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!
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.'
