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