of sun will bring out an absolute TSUNAMI of DICKHEADS.  Ooo, it's three degrees above zero, we must go out in the convertible with the roof down and our sunglasses on like we're Thelma and fucking Louise.  Have a word with yourselves you twats, it's still fucking freezing and you just look like a NOB.  I went to town today (with no coat on, to be fair), and in a shocking turn of events, I parked in a car park a short walk from town rather than in the centre, and had to suffer the MONUMENTAL TRAUMA of walking.  I walked past a group of lads trying to do parkour round the edge of the car park (parkour, for those who do not know, is like a free-running type thing - basically running around and jumping off things like Nadia Comaneci on crack (google her, young people) but just looking a bit like they should have been doing forward rolls in their vest and pants on those threadbare green mats we used to do PE on.  Now, I would never take the piss out of youths being outside and doing something more energetic than texting or wanking (or texting AND wanking), but as I walked closer it emerged that these 'youths' were actually about 35!  Get on home, put a sweater and some sensible slacks on and mow the fucking lawn you bellends!

Last thing - the kid was out quite late the other night, past my bedtime, and when this occurs I insist that she texts me once she's back in the house so that I don't wake up at 3am IN THE MORNING panicking that she's been abducted by the ghost of Jimmy Savile on the way home.  So I woke up at about 6am, checked my phone, and sure enough she had texted me simply the word 'home'.  As I'm a comedy genius, I texted her back the word 'osexual' (DISCLAIMER - this in no way means I am dissing off anybody's sexual preferences, I couldn't give two hoots who you poke, I love you all!).  Anyway, the point is, SHE DIDN'T EVEN REPLY.  What sort of child, when receiving a text FROM THEIR OWN MOTHER with simply the word 'osexual' in it, DOESN'T EVEN BAT AN EYELID? 

A child of mine, that's who! 

Cheesy tears and Darwinism

Hello there.  It's 2.30pm and I've not long got up, I'm in my pyjamas and no housework has been done.  That's because last night I drove 250 miles to Birmingham and back and drank many cans of Red Bull on my way home to avoid being involved in a sleep-deprivation disaster on the M5, resulting in being WHIZZED OFF MY TITS till about 3 this morning.  Before this, I had consumed a GIANT ROLL OF HEART ATTACK from the local Wickes carpark, comprising of a jumbo sausage, bacon, fried egg AND burger, with half a portion of cheesy chips (which reminds me of a story about an American tourist I once happened upon in a pub in Lacock, home of speccy wizard-impersonator Harry Potter.  I met up with a couple of mates for dinner and while we were at the bar perusing the menu, we became aware of a table of American tourists behind us, that had obviously come to see where Harry Potter emerged from his mum's wizard's sleeve.  The man of the family was reading down the menu, and we heard this (you must read this in your head in an American accent)
'Cheesy chips.  What is that?  Chips?   With cheese?
No, you absolute FUCKWIT.  It's fucking Boiled Hagrid with a side order of Ron Weasley's Lonely Ginger Tears, you THICK TWAT.  OF COURSE IT'S FUCKING CHIPS.  WITH CHEESE.) 
Anyway, my titanic breakfast and copious consumption of a caffeine and bull-semen based energy drink resulted in this week's mis-sung lyrics as follows:
Kate Bush's Cloudbusting 'oooooo I just know that something good is gonna happen'
My Bumbusting 'ooooo I just know that something brown is gonna happen'.
All the way to Birmingham. 


We went to see wonky-eyed Bristol comedian Russell Howard.  We have seen him before and think he is very funny, and 50% of our joint children have a huge crush on him too.  Now, before he even came on stage we were laughing.  One, because my cashcard was declined at the ATM because I only had 68 pence in my account (that's right, I'm a 43 year old mother of two that has 68 pence in her bank account to last till payday).  Also, I've been to loads of different shows in my time, mostly live music but some comedy, generally there are lots of pissed up people, headbanging, lots of hair flying around, and even saw almost the entire seating provision of the NEC ripped up and thrown on the stage during the performance of 'Everything's Ruined' by Faith No More on 28th November 1992.  Never once, though, have I seen anyone ejected from a venue for fist fighting - until last night.  That's right - two UTTER BELLENDS started a fight at a COMEDY SHOW.  No idea what the fight was about, we just all of a sudden saw a kerfuffle in front of us, with some poor lad taking three or four well-placed right hooks to the cheek - security swiftly intervened, and the pissed-up twats were marched away.  They missed out on a good show - I think Russell is very amusing, with the right level of fanny-gags and observational humour mixed with a bit of political RIGHT-ON-ness, and always gives you something to think about at the end.


I've always been a ROCK fan.  You're probably not aware (JOKES) but a couple of weeks ago I was lucky enough to attend a small secret gig by a little rock band from America called the FOO FIGHTERS, who's singer is the spitting image of the drummer from Nirvana.  Anyway, after that gig there was a feature about it in heavy metal publication KERRANG.  I used to buy Kerrang every week when I was a minted teenager with nothing else to spend my money on except 20 Lambert and Butler and a bottle of Thunderbird, but have obviously moved on to Private Eye now I'm a grown up.  But I wanted a copy of this edition so I sent this text to the kid:
'When you leave work can you look at Kerrang magazine and if it's the one with the FOO FIGHTERS on the top right corner of the cover can you buy it please?'.
Now, that's fairly clear instructions, right?
Wrong.
I received back a picture of Metal Hammer magazine with Ozzy Osbourne on the front 'is this the one?'.
Where did I go wrong?


Two things in the news this week that perturbed me somewhat:
A man charged his phone while in the bath, inevitably the phone fell in the bath, and the man was electrocuted.  Very sad.  Also very stupid.  This is natural selection at it's best.  If a grown man doesn't know that getting into a huge tub of water with something balanced on it that is attached to an electrical current is not asking for, at least, a singed beard and at worst, CERTAIN DEATH, then I'm afraid you made your electric waterbed (wasn't that a Jimi Hendrix album?), and now you must lay in it. 
Also, The Daily Shitrag reported that late comedienne Victoria Wood had not left a single penny of her considerable wealth to her ex-husband.  And?  Why is it anyone's business who she leaves her wealth too?  And why would she leave it to her ex?  The clue is in the EX bit.  It USUALLY (not always, I know, but usually) means you don't fucking like them any more and want them to DIE HORRIBLY IN A FREAK ACCIDENT INVOLVING A COFFEE MACHINE AND A SMALL HORSE (No?  Just me then?).  If by some miracle I came into a substantial amount of cash, if anyone suggested I should leave some of it to my ex-husband I would punch them in the tits.  Not least because I've only got 68 fucking pence in my bank account right now.  It took me over 20 years to start getting the maintenance I was entitled to out of one of the sperm-donors (I know, right, what a dirty old slag, two kids, two dads, THE HORRORS), I'm hardly going to fucking GIVE IT BACK to him just because I've pegged it!  I'd rather die!


Well-known boffin and regular inhabitant of Countdown's Dictionary Corner, Gyles Brandreth, tweeted this week about the new phenomenon of people saying 'myself' and 'yourself', instead of 'I' and 'you'.  I'm so glad he did because I thought it was just me that thinks this makes one sound not intelligent, but like a TOTAL NOBBER.  Picture the scene - De La Soul are sat around in their 'crib' (I know, I'm amazing), they've written this proper funky tune, and need lyrics to match.  'I'VE GOT IT!' says Derek (names changed to protect the fact that the blogger has no clue about the names of the people in De La Soul), 'The song shall be called 'MYSELF, MYSELF AND MYSELF!'.  Lyrical fucking genius!

You might need to Google some of the phrases in this, because they're definitely not in the dictionary

Well, it's been another fairly successful week.  I didn't kill anybody, I didn't die of a heart attack, and even though I weigh slightly more than a cross-channel ferry my cholesterol is apparently 'satisfactory', so PASS THE DONUTS!


So apparently Wednesday was 'International Women's Day' or some such bollocks.  Twitter was awash with thick-as-pigshit bell-ends crying 'THIS IS SEXIST, WHY ISN'T THERE AN INTERNATIONAL MAN'S DAY?'.  There is.  In November.  So shut up and fuck off and put the bins out you man-twats.  Personally I couldn't give a crap whether it's men's or women's day, some women are equally as DIPSHIT as men, and two women in the paper this week demonstrated that point.  Firstly, a vacant bimbo complaining that, when she sells her lovely dresses on Ebay, she always gets loads of messages from letchy blokes asking for reach-arounds and wanting to SPAFF their man-milk all over her chin.  THEY'RE MONSTERS, PERVS, AND WEIRDOS, she cries!  But let's consider the evidence - all your pictures on Ebay are of you, modelling the dresses, with your massive tits hanging out, pictures taken in such a provocative way that YOU KNOW FULL FUCKING WELL men are going to be sticking them in their iPhone wank banks for a quick hand-shandy when their own missus has fucked off to Budgens on Saturday morning.  Now, I know, and agree, that anyone should be able to wear whatever they like (I wear CROCS and my favourite t-shirt has a picture of a sheep on it), but that's not the issue - you can't show someone your tits, and then moan that they looked at your tits.  Get a grip woman - make it a firm grip though, just like the blokes are when they're 'putting a bid on'.


The other idiot woman was an old lady from India, who thought it would be a great idea to have IVF and then give birth to a baby at the age of 72.  That's right.  SEVENTY TWO.  When most elderly ladies are starting to need their own nappies and feeding regime, she decided to have a baby, and is now complaining that 'it's harder work than I thought'.  No shit!  Apparently giving birth has 'taken it's toll' on her body.  Really?  I would have thought that it was a piece of piss, given that your 72 year old clopper is probably as baggy as a CLOWN'S POCKET.  And post-birth I bet it looks like a run-over badger.  I'm sorry but in my opinion it's a little bit selfish and just not natural - her husband is 80 years old for fuck's sake, when he jizzes it's probably like little clouds of chalk puffing out of his Herman Gelmet.  I'm not saying that old people shouldn't do the nasty, if they're game and still able then go for it - but in my view the menopause is nature's way of saying 'HURRAH, YOU CAN SHAG NOW WITHOUT THE WORRY OF BEING BURDENED WITH A CHILD UNTIL YOU'RE SIXTY FIVE YEARS OLD'.  So, in the words of that absolute COCKSNIFF Jeremy Kyle, 'old men, put something on the end of it!' - and I don't mean Gladys from the geriatric ward.


Things that annoy me #4932 - tiny chocolate bars.  On Fridays, the old man brings home naughty treats to eat, and last week he produced a pack of no less than FOUR Double Deckers from his bag, 'they were only a quid!' - BRILLIANT!  Until you realise that the Double Deckers were actually the size of a hamster's chog (actually I've just Googled chog and it comes up with a completely different definition to that which we use in our house, therefore in the interests of clarity, a chog in our house is a turd, a poo, a stool, a brown bomb).  They were literally fun-size fun-size Double Deckers (yes, I meant to write that twice, to emphasize the FUCKING TINYNESS of the items).  NO WONDER THEY WERE ONLY A FUCKING QUID! 


This week, I had to suffer the absolute INDIGNITY of doing the BIG SHOP in the actual store, rather than getting it delivered to my house on Monday as usual.  The reason for this is because I went to a faraway foreign land on the piss over the weekend (Studley, near Birmingham, travel fans), and got back so late on Sunday that I simply could not be FUCKED to do an online shop.  The kid came along as she needed to get a week's supply of super noodles.  By jiminy, I wish I'd left her at home.  She spent the ENTIRE SHOPPING TRIP fucking MOANING about people - she works in this particular store and proceeded to go on a MASSIVE RANT about how she hates people, hates customers, customers pronounce her name wrong, they ask her questions about items they want to buy (HOW FUCKING DARE THEY!), they complain when things are not right (uh, what do you expect them to do, 'oh, the milk I just bought is so out of date that it's turned into a new form of cancer-killing anti-biotic but that's fine, it will taste just dandy on my Coco Pops') - her mouth did not shut for about twenty minutes, didn't stop to take a breath, she must have created some sort of vacuum between her gob and her ass, Jesus, I've never heard someone moan so much!  Obviously takes after her dad.

Sorry, but I'm quite happy this week so this will probably be crap

So. It happened. IT ACTUALLY FUCKING HAPPENED. I was five feet away from DAVE GROHL at the Cheese and Grain in Frome AND I DIDN'T WET MY UNDERPANTS. I did, however, have the BEST NIGHT OF MY ENTIRE ACTUAL EXISTENCE and go deaf for three days. I was even more excited than when my children were born. Fact. But there has been a DEVASTATING after-effect from my close encounter with GOD. All week, I have been......IN A GOOD MOOD. Not pissed off about anything, not angry, nothing. I HAVE LOST MY MOODY MO-JO. And it's all down to the power of ROCK. It's amazing how much anger you can expel when punching annoyingly-voiced pretend rock fans (who only had tickets because 'oh yeh, my boss is the promoter, wouldn't have bothered otherwise' FUCK OFF HOME THEN YOU DENSE BITCH AND LET A PROPER FAN TAKE YOUR PLACE) in the back of the head in the guise of fist-pumping along to your favourite heavy metal melodies.

It was a great night, but I won't go on about it.......

There was a girl there, who was clearly an absolutely massive fan. She was a big girl (like me), no oil painting (like me) and covered in tattoos (much more than me) and do you know what? She didn't give a fuck. She was on her own. She was having the time of her life. And she didn't give a fuck. She was a REAL person. I liked that. I can't stand fake people. Boss-Promoter-Girl was fake. Kept flicking her perfect hair, 'oh my god my hair isn't perfect, oh quick I must take four thousand selfies', it's a FUCKING ROCK SHOW. People aren't there to look at you, dear! There's so much fakeness about these days, you hear it all day long 'oh, hi HUN, HOW AAAAARRE YOU, oh you have scabies, oh that's AMAZING' - go away, I don't like you, I don't care how you are and even if I did speak to you, you wouldn't listen because you're so self-absorbed that nothing else registers in your tiny mind but YOU. I am fortunate enough to have surrounded myself with REAL people - they don't judge, they don't expect anything, they are just PEOPLE. Why can't more people just be people! Also, those people that go on about how 'mad' they are. 'Oh, don't mind me, I'm a little bit MAD, crazy I am, just a bit ZANY!'. No. You're not mad, crazy or zany. You're a DICK with a tank top. Someone who is MAD or CRAZY would run down the High Street slashing people with a four foot long machete while reciting Black Sabbath lyrics, or dig holes in their forehead with a compass. Now that's REAL!

Mums. Are we here for any other purpose than running around after everyone else's sorry ass? The kid (aged 19, NINETEEN I FUCKING ASK YOU) was ill this week. I worked at home on Monday afternoon, soundtracked by Ralph and Huey upstairs. 'Mum, I am in pain, I think I'm dying, BLEURGH'. Nice. By Tuesday she had stopped barfing but was still squirting rusty water for England. Now, on my lunch break (note the words 'my', 'lunch', and 'break') I had to go to the post office for the old man and then go to Tesco for food for everyone else to eat. Nothing in that sentence denotes 'my', 'lunch' or 'break'. I got back, to receive a text from upstairs 'Mum please make me a cup of tea'. ARE YOU SHITTING ME? (My mistake, she was shitting herself.) No. No I fucking can't make you a cup of tea. I'm on 'my lunch break' which so far has not consisted of 'me', 'lunch', or 'break'. Harsh? I don't think so. Kids need to learn to toughen up these days, and if that means making you come downstairs to make your own cup of tea while you're trying not to soil yourself, then so be it. Take it as a life lesson. It won't be the last time you're trying to get what you want but just end up in a pile of shit.

Lyrics. We have fun with lyrics in our house. For instance, these things ALWAYS happen when I hear these words (I realise this won't be very funny to most people but I don't care, it makes me laugh) -

Linkin Park (now, Linkin Park, there's a funny thing - you'd think their singer would be some big hard bastard but no, he's a tiny, mouse-like, bespectacled lad called Chester who looks like he'd blow over if he was hit in the knackers by Storm Doris - Chester, now Davina McCall has a son called Chester, when he was born I managed to convince the kid that McCall was her stage name and that her real surname was Drawers, hence making her son's name Chester Drawers - she totally believed me for ages, right up until she was about 16), anyway, Linkin Park lyrics - 'Time is a valuable thing, watch it fly by as the pendulum swings, watch it count down to the end of the day, the clock ticks life away'.
Me - 'Watching Countdown till the end of the day? WHAT SORT OF ROCK STARS ARE THEY? I bet Richard Whiteley thinks they're TWATS.'
Everybody else in the house - 'We're sick of your shit Mum'.

Also -
Shirley Bassey - 'GOLD FINGAH!'
Me - 'BROWN FINGAH!'

Also -
Red Hot Chili Peppers - 'Can I smell your gasoline, can I pet your wolverine, on the day my best friend died I could not get my copper clean'
Me - 'Can I smell your cheesy beans, can I pet your wolverine, on the day my best friend died I could not give my cock a clean'.

I even sing that one to myself when I'm on my own in the car. I don't even HAVE a cock.

Reach out - and I won't be there, I'll be at Curry's buying a new telly

Hello there.  I have been in an absolutely foul stench of a mood the last few days.  The joys of being a bit mental, eh?  But let's try and be positive - the mornings and evenings are getting a little lighter (unlike me), the bike season starts this weekend, and if it's true that these tickety things I got posted from the Foo Fighters get me into a secret gig in Frome tomorrow night, then I will be literally SOILING MYSELF.

I watched a very interesting programme this week called The Trouble With Dad.  It was a documentary about the comedian David Baddiel and his relationship with his father who has Pick's Disease, a form of dementia.  It was interesting to me because a) I really like David Baddiel (a lot of my teenage years were spent saying to my best mate 'See that blob of spit with all bubbles and bits of food in it - that's your swimming pool, that is') and b) I work in the mental industry but don't know a lot about it, so like to take the opportunity to learn more when I can.  The programme was quite moving, and actually very amusing too.  If you didn't see it, I recommend you find it on iplayer or something.  This chap's condition often manifested itself by way of swearing, calling people around him quite offensive names and generally being a bit inappropriate.  And it got me thinking, and worrying a bit too.  Because I'm a little unhinged, am I more pre-disposed to developing a dementia-type condition?  Has it already started?  And how will anyone know?  I call people twats all the time!  It will be like 'I'm really sorry but your mum has dementia' and my kid will be like 'nah, that's just Mum being normal.'

This week, this conversation happened -
19 year old kid 'Mum, you know if you're pregnant and have a really big baby, will you have to have a circumcision?'
Me 'I think you mean caesarean.'
Kid 'Oh yeh, that.'
Me *jumps off Beachy Head*

About two years ago, we had to get a new boiler.  Sometimes, the pressure in the boiler drops low and you get no hot water (invariably when you're running REALLY FUCKING LATE FOR WORK) so you have to twiddle with the knobs and refill the system or something.  Well, because it's a new boiler, I knew I would forget how to do this, so I wrote simplified instructions on the actual boiler manual and left these instructions in the airing cupboard RIGHT NEXT TO THE BOILER.  Where else would I put them?  So, you know what's coming - last week the pressure went, I opened the boiler up, and could I find the instructions?  COULD I FUCK.  Someone had moved them.  Now, why, WHY would you move the boiler instructions to anywhere else but NEXT TO THE BOILER?  You wouldn't put the boiler instructions next to the COCKING MICROWAVE, would you?  Or in the car?  Or in the bottom of the shoe cupboard?  No.  You'd leave them NEXT TO THE FUCKING BOILER.  They are not next to the boiler.  I still don't know where they are.  But I DID remember how to twiddle the knobs.  So suck on that, boiler instruction thief!  I will now have warm showers, and you will freeze in HELL!

I work a lot from home, but sometimes have to suffer the indignity and sheer inconvenience of actually getting dressed in the morning and going into an office.   I did this last week.  Twice.  I haven't got much to say except this - if you have a cough that makes you sound like you're auditioning for the part of Bob Fleming on The Fast Show, FUCK OFF HOME AND TAKE YOUR DISEASE-RIDDEN ARSE WITH YOU.  I sat for eight, count them EIGHT WHOLE HOURS listening to some absolute HOBO coughing and spluttering away all over the place, and he wasn't even sat near me, he was at least thirty feet away, but all you could hear was portions of his lung hitting his laptop screen.  I pity the poor fucker that was actually sat next to him, although he probably doesn't need my pity now that he's died from catching the plague off Mr I've-Never-Taken-A-Day-Off-Sick-In-My-Life-And-I'm-Not-Starting-Now Man.  Although maybe I'm just jealous that someone can cough that hard and that often without pissing their pants.

We live in England.  (I know a couple of you don't, but just go with it for now).  We live in England, therefore we speak English, with English words and phrases, for instance 'good morning', 'I'll have two pints of mild and a packet of cheese and onion please' or 'HOW MUCH FUCKING ROAD DO YOU WANT?'.  So, when I watch English TV programmes, or read English magazines, what I want to see is this -
'The Daily Shitrag contacted Mr so-and so....'
not this -
'The Daily Shitrag REACHED OUT to Mr so-and-so'
Reached out?  REACHED OUT?  What the FUCK does that mean?  I'll tell you what it means.  It means you're a prick and have no concept of the English language.  And today it became really apparent to me what an absolute BALLBAG this phrase makes you sound.  I was watching an episode of Elementary, the American Sherlock Holmes thing (yes, I generally don't like American television however this has Johnny Lee Miller in it) and this particular episode also starred that well-known Hollywood superstar Vinnie Jones (I used to play darts against his mum, FACT).  Vinnie's character was trying to establish an alibi for a murder, and said to Sherlock 'I was banged up, REACH OUT to Brixton Prison, they'll tell you'.  WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK?  I very nearly put my foot through the television and sent Arthur Conan Doyle the bill.

Being screwed by a virgin

Well, it's been a funny old week.  No, it hasn't, actually, it's just been a week of the usual BOLLOCKS.  I thought I'd got rid of my shitty lurgy but this morning I woke up with a throat as dry as a nun's gusset, I keep having nose bleeds because, apparently, I've 'always got my finger up my nose' (what the fuck is a finger for if not for sticking into things?) and I've been landed with trying to get my daughter out of parking ticket because she is 'poor as fuck'.  Aren't we all, dear?  But never mind - I got lovely roses and pink champagne because I'm an awesome not-wife, so it isn't all bad.


So last week, I moaned about Virgin.  And this week, I'm going to moan about them again.  I have a Virgin credit card, and always make my payments in a timely fashion, so you can imagine my ABSOLUTE FUCKING OUTRAGE when I logged on to check my balance last week, only to be confronted with LATE PAYMENT CHARGE £9.00 as my latest transaction.  'This cannot be right,' I thought to myself, and upon checking and double checking, I was indeed right and had made not one, but TWO payments last month, well before the payment due date.  So I pinged them off an email asking them to please explain the charge.  But actually, merely sending them an email did not dullen my TOTAL RAGE so I rang them.  I will now try my best to paint you an aural picture of the conversation (in a somewhat condensed version as I'm sure you have much better things to do with your time) -


Me - 'Hello, you've given me a late payment charge when I actually paid well before the due date, please can you remove it?'
Virgin - 'Um, let me just investigate.......(7 minutes later)....yes, your statement was produced on the 12th, but you actually paid on the 9th'
Me - 'Yes, that's right - I'm still failing to see how the payment was late?'
Virgin - 'Well your statement was produced on the 12th but you paid on the 9th, so your payment was too early'
Me - 'Excuse me?'
Virgin - 'Your payment was too early so it was taken off January's statement, not February's'
Me - 'So what you've actually given me is an EARLY PAYMENT CHARGE, not a LATE PAYMENT CHARGE?'
Virgin - 'No, it's a late payment charge. For paying too early.'
Me - 'Right.  So why don't you call it an EARLY PAYMENT CHARGE then, or even a YOU'RE TOO EFFICIENT AT MANAGING YOUR BILLS CHARGE?'
Virgin - 'Because you didn't pay February's so it's late.'
Me - 'I DID PAY FEBRUARY'S, ON THE 9TH!'
Virgin - 'No, that was January's'
Me - 'NO IT WASN'T, I PAID JANUARY'S ON THE 3RD'
Virgin - 'Oh yes, that's right, January's was paid on the 3rd'
Me - 'So the payment on the 9th was for February.'
Virgin - 'Yes but it was too early.'
Me - 'So how is it fair to charge someone a LATE PAYMENT CHARGE when in fact what they've done is pay you too early?'
Virgin - 'Well there's nothing we can do.'
Me - 'Yes, yes there is something you can do.  You can refund me the charge.'
Virgin - 'Well I can't really do that.'
Me - 'Well let me speak to someone who can.'
Virgin - 'I'll just put you on hold..........(another 5 minutes later).....hello, yes, I've removed the charge.'
Me - 'There, that was quite easy, wasn't it?  Thank you very much for your help, goodbye.'
I put the phone down, and spontaneously human combusted.


To be honest, it was reassuring to know that Virgin Money are not letting the side down, and are providing the exact same UTTER DOGSHIT customer service that every other Virgin company provides.  


This week, good old Trowbridge has kept up the good work by being in the national news, by being the winners in the WHO CAN HAVE THE SHITTEST FIGHT IN THE SHITTEST PUB COMPETITION 2017.  You may have seen the 10 seconds of grainy footage of some pissed-up 22 year old virgins that can't handle their Fosters throwing punches that quite frankly MY 87 YEAR OLD GRANDAD would be ashamed of.  Now, I interviewed a person that was actually there at this 'fight' (ok, ok, it wasn't an interview, it was a couple of texts from my drunken kid who was there, and I know she was there because a text WOKE ME THE FUCK UP at 1am going 'haha there's a fight in Lloyds' like, no shit, I really needed to know that at 1am YOU GOON).  The news, as usual, has sensationalised it all, calling it 'a 100 MAN BRAWL' (30 at most, according to my source), 'even GIRLS were throwing punches'  (WHATEVER NEXT!) and going on about how awful it all was because it was in a Wetherspoons, as if it is usually some high-class fucking cultural gathering place for people with degrees in being called Tarquin.  Let's be honest here, it's a STICKY-FLOORED HOLE full of kids that think Jaegar-bombs are one of their five-a-day and middle-aged divorcees wiggling their cellulite to Greased Lightning in the mistaken belief that 'we've still got it, ain't we Shaz' and trying their best to get fingered in the cow-sheds (are the cow-sheds still there?).


Middle-aged - CHECK
Divorced - CHECK
Cellulite - CHECK
Grease fan - CHECK


Look's like I'm off out on Saturday night then!


Things that really piss me off #427 - people that call Lego 'LEGOS'.  Like, plural.  NO.  STOP IT.  IT'S FUCKING LEGO.  Not LEGOS.  Not A LEGO.  JUST LEGO.  Anyone that calls it LEGOS deserves to stand on a piece of Lego.


Lastly - a good pal of mine who is also one of the funniest people I know and an author has written a book and he'd be mighty glad if you took a look. (If that link doesn't work, copy and paste it, I already told you I'm not very technical and I think I've fucked it up)


https://www.amazon.co.uk/My-Exs-Ex-Dan-Sweetman-ebook/dp/B01CYFZJNQ/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1458324104&sr=8-1&keywords=dan+sweetman