A bit of a random one this, as I am having a slightly manic episode due to severe lack of sleep, so if it makes no sense and is a bit of a garble, DEAL WITH IT.
Today, I am literally soiling myself, as I have booked tickets to see Trainspotting 2 tomorrow night. I would let Ewan McGregor and Jonny Lee Miller spit roast me like a prize sow. Ewan has been in the news this week obviously promoting the film, but also for making that utter TWATBAG Piers Moron cry like a bitch because he refused to be interviewed by him. I don't blame him one bit - I'd rather let Joseph Fritzl set up a crèche in my basement than have to interact with that saggy-faced prick. But the other thing I saw Ewan on was an advert for Unicef or something, doing the begging thing for kids in war-torn Harrogate. In the advert, Ewan says 'help the little kiddies, text BLANKET to 01 811 8055'. Now all I could think of when he said that was 'how is texting a picture of Michael Jackson's baby dangling over that balcony going to help those poor little kiddies?', which then got me thinking why the fuck would you call your kid BLANKET? Michael Jackson has two sons, both called Prince Michael Jackson (oh aye, he was a FUCKING GENIUS, all right), which is a bit daft, because how do you know which one you're calling down for his tea? But Michael ain't daft, right, because what he did was, he said 'CHAMONE MOTHERFUCKERS, OK Princes, I'm going to call one of you by a different name, just to avoid confusion - HEE HEEEEE, and the name I have chosen is BLANKET'. He could have chosen Dave, Quentin, or indeed Bartholomew - but no, he chose BLANKET. Anyone would think he was a bit of a loon. Although when your brother Jermaine calls his kid Jermajesty, I suppose you have to out-do him somehow.
Piers Moron was an editor of a 'newspaper' once, until he was caught out being a massive CUNT. Now I'm not a massive fan of newspapers. The Daily Mail thinks every food that passes your lips will make you catch cancer, that every man (or lady) with a beard and a rucksack is a terrorist, and anyone that walks past a school with an anorak on is a paedophile. God forbid you have a beard AND a rucksack AND are walking past a school eating a burnt roast potato, if the Daily Mail see you, you better run because YOU'RE FUCKED. So anyway, some shit-rag or another reported that Tom Daley was apparently caught having a crafty wank on the internet - so what? I couldn't give two shits, and why is it in the public interest to tell everyone? What possible effect would it have on you or I if it really WAS true about Cliff Richard and the Aunt Sally Cleveland Steamer? WHO FUCKING CARES! If newspapers reported on every single celebrity that knocks out the easy one in front of a webcam a la Dirty Den then there'd be no room to tell everyone that you're all going to die of potato cancer. However, just imagine all that kinetic energy that could be harnessed from celebrity fists of fury - you could run the printing presses of Fleet Street for evermore from an eco-wank wind farm.
This week, someone suggested I should do a post about the cats that live in my house. GENUINE FACT - the person that suggested it has the same surname as the name of my first ever pet cat. It was the cat’s first name. The cat didn’t have a surname. That would just be stupid. The trouble with this is that I FUCKING HATE ONE THIRD of the cats that live in my house, and I genuinely cannot find anything funny to say about it. It shits and pisses everywhere and has turned my house from an untidy, quite dirty house into an absolute fucking hovel. It stinks and half my dining room carpet has had to be torn up because it was literally soaked in piss. It’s like living in a fucking Wetherspoon’s in the centre of Glasgow. It also thinks it’s fine to sit ON THE FUCKING BREADBOARD in the kitchen and LICK IT’S ASS. So probably Wetherspoon’s in Newcastle actually. She runs up to the old man when he gets in from work, and when he sits down, she jumps on his chest and literally puts her arms right around him, and dogs me right up as if to say ‘haha, he’s mine, bitch’. She is actually JEALOUS of me and I think that’s why she has one sole aim in her life of GETTING ON MY FUCKING TITS. The cat hates me, and I hate it, and it actually causes me quite a lot of stress. I might actually have a breakdown over a FUCKING CAT. The other reason she hates me is because one of the other cats in the house is her son (she had him when she was ONE YEAR OLD, what a SLAG!), now he does not piss or shit anywhere except in the gravel right by the old man's shed door, and he WORSHIPS THE GROUND I WALK ON. He comes in and jumps right up beside me, and gazes at me like I am Beyoncé, which would be fine if he looked like Jay Zed, but he doesn't, he looks like Jarvis Montgomery, that letchy bloke off Newman and Baddiel. He brings me massive headless goldfish from a neighbour's pond, and once he left a half eaten starling next to my shoes. However, for some reason, he thinks that I am interested in looking RIGHT UP HIS RUSTY SHERIFF'S BADGE, and will jump up on my chair, turn around, lift his tail and stick it right in my face. Now, if there was something interesting to look at, like I was going to see the face of Jesus in there or something, I wouldn't mind, but that cat's ass actually looks like he's trying to give brown birth to Paul McCartney face first, and that's not what I want gazing at me while I'm trying to eat my tea whilst getting twitchy over Ewan McGregor. So, you furry little cunts, you can either CHOOSE LIFE by QUITTING SHITTING IN MY HOUSE, or you can CHOOSE A FUCKING LONG DRIVE over Salisbury Plain where you can lay as many dirt bombs as you please.
*Disclaimer - No cats where harmed in the making of this blog, and please be assured I would NEVER take them to Salisbury Plain - predominantly because if I took them in The Scenic they'd probably SHIT IN THAT TOO.
Not much has happened this week. I've got nothing, NOTHING, to write a good story about. I've deliberately stayed away from the big news story of the week because a) I don't know much about politics and b) I still cannot quite believe that an absolute fucking BELLSNIFF like Donald Trump is going to be the most powerful man in the world. What sort of ASSHOLE wastes a Shredded Wheat by sticking it on his head? I mean, really, I realise that he probably wouldn't want to grab me by the pussy as I'm clearly not his type, but to be honest, I'd rather go to Aquafit with Michael Barrymore than let that orange-faced rectal wart anywhere near my Oval Orifice. Anyway, due to lack of fucktardery from the Great British Public this week, I'm just going to have a quick general little moan. Freestyle. Recognise.
My work office temperature is apparently regulated by some eco-friendly climate control bullshit. Now, this is all very well, but the robot-gubbins that controls it has obviously been programmed to control the temperature in the office as if the whole workforce were FUCKING ESKIMOS. (When I say FUCKING ESKIMOS, I don't mean the whole workforce are actually FUCKING ESKIMOS as in doing the Eskimo With Two Backs, I just mean they are eskimos. Actually FUCKING ESKIMOS in the office would probably open you up to some sort of disciplinary procedure). What sort of climate-control thinks it's ok to make you grow icicles in your fucking MOUSTACHE?
Apparently, the smell of farts prevents dementia. That's obviously fucking bollocks. Because if it were true, why am I going mad? Walking into my bedroom in the morning is literally like walking into a wall of POO. I was asleep once, and my old man dropped a chuffbox-tune SO RANCID that the smell of it ACTUALLY WOKE ME UP. You know you hear these stories of people being in a house fire, and the only reason they woke up and saved themselves is because they smelt the smoke in their sleep, well that's me that is. I woke up with a start and genuinely thought someone had launched a chemical attack on our house. It made me feel so sick I had to eat some Rennie's. But that wasn't a one off. There is something fucking wrong with him. And now this bollocks about dementia has given him a good reason to keep floating air biscuits every five minutes. He just says 'think about your future love, and breathe deep'.
So with the amount of bum-gas I've breathed in the last few years, you'd think I'd be way off getting dementia if the scientists are to be believed. But alas, I think I am succumbing. On Tuesday, I completely lost track of how much ibuprofen and paracetamol I'd necked for a massive headache. By the time the old man got home, I was OFF MY TITS. We then proceeded to have a heated discussion about a cunt that's also a dick and an asshole (long story for another day), but I could not get my words out properly, my face was numb and I was talking like Jamie Fucking Oliver. So the old man WON the heated discussion dammit!
Also today I forgot how to drive and found myself going from 1st to 5th gear while simultaneously trying to put the car radio on and do some dance move that the kid taught me yesterday. And then this morning I forgot my purse so had to beg a sandwich off my mate at lunchtime. So don't try and tell me that farting is good for me! It's melting my mind!
WARNING - quite a lot of FUCKING SWEARING in this one. Actually, bollocks, I'm not giving you a warning, if you don't know me by now, you will never ever ever know me, ooooooooh. Mick Hucknall eh - lovely voice, looks like a week-old roasted beef tomato. Anyway.....
People are people - so sang one of my black leather-clad, quiffed heroes of my teenage years, Dave Gahan (some time before he tried to blow up his liver with horse tranquiliser or whatever it was). And indeed, people ARE people. But when is a person not a person? When they're a twat.
Now, you'll be aware that I encounter many twats on a daily basis. But three twats have stuck in my mind this week (two in Tesco's, SHOCK).
Twat Number 1 - I was ambling around with my trolley, aimlessly wandering while trying to think what wonderous, vaguely edible delights I could conjur up for the old man's tea (we're both on a health kick, as is the entire population of Uranus in January so I was heading for the frozen pizza, obviously). It was quite busy in there, and I was a little grumpy, but someone made my day for helping me realise that maybe I'm not such a dick after all. I toodled towards the frozen aisle, and there was a family (mum, dad and two young children). The dad had what I assume was a shopping list in his hand, and as I approached, he was kind of gathering his family around him, and I actually heard these actual words come out of his actual mouth -
'Right people, time for a SITREP.'
That's right. A GROWN MAN said to his SMALL CHILDREN during a supermarket shop for Turkey Dinosaurs and Petit Filous -
''Right people, time for a SITREP.'
People who know how to use Google will know that this is a term generally (yes, not always, I know, I said GENERALLY) used in the military as a shortened form of Situation Report. Now, this man was not wearing fatigues. His children were not carrying Uzi 9mm submachine guns and his wife was not being held hostage by Colonel Gadaffi. They were in FUCKING TESCO'S. What sort of FUCKING SITUATION do you get in Tesco's? QUICK, CALL M.I.5, THEY'VE RUN OUT OF FALAFEL! Suffice to say, his wife, his children, and me all looked at him like he was a twat. Because he was a twat. I hope his wife kicked him in the bunkers when they got home.
Twat Number 2 - now, you all know that I am an EXCELLENT driver and drive a 16 year old Renault Scenic, the ULTIMATE in ENGINEERING MASTERCRAFTSMANSHIP (except the fucking coils which go on a fortnightly basis). Therefore SHITTY DRIVING really gets on my tits. I was looking for a space in Tesco car park (I don't live in Tesco, just in case anyone was wondering, I just seem to spend my ENTIRE FUCKING EXISTENCE in there), and was behind a girl in a Citroen C3 (I could tell it was a girl as I could see the cloned messy bun hair that EVERY SINGLE GIRL UNDER 25 WEARS sticking up over the headrest). Anyway, she pulled into an empty space that had an empty space either side, so PLENTY OF ROOM TO MANOEUVRE HER MASSIVE C3. I was intending to pull into a space behind her, so patiently waited while she took FIVE GOES BACK AND FORTH (sounds like an Enid Blyton book) to get a CITROEN C3 into a space THREE SPACES WIDE. And on the fifth go she FUCKING STALLED IT. Now, I realise that not everyone is as good a driver as me (this would be IMPOSSIBLE) but if you need FIVE GOES at a space when you are driving a toddler's pedal car, then you should CUT UP YOUR DRIVING LICENCE, THROW YOUR KEYS IN THE RIVER AND CATCH THE FUCKING BUS. Because you're a twat.
Twat Number 3 - I was driving home (probably from FUCKING TESCO), now I do love a good road rage and have a diverse range of insults and hand gestures that are used regularly while behind the wheel. There was some cars parked at the side of the road so I had to wait for oncoming traffic to pass (not a problem, I'm nice like that), now, it is only polite to raise your hand if someone has waited for you, right? But the last in the stream of cars, was he polite? Was he fuck. He just sailed on through in his shitty little Ford Fiesta without so much as a glance. RUDE. I had my window open (because my ULTIMATE in ENGINEERING EXCELLENCE Renault Scenic is shit at defogging so I have to have my windows open in order to see where I'm going) and as he passed, I felt the rage within me surface - I mustered all I had to produce the BEST INSULT EVER - I shouted the following -
'Yeh, thanks BEARD'.
Beard. The rude man had a beard, and the BEST I COULD THINK OF was to call him BEARD.
I continued on my journey home, disappointed and ashamed of myself, I had let myself down. I could have called him a COCKPIECE, a PISSWAND, a HAIRY GIBBON, but no, I called him BEARD. And I realised, readers, that Twat Number 3 was ME.
I, like the entire population of the world, spend quite a lot of time looking at Facebook. I originally joined Facebook to catch up with old chums, play some sort of really crap pirate game (remember that?) and to generally nose at people I don't like and laugh that they've got really fat (oh, no, wait, that was MY OWN PROFILE I was looking at). Anyway, Facebook is now just a massive boot sale for shit people don't want. Recently, I have had a recurring advert for what is called a MOONCUP. Now, for any boys reading, I am warning you now - this is about PERIODS. A mooncup is basically an upside-down hollowed-out acorn that you stick up your pipe once a month, and is supposedly an eco-alternative to jam-rags and cotton mice being flushed into the English Channel. Now, I'm not going to go into the ins and outs (see what I did there) of this, as it is frankly unpleasant for 8am on a Tuesday morning. But what I want to know is, WHO THOUGHT OF SHOVING AN ACORN UP THEIR FLANGE? Whoever it is needs help, and possibly a new boyfriend.
Also, these magazine adverts - Issue 1 of BUILD YOUR OWN ROBOT GIRAFFE, just £2.99! WHAT A BARGAIN to keep little Johnny happy over the school holidays! Oh wait - small print that you can only read if you have the visual power of an actual robot giraffe 'Issue 1 special offer £2.99, remaining 493 issues needed to complete robot giraffe will be £24.99 each'. So now you have a screaming child blubbing because you've bought them Issue 1 of BUILD YOUR OWN ROBOT GIRAFFE that comes with the first piece needed (one of those wiggly things off their head) but now you can't afford to buy the rest of the series unless you take out a Wonga loan at 7456% APR thus bankrupting you and having your house repossessed. If only you'd bought the rest of the series, you'd have enough shitty magazines to BUILD YOUR OWN HUT IN THE WOODS NOW YOU NO LONGER OWN YOUR HOUSE.
Adverts are shit. Lately lots of adverts have been using old 80s songs sung in a completely different way from the original, usually all slow and miserable, to advertise crap. Let me be clear with you, advertising agencies - the only thing that reworking Agadoo in the style of The Smiths is going to make me want to buy is a noose. It is not going to make me want to buy your shitty car, or your shitty perfume, or your shitty mooncup. And if your mooncup is shitty, you haven't read the instructions properly.
So back to work we go this week. That's ok. I quite like my current job. I once had a job that I hated so much, I genuinely thought the better option was to crash my car in Potterne so that I wouldn't have to go in the next day. And the only place you could get a lunchtime sandwich was Lidl. Yes, it was THAT bad.
Anyway, I had to go to Tesco during one of my lunch breaks this week. I was working from home, and would much rather have spent my lunch break actually eating lunch (the clue is in the 'lunch break' bit) and watching Judge Rinder, but needs must and all that. Now, there's only really one thing to say here - Tesco are nobs, because at lunch times, when everyone and his dog are just popping in on their lunch breaks to grab something for tea, Tesco let their staff have a lunch break. Like, all their staff. So there was approximately 274 people buying stuff, and 2 people serving.So I spent SEVEN of my precious SIXTY minutes of lunch break standing around doing FUCK ALL waiting to pay for my Tesco Finest Lamb Hot Pot and tub of cubed melon. SEVEN minutes. Time it. It's a long time when you're doing absolutely nothing but staring at the back of a pensioner's head. So Tesco - pull your fucking finger out and employ someone that can MANAGE A ROTA. Also, please ban people that stand in front of the doorway with a trolley having a lovely chat about what a lovely Christmas they had, thus wasting another TEN SECONDS OF MY SIXTY MINUTES. I don't give a shit if you had a lovely Christmas, I give a shit about eating my lunch. Twats.
Charity door bell ringers. They can FUCK OFF as well. I was having a nice chat with one of the youths that live in my house yesterday, when DING DONG goes the bell. Now, hardly anyone ever comes round my house, predominantly because I tell most people 'don't come round my house because I won't let you in'. And I don't usually answer the door, but at the moment, I am answering the door because I'm expecting a visit from someone that will be smartly introduced to the cricket bat I keep in the porch. But that's another story that I won't go into just yet, lest it jeopardises any future court proceedings.
Anyway, I open the door, expecting to see Cricket Bat Face, but no, it was worse that that. It was a shiny, happy, smiley, bobble-hatted prick with a lanyard. 'Hello!' he said, his smiley, toothy face literally BEAMING at me. 'Thanks for answering the door tonight!'.....Sorry, what? HOW DOES HE KNOW I NEVER ANSWER THE DOOR? Anyway, he should be saying 'Thanks for not hitting me with that cricket bat'. I said 'whatever you're selling no thanks' and went to pull the door shut (my front door opens outwards, THAT'S HOW ROCK N ROLL I AM). 'No, I'm not selling anything, I'm from CANCER RESEARCH.' Now judge me, fuckers, I don't care, I said 'No thanks, I'm cooking my tea' and shut the door in his face.
Now I know cancer is terrible, our family has been deeply affected by it, most families have, and I do my bit. But I do not want these jolly, happy, beard-faced goons accosting me on my own property for money. There's enough people INSIDE my own house trying to screw money out of me, I don't need it on my doorstep too. I am an adult, if I feel the need to give money to Cancer Research, or orang-utans in Bolivia, or Kleptomaniacs Anonymous, I know how to do it, I do not need to be BOMBARDED WITH SMILEY SHIT while I'm simmering my broad beans. WHY DO THEY ALWAYS COME AT TEA TIME? BUGGER OFF BEFORE I GO ALL W. G. GRACE* ON YOUR ASS!
*For any younger readers, W.G. Grace was a man who played cricket with a huge beard. And a bat.
Why do some people find it such a brain-taxing task to just follow simple instructions?
When running your own business, (a business, please note, that is NOT vital on a BANK FUCKING HOLIDAY MONDAY), what part of NORMAL OFFICE HOURS is 11am on a BANK FUCKING HOLIDAY MONDAY? That's right, I'm nice enough to take time out of my BANK FUCKING HOLIDAY MONDAY to reply to your email, advising we are available on the phone IN NORMAL OFFICE HOURS and you ring straight back at 11am on a BANK FUCKING HOLIDAY MONDAY saying please can you call me back today. NO. NO I CAN'T. You might want us to build the Forth fucking Bridge on a BANK FUCKING HOLIDAY MONDAY but unfortunately we are too busy SITTING ON OUR FAT ASSES EATING LEFTOVER PATÉ AND TERRY'S CHOCOLATE ORANGE.
Also - men.
I bought my boyfriend (actually, this 'boyfriend' thing isn't going to work, is it - the old man, that will do - just remember if I say that me and the old man were going at it hammer and tongs, I don't mean MY DAD, as that would be a) illegal and b) he's not my type) - so I bought the old man one of these new fandangled coffee machines for Christmas - partly because he asked for one, but partly because I thought 'hmmmm I love hot chocolate' and obviously, when you buy a present for someone, the most important thing about that present is that it MUST BE SOMETHING THAT YOU YOURSELF WILL GAIN BENEFIT FROM. Otherwise there's no point.
Anyhow the following conversation about the coffee machine happened this morning:
Him - 'I don't know what these other buttons do.'
Me - 'Have you looked at the instructions?'
Him - 'Briefly.'
Me - 'Well why don't you have a proper look?'
Him - 'I don't know where I've put the instructions.'
Me - SHOOTS SELF IN FACE
Him - 'Ah here they are.'
Me - 'Give them to me.'
Me - READS OUT VERY SIMPLE INSTRUCTIONS AS TO WHAT THE OTHER BUTTONS ARE FOR
Him - 'Ah, right, that's easy then.'
Me - PICKS UP PHONE 'Hello, is that the police, I'm afraid there's been a murder.'
Lastly (you'll be glad to hear) (and this is more for my own amusement really) - he just took his van out to jet wash it at the garage (it's a white van) - I had previous asked if I could draw a cock in the dirt on it (I am a prolific cock artist) but he wouldn't let me as he said it wouldn't look very professional (can't see a problem myself but whatever), anyway he got back from the jet wash, I said 'oh is your van clean now then', he said 'yes', so I said 'oh, no coq au vin for me then'. Do you see what I did there? Well I THOUGHT IT WAS FUNNY.
Back to work tomorrow.
Happy New Year.
Fireworks. I don't mind fireworks on November 5th, or New Year's Eve. Specifically at midnight on New Year's Eve, and maybe for five or ten minutes after. Not at 11.30pm. Why would you let them off at 11.30pm? What's the point of that? What's the point of letting off fireworks to celebrate the turn of the New Year HALF AN HOUR before the turn of the New Year? You might as well let them off on August 25th. It's like saying 'I'm having a 40th birthday party next week', 'oh, I didn't realise it's your 40th birthday', 'it's not, I'm still only 36 but thought I'd have the party now'. Twats.
