Ewan McGregor's pissy wind-farm wank

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.