the kennington fox

grubby backstreet election

2006-09-14T17:09:00.000Z

Right. Let's get this fucker over with as quickly and painlessly as possible can we?

No chattering at the back there.

Those guys at the side of the podium have got Sawed-off Ithaca street-sweepers under their coats and enjoy nothing better than shooting them at people.

They tell me.

To the point then: All I know about Rousseau is he said something a bit confusing about forcing men to be free.
The Social fucking Contract was his fucking stupid idea, and that, I'm very easily led to believe after having half-heard something about it in a pub once, is the cornerstone of modern democracy as we know it.

Kind of.

He did not invent the aqualung. Nor did he star alongside John Travolta in the hilarious Elmore Leonard movie adaptation, "Get Shorty".
Primarily because he'd been dead for 85 years when they filmed the fucker.

I got stopped in full and glorious creative flight, at this exciting point in the proceedings, like by Shelley Duvall with a cup of tea for Jack Nicholson in The Shining. But I expect I was a sight more polite about it than he was, because he was in the process of being re-possessed by the aeons old Indian Burial Ground Wampum that haunted the Overlook. So I've no fucking idea what I was about to say after that load of auld shit at the top there.

Mostly I just wanted to go on at punishing length about how tooth-hammeringly irritating the bit on the envelope for sending your details to the electoral register is:

"Don't lose your RIGHT to vote.
You MUST complete and return this form.
failure to do so may result in a £1000 fine."

That is just shit.

15 year old, double-malt, Kentucky, sipping-shit.

If I've got a right to vote, then, in my obviously limited and clearly wrong understanding of the whole concept of democracy and the meaning of the word, "right" as it is used in the context of ever-so sophisticated political philosophy, I also have the option to fucking ignore the bollocks off of it if I think that the democracy I am being sold is a total fucking lemon the size of Herman Goering's elephantitis en-huged goolies.

It's a right. But you can stuff it up your arse.

The right to choose which cocksucker fucks everything up really badly in exactly the same way every other previous cocksucker has historically done with great and screaming aplomb.

Brilliant. Stuff it up your arse. It's shit.

The right to choose which impotent, amphetamine-addled, paranoid murderer gets to spend an ungodly chunk of my wages on jet bombers.

The right to pretend that putting a gay cross in an even gayer box, next to the name of some busybody fucking dysfunctional poodle-toucher, who should, in a sane world, be locked up in a maximum security twilight home for the congenitally twat-witted, the instant they first begin to exhibit symptoms of wanting to tell everybody what to do, because they mammy done gone spanked 'em and they luuurrrrve de discipline: thwack! Actually means or counts for something other than being the fucking offensive pantomime by which they kid you daft that there's nothing worth having a revolution about, so leave us to keep on taxing you and putting you in prison, and all the other really keen shit we get up to, there's a good chap, bend over, relax, it's the most natural and beautiful thing in the world.

Thanks. That's very generous of you.

But fuck off. It's shit and I don't want it.

And in what sense does a right remain a right, when you, as far as I can, in my childishly simple apprehension of the situation, tell, are compelling me to have it?

No, don't hurt yourself trying to guess. As if you were going to.

It's not a right.

Shit. I just took the unheard of step of checking with Wikipedia. I think that it might actually count as a societal right that comes as part of the aforementioned very rubbish and stinkyfisted social fucking contract.
Jamrags.
That's annoying.
I think I might really hate Rousseau.
I think this is the bit where we get forced to be "free".
Humans are fucking idiots.

Who wants a piss fight?

celebrity stool samples

2006-09-12T17:55:00.000Z

Some light-hearted photo fun for you now, thrill-seekers, as I lazily biff one off about Posh Spice.

Here she is.
I think she was visiting the disembodied limbs of child landmine victims in a special hospital in Buckinghamshire called St. Bagpuss's, where the dedicated staff keep them alive, viable, and as comfortable as possible, awaiting the day they can match them to the crippled chitling that they got blowed off of. Something like that. And now here she is again, but this time it's one of those photos that shitmags take of celebrities when they've just got out of bed, or are just pulling their heads out a barrel full of cocaine crabs, when they are 100% cast-iron, guaran-damn-teed to look like a scabby fuckhead.
Or, like a human.
Here's Britney: She's just crawled into Las Vegas on her raw and bleeding hands & knees after being lost in the desert for a fortnight.
Lookit! Tee Hee!
Her make-up isn't so fucking immaculate it looks like she's got photo re-touching software following her around all day.
She doesn't look as good as she does in her videos!
What a fucking slut!
What a lazy, slatternly, fishwife bitch!
Etc etc.
You know perfectly well what the fuck I'm talking about.
And so here's the picture of Posh looking vaguely ruffled in the morning.
Amazing. She looks almost vaguely dour and less than goddess-like.

Except!

Lookit!

Tee Hee!

How pant-shittingly hilarious of me.
It's not Posh Spice at all.
It's Sonia Sutcliffe. Back in 1981-ish.

Unfortunately, I've got myself all fucking confused writing this, and now I feel sorry for Posh and all the other slebs what have twats with cameras following their every bowel movement in hope of a topless shot and what have you.

Not to mention having to put up with fat, useless, donkey-cum rags like myself, sitting around in their own cyber-effluent and saying any old hurtful, hateful thing that comes into their bitter and jealous, tiny little noggins.
Just because they can.

Dear Victoria and David,
I am truly sorry if I've caused you any offence, or upset either of you in any way. I'll be fucking surprised if I have, because if I know anything about anything, the moon will turn into a gigantic testicle before you ever get wind that I ever even fucking existed, let alone mentioned you in this hideous place.
In the gargantuanly improbable event that you do though, I hope you are able to find solace in the fact that I only write such horrible things about people that I've never met and don't know the first thing about, because I am a deeply unhappy and unsatisfied human being who never achieved a single solitary thing with her life, and is massively angry, astonishingly bitter, and so twisted up by a cancerous jealousy of such galactic proportions that if you could draw a diagram of it in Excel, your computer would shit in your face, and go out and kill someone.

I'm a twat.

In fact.

As I like to think I am frequently at pains to point out, lest any of you get the idea I think I'm actually clever in some way.

I cannot even spell morrel hi graunde.

But.

And I couldn't go without one. (But)

I feel honour-bound to include the next picture.

Because: "I don't have an eating disorder. I'm just disciplined."

Is so way up there with -

I only drink to be sociable.

I'm not fat. I'm just big-boned.

I fell down the stairs. He does really love me.

and

We have to run this shit-hole like a death-camp if we want to maintain the democratic freedoms we value so very highly indeed.

And other such nuggets of compartmentalised, reality denying, utter horseshit from 20,000 leagues in outer space on drugs with a proboscis monkey up it's greasy arsehole.

Oh yeahhhhhhh.

shit right off, can't you see I'm fucking dead?

2006-06-28T20:50:00.000Z

Just bought two brilliant England flags.
The kind for sticking on the tops of your car doors, that are fucking everywhere right now.
I've stapled mine to my head.
I'm that fucking patriotic me.
My boss the doctor isn't that keen on it, as a look.

"Get the fuck out of my office. And don't let me see your sorry, stupid, not to mention unbelievably ugly, like a burns victim's, face again, until you've had those fucking flags surgically removed. You fucking gigantic imbecile."

Which is great. The spirit of patriotism moves deep within me.
No way am I going to strike these colours that don't run, you liberal bitch.
I'm not going back to work again.
I'm way too fiercely proud of my country for that shit.
And what a country.
It's fucking brilliant being able to show the world how much you fucking love our little slice of der Homeland, alongside all the other proud, patriotic folk who are doing it too.

It's great.

Come on England.

Fucking love shouting that at every imaginable opportunity.

Except, it is a bit weird when you think about it.

Loudly telling someone, or everyone, or god or something, to lob man-fat all over your favourite country.

Jizz on Japan.
Spunk on Sweden.
Cry out your Jap's eye on Croatia.

Come on England.
Come on England.
Damp patch in Swindon.

Fuck it.

I'm so fucking tired of this planet full of two-time fucking losers.
What is the fucking matter with you cunts?
Whichever way the obviously very nigh end of the world is patiently sneaking up on us from, the fucker really can't come soon enough for my liking.
Seriously. What's the fucking point in you lot?
Try justifying the existence of yourself, your country, or your species, and see how far you get, before I sick up a massive and furious dreadnought of discustard in your idiot fucking face.
I'm laughing so hard.

No far.

That's where.

You can't.

Don't even begin to try one of those totally unconvincing fucking speeches that James T Kirk and Doctor Who are always spouting at Daleks and Klingons and what not, to try and convince them that humans are great, actually, and please don't annihilate every last man jack of us, Davros mate.

"Imagination, emotions, love, culture, music, beauty, irrational yet feistily determined dimwits perpetually hoping and searching and..."

Fuck.

Off.

Bunch of miserable, stupid, dull, snivelling, cruel, pointless, self-regarding, hateful, murderous, greedy, brutal, colourless, boring, vicious, stupid stupid stupid stupid and stupid, fucking morons from Satan's arse like the universe has never fucking seen. Utter fucking cunts of the highest order.

I love Summer.

Rudolf Steiner Wants Me For a Bike Lamp

2006-05-01T14:54:00.000Z

Look at Martin and Judith there. The Millers.

Okay Jude, so this is our big book that we're going to sell to loads of people. Spread a big handul of jam all over your face so you look like you've just stuck it in a nuclear reactor. There, that's lovely.

Well mister, in that case, you can make sure you've got your best demented and boss-eyed stare of a cannibal mutant on, you silly thing you. I wouldn't like our public to get the wrong idea.

The Millers want to inspire you shitless into enjoying the Christmas season in a practical way.

Which as you might imagine, involves doing more glasschewingly pointless and stupid things with doyleys and cloves and fruit and silver paper and Brandy than I care to relate here for even a second. So I shan't. If you're that interested, buy the book. Most good charity shops have a copy in stock. It's where mine came from.

Try, just make the mental leap for a second.

Try and imagine being someone who saw the book when it came out in 1992 and actually went: "Brilliant, a pair of clearly dangerous homicidal sociopaths have published a book about enjoying Christmas in a traditional way. How simply divine. I must have a copy. Oh and it only costs £14.99; a snip! I'd gladly pay more than twice that sum to have sexually negated barnfreaks lecture me about how to varnish glitter-coated walnuts in the correct fashion. Over the course of 200 highly illustrated pages. Many in colour."

No, me neither.

Any fa hucking how.

Once they've got you to feverishly deck absolutely every square inch of available wall space in your house with boughs of holly and red round things and candles stuck into the arse of a hedghog you've spraypainted gold. And you've finished buying every last comestible that your local supermarket sells, including the pizzas, which the Millers encourage you to give a traditional Christmas flavour to, by pouring Brandy all over them. Once you've totally shat your house up and filled it with more food glazed in honey and nutmeg than your entire extended family could ever eat in a lifetime, then they invite you to stare, spellbound and slackjawed in uncomprehending terror, as they run you through some photographs which purport to show them, the Millers, and their obviously deviant acquaintances that they've asked round for a big nosh-up, while they indulge in the art of a Traditional Christmas Dinner and soiree. Well, I ask you. Bastards.

Here's the photos then.

I see Roger decided to wear his Butlins uniform again Mildred. What kind of a cunt is he?

Oh I know Ken, it's so embarrassing. If he didn't have a cock the size and shape of a 33% extra can of Tennents Super with a bell-end on it, I'd have divorced him years ago.

Once the arse has passed out drunk, like he always does, is there any chance you might consider thrashing me insensible with a holly branch again? It made my Christmas last year.

Oh you old romantic fool. Go on then.

So ever since I left the practice and became a full time Swiss Toni look-a-like, I haven't looked back.

That's great Bill. Look up there; I'll just point discreetly, with my finger behind the candle here, I don't want to show off. Do you see it? I wrapped a swan in silver foil and nailed it to the mantle piece.

You're an artist Judith. Martin doesn't deserve you.

Bill, how sweet of you. Do you want to see my breasts? they're still very firm for a woman of my age and Martin always said my massively oversized nipples were my crowning glory.

I'd like that very much indeed Judith. If you were to let me see your breasts, then I would support them gently, one in each hand like this, and sing them a Christmas carol while I drip brandy on them, before slurping it all up off your reputedly magnificent nipples through my carefully coiffeured Ron Jeremy moustache.

Oh Bill, you silver-tongued devil.

What? Did you decorate it while I wasn't looking?

Ahahahahahahaha! Oh you wag.

Good, whatever, once Martin's got those two tarts drunk enough to go up to his room with him, I'm taking you from behind over the manger display.

Bill!! Hahahahahahaha!

Magiiiic!

Meanwhile: inside the febrile drink-frazzled and dreaming bonce of Roger the wannabe a Redcoat....

...Arreet pal? Gi'z 'poond y'fuck'n bazz'd.

What? No! I haven't got any money!

Looks like me n'm'palz here're gon'fuck'n hafta tek whit th'fuck w'fuckn can then, eh? Reet la's, hafth'fucker's breeks off pronto!

Get off me! Help! Police!

Fuck'n hell la's: th' fucker's ainly gaut a fuck'n Can o'Soopah fer a fuck'n knoab! Pin th'cunt doon! Ah'm havin' th'fust sweg oota that byuti, eh?

Slurp.

HelllllllllllllllllPPPPPPPPP! Scabby alcoholics with shitly badly colloquialised accents are sucking beer out my frothy bell-end!

Aye'sa fuck'n miracle tha'is. Yuir oor fuck'n bitch noo pal. Yuir cumm'n weth us tae live. Fer fuck'n eva. Och aye, whit a fuck'n byuti! This fuck'n bazz'd peshes fuck'n sesspercen' fuck'n lagga! Ah fuck'n luv th'cunt!

MummmmmeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!

What's that darling? "Get off my winky, you horrible Scotch tramp bastards?"

Ffmmffnarrr....???? Eh? What?
Oh! Oh. Ah ha ha ha hahahaha!
Oh, did you like my joke? I was pretending to be asleep and having a nightmare! Did you think I really was? Oh ha ha, silly darling, I caught you out with that one.

Yes Roger. You're way too crafty for me.

Yes. Yes I am a very funny man aren't I? Do you know where the
bog is in this ludicrously over-festooned dump? I think I'm going to have to be ill. That Brandied Guinea Fowl in Cinnamon nutmeg ginger sage & onion chestnut bread sauce with rum flavoured mistletoe sausages and custard was a bit rich. See you in a minute or two.

I'm divorcing you Roger. I hope you choke on it.

Lovely darling, yes, I love you too, tatty bye for a minuetto.

Berk.

That's right Pamela, you upper-class hooer, you are fully under my hypnotic mind-freak power and will do everything I say, add two more noughts to the figure on the cheque I am making you write. Ha ha, I bet your fucking knickers smell of roses don't they? Rich tarts like you wouldn't even have given me a first fucking look, back when I was working me beef dripping stall on the market and didn't have a pot to fucking piss in. Now look at you. Since I married that inbred twat Judith on account of the bung what her Daddy put my way to get her out of his, if you catch my drift, and you silly arseholes can't wait to get your well-bred backsides round our gaff for one of Judith's legendarily indigestible, traditional country-house organic brandy-soaked victorian kitchen garden wisdom of my Grandmother's larder Christmas gluttony festivals. Har! Look at you, writing me a cheque for a'undred grand and you don't even know what's coming next. Hahahaaa! In a minute I will click my fingers and you will remember nothing of this trance state, before I do however, I will leave you with one last post-hypnotic suggestion: when you awake, you will be filled with an irresistible and powerfully erotic urge to get done up the gary really hard and for ages, by the next leering jackanapes in a mind-altering weskit that offers you a bunch of bonsai roses. Click!

Martin ducks out his chair and round to the one on the other side of the de-trancing and momentarily still-dazed Pamela.

Pamela! I picked these especially for you from my bonsaitorium. Do you like them?

Ooh Martin! How sweet of you. Oh they're wonderful. But, oh, oh golly, I do feel... feel so very...

Yes Pamela?

Very... Martin?

Yes?

Would you mind showing me the way to a room upstairs that I don't know the way to?

But Pamela, what on earth for?

I'll tell you when we get there you leering jackanapes, just get a fucking move on I'm dying for it.

Right you are then.

Nice waistcoat by the way.

Thanks, Gyles Brandreth gave me it for my 40th.

Drawing a timely veil over the greasy flailings going on up at the manor, I leave you with this one last photo of Martin & Judith being wassailed something mental by the local youth of the village. Or something.

Little do the unsuspecting carollers realise, however, but one tiny bite of those entirely tempting looking simnel sweetbreads en croute au cognac with a cheesy topping and they'll be waking up in Martin and Judies' sub-basement rumpus room with a rohypnol hangover and no immediately apparent means of escape.
A merry Christmas one and all!

Crucifixion? Yes Please!

2006-04-30T20:46:00.000Z

This letter here was sent to a Showbiz talent agency of some description, whose address was indeed the one you see on the envelope.

People would often send love letters or sex letters or hate letters, any kind of mad letter, to the celebrity object of their affection. Or whatever it was they felt for them. They apparently believed that the agency would dutifully pass on to their high profile high earning clientele any and all jiffy bags full of knickers or spunky tissue that any jackass cared to post them. Rather oddly.

The agency moved out the building. But letters still arrived for them. And one day whilst walking past the big pile of unwanted spam and piss, I couldn't help but notice that somebody called

Muhammad Shamsid Deen

had posted this envelope to er, Billy Idol.

I'm sorry but I fucking had to be curious.

So I stole the letter thus breaking a law I think, and opened it, breaking another, and found inside the envelope the following business card.

Riverside Neuron of Fucking What? Accompanying the business card was a 4 page A5 pamphlet with the title "You Must Know This Man".
Which devotes itself to quite sweetly extolling the many many virtues of the prophet Muhammad, peace and blessings of Almighty God be upon him.

I looked up the Neuron. It is somehow incorporated into the American Association of Teachers of Arabic. Fair enough. Muhammad Shamsid Deen must be one of their teachers maybe. Whatever. He has to work somewhere.

What I want to know however, is what. The. Fuck. Did Muhammad expect to achieve by mailing an advert for Islam to Billy fucking Idol?

For fuck sake.

I can only presume that he was in fact trying to do his bit with regards being a good Muslim. Which I would bet involves trying to get other people to join in the fun too. And our Muhammad Shamsid Deen is a bit of an innovator and has decided to think big. He is sick to fuck of getting called Sabu every time he tries handing out his leaflets at the local mall. He will get a big time celebrity to speak for Islam and their fame and cachet will help to convert untold thouasands to the cause. If those Scientologist assholes can do it, so can we, he figures.

So he sits in the lounge of his house in California, forcing himself to watch MTV with gritted teeth. Bravely and stoically enduring all the sinful fornicatory imagery of western godless decadence at it's most concentrated. Ploughing through endless hours of Huey Lewis, Whitney Houston and Bon Jovi videos.

Watching and waiting. Patiently. Like a saint. Except they're Catholics. Waiting for the one. The one rock star who shows to him a sign that he is worthy to be the voice of the prophet for a generation. Like Madonna was for Coke and what have you. He explains to his even more patient than he is type wife.

And then one day, there he is!

Ner ner nerr, ner ne noww, Nice day for a, white weddinnnggggg! Yeah! Grunt! Hrrarrgh! I'm Billy Fucking Idol me, Ner ner nerrr, little sister what have you done? Hey little sister shotgun! Cor Blimey! etc.

And Muhammad Shamsid Deen wrote down his name. Looked up who represents him. Got it utterly wrong, cos I'll bet you a fuckpile those two bit bastards on Floral Street didn't not ever have Billy Idol as a client. And posted him a little brochure saying that Muhammad (peace be upon him) is wicked guy.

Then he'd just have to sit back and wait. Billy would read the pamphlet, exclaim:

Fuck. All this rock'n'roll shit is for the birds. I'm fucking sick of being able to say, I'm Billy Idol, to any six foot blonde with tits like prize-winning canteloupes and have her fuck my head off shortly thereafter. I hate all the free drugs and parties and being able to run around on stage rubbing my groin at massive crowds of well-fed and eager to please, moist-fannied girls in hot pants and leather. It's shit.

Islam is clearly where it's at. How can I have been so blind? Tony, get this Muhammad Shamsid Deen guy on the blower right this fucking minute. I want to find out more about this Islam stuff, and if there's anything I can do for them publicity-wise, tell him I'm in there like fucking Flynn.

And we could all have a good laugh at the naivety of Shamsid Deen. Because this was patently never going to happen. Except.

Except you can't actually totally blame him for thinking he was in with a bit of a chance. His uncle Younis done the same thing over thirty years ago to Cat fucking Stevens and no-one called him a twat then.

Lavatorium

2006-04-30T13:39:00.000Z

Hello and bollocks.

Today on "Pointless Fucking Wastes of Effort" I'm going to be looking at shit toys for idiot kids, on the Planet of the Twats.

First we have the lovely Diana. From the "Career Girl" range. Diana's chosen career appears to involve being a soldier of some sort. Hey that's great, that's Grrl power. Brilliant. Sisters are doing it for themselves and all that.

Equality in this sense meaning that women get a crack at being equally big cocksucking apeths as men. Fantastic.

Although, looking at the eclectic choice of hi-tech sub machine gun and wild west revolver, coupled with the kind of camouflage popular with South American militias and survivalist arse suckers from Montana, it's anybody's guess whether our Diana is actually working for one of those nice armies that is only interested in making sure everybody has all the democracy they can eat, or is instead involved with a rogue and bad and evil military organisation that isn't remotely interested in democracy and foolishly neglected to have the industrial and financial clout to get all it's murdering declared officially legal and cool.

Just in case you're interested, the other occupations available in the career girl range seem to be a thrusting get-ahead TV news anchor woman, a nurse, and four different prostitutes in hideous pink outfits.

Take a look at Diana's hands. She is shit. She can't even carry the fucking great big chunky guns they give her. Her hands seem to have been modelled to closely resemble Dennis Potter's just before he died.

Note the advice on the label to "retain the packaging for future reference."
Could they be thinking of some possible future date when somebody you know might say: "I really hate my friends' kids, they're a right pair of bastards. It's the girl's birthday next week and I've been racking my brains trying to think of something to buy for her that's so shit she'll cry all the way through her birthday and never expect or want anything off me again. What should I do?" Whereupon you can whip out your carefully retained Diana The Career Girl packaging, wave it in your friend's blotchy, booze-wrecked face and say: "Here you go cock. If you can find a toy any shitter than this, it will actually be a piece of real shit." And your friend will be as pleased as his friend's daughter soon won't be.

It is of course a lot more likely that the only possible reason you might ever need to refer to this packaging "in future" would be to very effectively remind yourself never to buy a toy quite so catastrophically fucking rubbish in every imaginable respect ever again as long as you live so help you god.

There she is. One more close up before we finish. She wears too much make-up, has a shit David Dickinson fake tan and probably dyes her hair too. The cheap slut. Who also happens to be a mercenary in the Belgian Congo.

I met a chap once, who bullishly asserted that Vietnam used to be the Belgian Congo.

I tried to stop my eyes bugging out on stalks, laughing in his face and shouting "Fucking what? No it wasn't you mad cunt. The Congo has always been in Africa, never relocated to South-East Asia for a sabbatical during which it might try and "find itself", and to the best of my knowledge is still to be found, resolutely brutal and corrupt as fucking fuckery, sitting smack in the fucking middle of the same continent it's been a part of for the last untold billion years you stupid ill-informed fuck." Only just managed it, and politely deferred to his obviously much greater knowledge of geo-politics. He was wont to get tetchy to the point of battering people, my host had informed me earlier. Especially if you tell him he looks like a wizard.
I swear to god.

Next up, I bring you the utterly charming "Grenade Squirter". (It may well be "cute" and "funky" too for all I fucking know. I am a poor judge of these things. ) A fruit flavour compressed candy novelty that looks like a hand grenade and acts as a water pistol, once the fat blobby little fiend that owns it has scarfed all the fruit flavour compressed candy shrapnel inside, at any rate.

It is in absolutely no way tasteless or testicle crushingly sick as fuck, that anybody could have thought that it was okay to design manufacture and then market the Grenade Squirter on a planet where real anti-personnel devices such as ooh I don't know fucking cluster bomblets to pick a random example out a hat are actually specifically designed to appeal to kids so that they pick them up and get their hands blown off and a chest so full of supersonic plastic needles they'd make a pin-cushion feel better about it's lot. No. It is just ironic. It's a fucking hoot. Ha ha. I'm laughing so hard I just puked shit out my nose.
See Janet, see the fruit flavour compressed candy shrapnel.

Yes John, the fruit flavour compressed candy shrapnel is really fucking brilliant.

Yep.

Here's the labels, for the sake of completeness if nothing else. Depicted therein we see a child of such a powerfully paramilitary bent he makes our old mate Darren Haig look like a flower waving peacenik. And he knew the proper German names of all the major SS divisions by the age of 8. Bless him.

And whilst it is not okay, according to the label, to let a child of under 3 years of age play with this piece of shit, we do, reassuringly, live in a world where it is entirely socially acceptable to carry on gleefully rubbing your cock as you rake in your disgusting and absolutely massive profits selling people machines which fill men women and children full of very fast very small very hot pieces of metal or plastic or phosphor or napalm so that they die either very quickly or very very slowly or are injured and maimed in so many different ways there's a whole field of medical publishing dedicated to describing them all. That's very enterprising of you. If you went around doing that to people for a hobby, we'd have to arrest you pretty sharpish. But seeing as you've found a way to make an absolute shit pile of money, did we mention we're quite fond of money? out of doing it, we're going to leave you alone to get on with it, maybe give you export assistance grants, and probably offer you an advisory and/or ministerial role in the government, how's that sound? You clever, entrepreneurial, evil like Satan mass murdering cocksucker you.

Lastly, you'll be glad to hear, is the frankly astonishing: Police Shield. There it is. Now, Police Shield is one thing you can relatively legitimately call it. It is a shield. And the police use them. Police. Shield. Allow me to fucking irritatingly point out however that the more commonly used and widely accepted term used to describe such things, it's name in fact, is

A fucking Riot Shield. It's a riot shield.

Look, it says "Invincibility" on it. Which is short for, "Don't even think about committing a crime when you're grown up you little shit. We are the fuzz. We are Invincible. We are unstoppable. We always get our man. There is no escape. We are the Police. You are just a nothing. We can stomp on you any way we please and we will be right and you will be dead locked away and forgotten. Because we are the law. And you are nothing. We are the law. You are nothing."

Which is a nice subliminal psychic sentiment to implant in the minds of impressionable youngsters C'est non? Fucking invincibility. Jesus. Who the fuck made this toy? The Maggot-winky'd Overcompensating Insecure Sexual Spastic Novelty Company Limited?

Now, discounting for a moment the argument that for a child to play with any toy police gear like a plastic helmet and truncheon set is for them to unknowingly hypnotise themselves into believing that the enforcers of our repression are actually harmless friendly story book characters that rescue cats and tell stupid old ladies to turn their ovens off when their cakes are burning.

Because that is plainly a load of shit.

I still have to say that the main thing that gets up my very sensitive hooter about this so-called fucking toy, is the fact that it is a piece of kit specifically used for controlling public disturbances. Crushing displays of popular unrest. Stopping riots. Do they manufacture teeny infant sized cans of replica pepper spray and tazers too? Do they publish a junior edition easy reading version of the public order offences bill so that your kids can spot each other milling around in potential security risk sized crowds of two or less and lock each other up indefinitely in their Belmarsh play set without trial? Do they? Do they? Do they? Fucking hell I'm a dull bastard.

Here's the implacable face of invincible infallible authority anyway. Cross-eyed fucking bender. Look at his mouth. One side's smiling and the other's grumpy. Who is this cunt? Is he nice cop nasty cop in one unpleasant and unpredictable schizophrenic package? Who cares? His nose is shiny, he wears lip gloss, and he's a fascist bitch. Fuck him. And his gay as bumsex Village People uniform for maintaining VERY STRICT DISCIPLINE. Yep. We must maintain order. We must remain firm. Ooh spank me I've been fucking naughty.

And they're selling it in Camberwell. Which is only down the road from Brixton. Which is where real riots happened once. You imagine someone who got shit beat out of him by riot coppers back then, and now his fucking kids come in the house with his new toy the Police Shield?

Sorry son, that's going in the fucking bin now.

Why Dad? It's my great new toy and I like it.

Son, do you know what "the man" means?

No Dad.

Did I ever explain to you about "Babylon"?

Don't think so.

Right then, grab a can of Nurishment, sit down and fucking listen, there's somethings you need to know...

Next week we take a look at Barbie and Ken's cute as all heck Gas-Chamber activity centre, currently selling by the cartload in downtown Tel Aviv, and the hottest new toy sensation this year in all the poorest and blackest bits of the American South: Ku Klux Klan Action-Man and his excitingly white-robed nightrider friends.

Alternatively, switch over to BBC cunt for some other patronising white gruntymuncher pretending he gives a fuck about black people and can in any way understand empathise or relate to them in a million years. You fucking idiot. Quick, buy something!

punt runt stunt dunt hunt bunt shunt sprunt blunt brunt grunt strunt sederunt and that's about the lot I think

2006-03-07T20:35:00.000Z

Above the noise like an emphysemic traction engine that my shit computer makes, I can hear the radio downstairs.

It is relaying the sound of a pack of intellectual Belemnites braying at each other.

The debate in the House today is over ID cards, "through the back door".

Well, ha ha, ha hum: they may as well shove that bit of legislation the same place that they made sure we had to take every other bit of draconian junta law lately.

Let us accept ID cards in our tradesman's and be done.

Unless?

No, actually god damn it, if you're going to do this shit to us, at least do it properly.

I'll show you what I mean. I've got The Book here somewhere...

Ah, here it is, um, I think it's chapter 5, ah, yep, this is the bit I was thinking of:

"Using the techniques you learned in the first four chapters, you should by now, have successfully managed to reduce your entire population to a grunting herd of sponge-minded, venal, self-obsessed, fannyhatting berkfaced bastards.

They will have actually begun to think that the steelboots and strongarm state that they're living in is really peachy and neato cool, and you will be able to get away with just about any old bollocks.

One of the first things you should do at this point is really ram home who's boss, and demonstrate to yourself that there truly are no limits any more, to the irrational harmifications you can inflict on your "citizens" purely for the sake of your own erections.

The all time most effective method for doing this, is to compel every man woman and child in the country to have an identificatory serial-number, torturingly seared onto their forearms with a red-hot numberstamp branding-iron thing.

By trotting out the same fork-tongued bullshit that cunts like us always justify ravening bestialities of this sort with:

"Help tackle terrorists and criminals using stolen identities and prevent identity fraud and with the real problems people have today with identity fraud, which is a major, major issue; illegal immigration; organised crime: it's just the sensible thing to do."

For example."

That's how to fucking do it you gayer. Not fucking puffy little whoops a daisy girl's blouse fucking ID cards. That's just bent and shit and a half fucking measure.

If you're going to insist on thinking like a nazi prick, then for fuck sake act like a proper one.

I do not want to end my days in a Cool Britannian Extermination Camp where I am served five portions of fruit and veg a day from a menu specially devised by Carol Caplin and Jamie Oliver.

Before my final solution, where I am made to wear a crash helmet for my own safety, before an estate agent sonderkommando drives his stupid fucking garishly coloured "new" mini with a big number on the side like a racing team, hey, we're all like, a team, you know? - god the wag who thought that wheeze up needs a medal he really does, the guy's a fucking genius - backwards and forwards over my face, until I'm really really dead and it's time for his next Mocc-a-fucking-chino.

Cunt.

Have the fucking balls. Have the chutzpah and the pzazz. Have the bold rapscallion roguish effrontery. Have the sense of Grand Guignol. For crying out fucking loud:

to wear the exciting kinky boots

to do the Sturm und Drang marches

to build the killing factories

liquidate my estate with tanks and dogs

burn my family in a pit in a field in Coalville

put me in a proper fucking camp with razor wire and machine guns and nothing on the menu but death on toast.

I want real fucking Matthausen jim-jams. Not those fucking Gay-Lo day-glo pieces of orange shit you're pimping this season

medical experiments on the infirm and the dribbly: fuck up whole towns full of twins with a scalpel and a poisons cupboard

flame throwers

pave the way to the ovens with the gravestones of my loved ones and play Wagner performed by Rammstein while you march us quick-step goose-step-aerobics to the lime-pits

get Vincent Price back from the dead and make him fly around over the execution huts on a jet-pack while he pisses cholera septic battery effluent over the orderly naked queues of baldies

pay his wages in the skulls of our children

Go on.

I fucking double dare you.

You're the fucking man now, so fucking act like it.

Just go hog wild and use your fucking imagination, and at least let this fourth Reich cum culmination of the CounterRevolution actually fucking rock.

You fucking gay, you cunt, you shit disgusting queer, ponce, crusty fucking spunk-bubble of a piss weak excuse for a proper fucking nazi;

YOU! ARE! SHIT!

Do it fucking right.

Or don't fucking do it at all.

Arsehole.

Twat-Aid

2006-01-22T20:52:00.000Z

I was watching a Jack Black DVD the other day. I'm not proud. And heard screaming outside my window. It went on for a bit longer than the screaming of high-spirited teen-agers usually does, so I thought I'd take a look in case someone was getting a fence post shoved up their nose or something interesting like that.

It was a lad of around 18 and a girl maybe 2 or 3 years younger.

And two dogs.

One dog had it's jaws firmly locked onto the neck of the other.

The girl, and the smaller dog with another dog hanging off it's neck, were doing the screaming.

And the lad couldn't do anything much to stop any of it.

The girl was distraught.

The lad looked a little out of his depth.

Another, slightly older lad, came running from some distance away and I said to myself, "He's never going to do the finger up the arse thing is he?"

As sure as god made little apples and before you could say Jack Robinson, the newly arrived lad took charge of the situation by unequivocally and in no uncertain terms jamming his right index finger straight up the aggressor dog's bumhole.

And holding it there.

While the dog took absolutely no notice of him whatsoever.

And continued to savage the living bollocks off of the smaller dog.

The new lad shouted at the blubbing girl to get help and she ran off as instructed.

Leaving the two of them to gingerly try to separate Cujo from it's victim.

Taking it in turns to put their fingers up his furious doggy shitter.

I noticed one of them, I can't remember which, practically fucking the dog with his finger once they realised a straightfoward single insertion didn't seem to be having any effect. Like an idiot repeatedly pressing a lift call or pelican crossing button to make it work faster.

Neither of them dared actually give him a serious enough belt to make him think that perhaps stopping ripping the neck out of another dog might be an idea worth considering.

Mostly because they knew he'd start on them if they did.

Eventually they succeeded in prising the two dogs apart using the stout lead and harness they had on him, lots of finger/bum action, and shouting "fucking gerroffim y'cunt!" ever such a lot.

Once the devil dog was off his victim you could see that it was a Bill Sykes style Bull Terrier.

Most of it's face was red with the other dog's blood.

It was totally psyched up and badly wanted to carry on chewing the smaller dog's head off, and it snarled and growled like a wolverine full of Viagra.

The lad who had it on the lead, who was not a small person by any means, was having a difficult time holding the dog back.

The other dog looked like a Pitbull/Staff/Rotweiller puppy, and did not seem very well.

The Bull Terrier was led away by the older lad, while the younger lad waited for the girl to return, and assessed the damage to the puppy.

And that was where my interest waned, and I went back to watching the film. Which was okay, but not as good as School of Rock. There you go.

Now, I know I've gone on before now, about how utterly and irredeemably shit in every conceivable way dogs are, but after seeing this little interlude I'm afraid I'm forced to ask:

What - in the name of weeping fuck - is going on, when every tracksuit wearing redneck halfwit spastic on the street is accompanied by a small panther that may require anal intervention in the actually not all that unlikely event of it's getting the wind up and going fucking berserk on ooh just about anything's ass?

Is this a sensible thing? Is this a desirable thing? Should more people in fact be dragging unpredictably maniacal carnivorous attack animals around town with them as a matter of course?

Should people be forced by law to walk Jaguars, Hippos and crocodiles here and there? Badly trained and irritable "guard" crocodiles that "only bite if you look them in the eye."

Of course they fucking should.

Buy me a Rhodesian Ridgeback.

Inject him full of monkey glands, caffeine and steroids. Hit him with sticks for a fortnight. Give him a head-mounted bark-activated machine gun.

He's my "guard" dog. For protection.

Fuck that, I want a bionic Siberian tiger that's had a brain operation to put a switch in his head so I can just press a radio control and he'll erupt into a 600lb black and orange orgy of grievous bodily maiming that will leave any busy high street cleared of all sentient life in under a minute. He's great with the kids. He's so friendly.

And in response to the suggestion that it's not the dog's fault, it's the owners, I would like to respond by saying:

a.) Hm Ha, well that's true, I suppose, in a way. And it is also a lot of fucking shit out of a pelican's scrotoid beak sack in so many other ways I couldn't possibly count them if I lived to be older than god.

and

b.) Faced with these two extreme and seemingly irreconcilable points of view, maybe if we all try to empathise with each other quite a bit, and really listen to the opinions of both sides ever so carefully.

Maybe then, and only then, can we can come to some kind of para-dialectic solution to the problem. One which takes into account the wider social situation, poverty, education, and male gender role conditioning and disenfranchisement and things.

And once we'd done all that, we could maybe please see to it that both the mindless god-awful throat-tearing machines on legs and the ultrascum asswad pissfuckers that choose to own them, are all left to duke it out Wesley Snipes style, in a large stadium-like enclosure saturated with vapourised aggression pheromones and the drug out of Jacob's Ladder, (The "Ladder", I believe it was called), and if anything was left moving after six hours, then the SAS would be allowed in armed with golf clubs and nail-tipped sjamboks to finish off the survivors.

Televise the fucker on pay per view and you'd not only pay for the cost of rounding them all up in Japanese 4x4s you'd borrowed off the Taliban, you'd make a very big amount of money indeed too.

It's the only sane and humane answer to the problem, as I see it.

And I'm a cunt.

As I believe I may also have mentioned previously.

Prevents Mud Sticking to Spades

2005-11-25T18:24:00.000Z

Morning Doctor.

Good morning Mr Klafoutis. What seems to be the problem?

Oh. I'm not really bothered.

Well, I'm sure it seems like it's just some trifling thing that you don't want to trouble me with, but if you just tell me what your symptoms are, I'll be the judge of whether it's a real problem or not.

No, sorry, that is the problem. My problem is that I don't care.

What about?

Anything.

Why did you bother coming to see me then?

It's starting to annoy my wife, she made me come.

I see.

Okay, well let's try this then. It's our standard test for this sort of thing. I read some statements out, and you tell me how you feel about them. Okay?

Fine.

George Best is dead.

Hmm ha.

Ricky Martin likes spanking.

Hmm ha.

The genocide in Darfur has stopped.

Really.

Yep, but only because the Janjaweed have very conscientiously managed to kill absolutely everybody there and haven't got anything left to do now. Other than start raping and killing each other, and there's a few weeks to go yet before they get that bored.

Hmm haaaaaaaaa.

Iran's enriching it's Uranium.

Hum. Hoo.

Bird flu?

I may start snoring.

The future will be awful.

Hmm.

The future may be great.

Ha.

You're going to die.

Well that's a bonus.

Your family are all being dragged off to experiment camps.

Hmm.

You're going to die in prison.

Ha.

Everyone you know thinks you're a shit.

I know. Good.

Your Mum and Dad didn't want you.

I didn't especially want them.

You'll never amount to more than a hill of beans.

I was hoping to avoid doing so. That's a relief.

You will catch cancer of the lymph system and it will drag on for an unusually long time for such a deadly illness, but the necrotising fasciitis you develop as a complication will make your last 3 months of life especially crap.

Yawn.

Well Mr Klafoutis, I would have to say that you do seem to be scoring quite low on my psychometric arsedness test. Just how does this lack of concern seem to affect you?

I just don't care. I don't give a fuck. I can't tell you how uninterested I am.
I'm uninvolved to the Nth degree.
I. Can. Not. Be. Arsed.
Nothing matters.
Do what you like.
Kill people. Kill yourself. Set fire to stuff. Drop things off a tall building.
Shit in a font.
While there's a christening going on.
See what fucking difference it makes. None.
It won't make any difference.
I have ceased to care in any way about any thing.
When faced with the ever unfolding majesty of life's rich pageant in all it's heart-stopping jaw dropping splendour, I remain emotionally numb like a skag xombie with Asperger's.
I've had my capacity to give a single good god damn, reduced to a terminal cold and arctic absence.
I don't even watch the telly any more.

Fine, well that's fairly unequivocal then. Here, I want you to take some of these.

What are they?

Prozac, Cyanide, what the fuck do you care? Take three a day just after meals and if you still can't give a shit about anything in a fortnight, chuck yourself in front of a tiger or something.

Will that help?

Seems unlikely, but it'll save me having to talk to you ever again, you really are a horribly dull little cunt.

Yeah I know. Well, thanks for the pills. I suppose I'd better go now, stop taking up all your time and let you get on with looking after people with real problems, eh?

I do wish you would.

Right. Just a minute though.

Hang on a second, what the fuck are you doing? Get off my desk!

Oooffph. That's better.

You fucking lunatic you just shit on my desk.

I know, I needed a crap.

But you did it on my desk.

So what?

It's my fucking desk is what, you stupid cunt. How the fuck am I supposed to see my next patient with a steaming great turd sitting there on my desk next to my stethoscope?

Dunno. Don't care. S'your fucking problem now isn't it you twat? I'm off to shit in a font. There's a christening starting at St Mary's in 20 minutes and I'll just be able to make it if I get the next tube. Not that I care one way or the other you understand.

Please get out of my office Mr Klafoutis.

Whatever. Doesn't make any difference to me cock.

Go!

Right you are. Bye then.

Good bye.

Elaine, can you come in here with a dustpan please? Yes, I'm terribly sorry, I'm afraid another one's done it. Thanks.

The Big Inning Was The End.

2005-11-10T20:07:00.000Z

Ruddyhard Crippling and His Just So Full of Shit Stories,
Part ONE: How the Whale Became (hunted near unto extinction)

According to Anthropologists. Or Archaeologists. I can't be buffed to check which, and as ever, who the fuck cares?

According to people with degrees in Boffinology regarding old stuff to do with people:

A particular feature of near-human hominid type, whatever the fuck they were, skull morphology, that indicates that their larynxes had developed to the stage where they were capable of speech, is apparently, a pronounced U-shaped indentation at the back of the roof of the mouth.

Modern humans have it. And we can speak.

Monkey things all the way up to sort of around the time of Neanderthals and Cro-Magnons didn't have it,
and they couldn't speak.

So any Neanderthals or Cro-Magnons' skulls turn up with big dents inside them, at the back of the roof of the mouth, it means that these particular monkey men things probably could talk. It would seem.

Monkeys running around screeching at each other. No dent in skull at the back of the roof of the mouth. For millions of years.

Then somewhere between 50 and 100 thousand years ago, and now there are monkeys running around talking to each other, sporting a not inconsiderable dent in the back of the roof of their mouth.

Millions of years of grunting and arm-swinging to make a point, and NO dent in the skull at the back of the roof of the mouth.

And suddenly, one day not so terribly long ago by comparison, you've got fuckers talking language words about all kinds of stone-age shit. Everywhere you look. And every last one of them has got a great big DENT in their skulls, at the back of the roof of their mouth.

And it's important because the day they started talking, is the day they starting being human.

Depending on what you mean by that, but to all intents and purposes, and for argument's sake: people.

When they learned to think. Properly. and not just about bananas and running away from things.

If you can describe the world that you're in, using a particular set of sounds arranged in the proper order, that everyone you know, and everyone most everybody else knows, has agreed mean something very specific.

If you can make the leap of intelligence that pigs can, but dogs can't, that something can be a symbol of, or represent, something else altogether, then it would seem you qualify as a thinking being. A human in this case. God help you.

That's what they say anyway.

Something like that.

Well, ever curious about stuff generally, The Kennington Fox has been hunting for this epoch-shattering event on the Google Time-Search Engine.

We found it, after skipping past the first 8,000,000 results pages that offered us the chance to compare "monkeys learning to think" bargains, at pointlessboringlistofshops.com.

And we had a good look at it. And now we've been there and then, in the virtual flesh, and had a fucking good look around, we've got something to tell you about it that we think you ought to know.

That dent in the back of the roof of the monkey's mouth.

Remember in Genesis how they get tempted by the serpent in the tree to eat of the fruit of knowledge? And how they get a saver family whoppa bucket's worth of knowledge down them.

Yummy.

And didn't you just know I was going to come out with some arse-baked tits like this?

and but now no right no listen

They're full of knowledge, and they realise they are naked and get ashamed and begin making ill-considered fashion statements with fig-leaves.

And God is pissed something mental and kicks them out of the garden of Eden. With a big God foot coming out of a cloud like that one at the beginning of Monty Python.

Well.

That actually happened.

Except, how it actually happened is:

An intelligent hominid ape is wandering through a forest.

He steps into a clearing.

In the middle of the clearing is a tall and handsome thing. A bit like himself, but no overall covering of warm wispy brush stuff like he has. And oddly, yet intriguingly, the handsome thing is exactly the same sort of whooshy pounding chest stuff colour as the lady monkeys' backsides turn at the good to climb on top and jiggle about till your front bit explodes and it feels good time of the year. Good.

The monkey thing says: Oroogh, phoooofffrrrrrrraaah Woo ah ah ah ahhhaaa aahha!

Just in case.

The tall handsome thing says: Hello you stupid cunt, you don't understand a fucking word do you?

And to the monkey thing's ears it's like the most beautiful sound he's ever heard. Slightly awful and scary, but very exciting like something very useful like a really good stick, but better.

Come over here and hear dear. Says the tall handsome thing. Giggling slightly.

And the monkey very much wants to have all the things he somehow understands that those strange noises coming out of the tall handsome thing's mouth are promising him.

And he doesn't know why but he feels like he does when it's jiggle and explode at the front time.

And the tall handsome thing has a big long front thing that explodes.

The monkey thing hasn't seen one that big and thick and shiny before.

Yeah, I know, Like a boiled tapir's snout holding a toffee apple ain't it? Says the tall handsome thing.

And the monkey wonders why this shiny, lady monkey's backside at jiggle-time coloured monkey with no hair, has a tongue like the wriggle through the grass bite you and you stop working slitherers.

Go on monkey boy. Made in his fucking image my ass. Suck on the infernal choad, my hairy little friend, then you'll understand. Come on, there's a good chimp.

And the monkey loves the smell of the shiny big explodey front thing. And those sounds are driving him crazy. Like when he has fleas, but inside his skull. He doesn't understand why, but he knows that all his cloudy monkey dreams will come true and he will be the biggest toughest smartest most head-cracking and lady monkey's backside jiggling and exploding in all day, leader of the monkey pack ever, if he just makes a mouth like a lady monkey at jiggling time for the handsome thing. And make him explode.

And before he knows what's happening, the tall handsome thing, who turns out to be very strong for an ill monkey with no hair, has pushed his big shiny front thing very roughly into his throat and right to the back

and it's just like the day a lot of bright round things in the dark sky ago when he was absent-mindedly twirling a stripey big tooth big claw roaring monkey eater's leg bone round in his mouth to see what it was like,

and his younger brother punched the bone,

to see what that was like,

and the monkey was able to spend the next six hours explaining to his brother precisely what it was like,

by pounding him half to death in a prolonged fit of screaming monkey rage.

It fucking hurt is what it was like.

God this is so demeaning, says the tall handsome thing, reaming the monkey in his pop-eyed and choking face.

Until the tall handsome thing comes. Copiously. And horribly. With a moan more awful than a billion Sundays.

And a small hiss of steam out his nostrils.

The monkey staggers backwards and collapses to the ground clutching at his throat, he thinks he is drowning from all the explodey stuff the tall handsome thing just hosed down his neck. He writhes and gurgles. For quite a while.

The tall handsome thing waits patiently for the monkey to recover himself slightly.

The monkey stands up again, looks the tall handsome thing straight in the eye, and says:

What the fuck did you do that for, you cunt?

I beg your pardon? Says the tall handsome thing, looking inappropriately pleased with himself.

I said what the fuck did you do that for, you cunt? It fucking hurt and it was really gay. You nearly fucking drowned me in cum, you dirty bastard. What the fuck were you thinking? Jesus, I've a good mind to invent the whole concept of crime and punishment just so's we can wait for a police force to be developed so I can have you arrested for raping an innocent monkey's face off. Shit.

Don't be a twat all your life. And allow me to point out the fact that you just managed to communicate to me all the things that were in your head in a perfectly precise way, without resorting to dancing, pointing, or hitting me with anything.

What?

You can talk, you stupid fuck.

Oh. Fuck me, so I can. Brilliant! Right then, let's write a list, things to do: wage ceaseless war for centuries, invent religions so we can have more excuses to do the war, invent sin, erm ooh, I'm on a roll check this out, invent guilt, invent work, no don't get carried away no-one'll be stupid enough to fall for that shit. Um, I know, taxes! Brilliant, ooh, ooh, better invent money first then hadn't I? God this is exciting, I think I'm going to shit in my pants, quick, invent pants so we've all got something to worry about being careful not to shit in, in future. Excellent, I'm loving this thinking shit.

The monkey runs off back to all his monkey friends to tell them the good news.

And to make life unbearably dull brutal and pointless for 99.9% of what we shall now have to call humanity until the end of time.

That should do the trick. Says the tall handsome thing. Laughs like forever in a badly run nursing home.

And disappears in a puff of smoke that smells like what the newly verbose monkey would probably get round to calling brimstone, in a thousand years or so, after he's got bored of the initial novelty of waging ceaseless and bloody war. And that.

And that.

Is exactly how it fucking happened.

My hairy little monkey chums.

Sort of.

Performative does NOT mean that, you cunt.

2005-10-27T21:34:00.000Z

It has just been announced, ooh about tea-time, that the government are to begin looking into the feasibility of making it a criminal offence to be stupid.

Punishable by a maximum of ten years in prison. And a lot of vigorous unsolicited bum-ramming.

The move is based on a Home Office commissioned study, by Dr Peter Bernard of the London School of Economics, which has found a strong statistical correlation between intelligence and criminality.

The study states that a shocking 90% of all criminals currently serving custodial sentences

are as thick as fucking pig shit.

Citing cases such as the young Glaswegian who killed his best friend, because he was obssessed with the film, "Queen of the Damned" and believed that he would become immortal and live forever with Aaliyah, the living-dead rap-vampire, if he did so.

The report describes him as, "Really the most arse-witted and gullible under-educated fucking mongoloid you could ever hope to meet."

Mention is given of the stunning depths of idiocy plumbed by many serial killers. "You wouldn't find Ed Gein or Fred West winnning too many pub quizzes." It confidently claims.

Michael Ryan, perpetrator of the Hungerford gun massacre, couldn't spell his own name and had to have the plots of Yogi Bear cartoons explained to him.

In fact, concludes Dr Bernard, nearly everyone you will ever find in prison who beat someone, robbed someone, killed someone, or committed most any crime you can think of, will turn out to be a right munter.

Shocked ministers who had hitherto never so much as imagined that there could be any such kind of hidden and obscure link between being an irretrievably dimwitted cock whose only way to deal with complex logical abstractions is to try and hit them with a table, and violent crime, are drawing up a white paper as we go to press.

The new legislation proposes that in order to reduce the level of crime in an increasingly dangerous society, it will be necessary, and highly desirable, to arrest and incarcerate anybody found wandering around with an IQ which falls below a new national minimum. To be set at what could be as high as 80.

Police will be able to stop and test, "anybody acting, speaking, or just looking, a bit suspiciously thick."

The Prime Minister has defended the move, saying, "If the statistics are correct, then it would be irresponsible for me to allow the public to remain in danger of being violently attacked by what now appears to be a section of our society that is, by it's very nature, not all that bright, and therefore, it would seem, not remotely safe to have knocking about the place. If stupid people are as likely to offend as this hugely thorough and scientific study has shown, then it is my duty to keep the public safe, by enacting the laws that will keep idiocy off the streets and in prison where it belongs."

Late last night, the Home Secretary met for talks with Kevin Reynolds, the director of Liberty, to discuss the human rights implications of the planned changes to the legal system.

And with a magnificent display of razor-sharp logic, worthy of one of the great Greek philosophers, he was heard to bellow, "It's weak bastards like you make me fucking puke! Human fucking rights? What if some evil, stupid cunt comes up to you and cuts your fucking head off, eh? You twat? What good's your fucking human rights then? Eh? Eh? You twat? You fucking twat?" Whilst, reportedly, urinating fully in Mr Reynold's astonished face, and laughing his ugly evil head off.

Mr Reynolds is quoted as describing the talks as, "Positive and forthright."

In a last minute development however, we have heard that certain ministerial advisors for policy are suggesting that the forthcoming legislation for criminalisation of the educationally under-par may in fact turn out to be a counter-productive move for the government.

They are reminding the Home Secretary of the fact that if it wasn't for the very large number of fucking gigantic imbeciles swilling around the place like cunts and voting for them come election time because they're so fucking unimaginably retarded they think it's the right thing to do, the government might not actually get elected.

Interestingly, some of the more far-sighted watchers of the wranglings at Westminster, that we have spoken to, have suggested that a yet more drastic reduction in crime may be in the pipeline after the completion of another study that Dr Bernard has been commissioned to undertake, which is to investigate the correlation between sex and criminality.

"And I don't mean they were pissed off and lashing out due to not getting any lately." Quips the good doctor in a moment of perhaps inappropriate levity.

It is rumoured that his early findings are showing that a surprisingly disproportionate number of convicts currently serving custodial sentences, are in fact men of a male gender of masculinity.

Dr Bernard has said, "If preliminary indications hold true, then there simply has to be some causal link between having a cock & balls, and committing a crime at some point in your life. Otherwise, why else would our prisons be so full to fucking bursting with men?

Dr Bernard states flatly: "Look at the fucking figures you purblind wankers: There were 61,500 men in prison in 1999. There were only 3,250 women in prison the same year. That's 95% of your total fucking prison population fully tadger-equipped and larceny ready. It's a sobering fucking thought."

Randolph Stimson, a senior spokesman for the Home Office, has intimated, off the record, that, "It may become necessary to make it very illegal indeed to be caught in possession of man-tackle of any description. Including especially harsh sentences in high security isolation cells for those caught flagrantly using vacuum developers or stay-hard creams. If we truly want to take the necessary measures to make our streets safe from crime. In our increasingly dangerous society. That is getting loads more dangerous all the time. Increasingly. And in a dangerous way."

"Why, just the other day," he continued, drooling slightly, "I saw an enormously well-hung terrorist leave a cyber-cafe, where he'd doubtlessly been grooming children in internet chat-rooms, and emailing Osama Bin Laden all about it. Then he proceeded to mug a pensioner, commit a respect-related gun crime, and quickly duck down an allleyway to sell crack-heroin to a gang of schoolgirls. Just before he ran into a tube station at rush-hour and dived head-first onto a packed commuter train with a dirty anthrax-filled atomic nailbomb strapped to his fucking turban. The mad cunt."

Even more radical yet, are rumours from insiders at leading government think-tank, The Project for the Clean White Homeland of Jehovah, that since it has also been noted that statistically speaking, a full 100% of all criminals are also living humans, Britain may soon find itself following the lead of totally fictitious planet, Deadworld, from 2000AD Comic, and it's pioneering Zero Tolerance approach towards crime - said to be hugely admired by many in Downing Street - whereby all sentient beings are deemed potential law-breakers, and summarily sentenced to grisly extermination at the hands of four, "Dark Judges" possessing immense and awesome supernatural destructive capabilities.

It is thought that the British versions are to be known as, "Safety-Enforcement Wardens" and will be equipped with controversial new powers to protect the public which could include:

Ripping out the beating heart of absolutely any living person they come across, anywhere.

An advanced "Trident of Inferno" which can shoot a 6'000º Centigrade searing shaft of cleansing flame for over a mile, incinerating to death all in it's path.

And the ability to cause lethal gangrenous necrotic decay with one touch of their skeletal ghoulish hand.

A recent MORI poll of British law consumers, has found that nearly 89% of people questioned would be, "very happy" to see a quartet of superhuman death-dealing fiends roaming the land and slaughtering every man woman, pensioner on a mobility scooter, and child, that crossed their path, until the country was a vast and blighted charnel house of eternal death, "if it was in the interests of public safety."

And all sorts of other totally crazy mental "it-couldn't-happen-here" satirical shit.

I'm off to read 1984 for the hundredth time.

To cheer myself up.

How Arse Is My Trolley?

2005-09-23T21:34:00.000Z

Long time ago, in Bethlehem, so the holy bible say:

The following none-hit wonders ploughed their futile rock furrows.

Recording their one and only vinyl releases in those heady, far-off days, when any longhair muntoss could wander into Abbey Road and say, "John sent me." and they would give them studio time.

Thankfully, or perhaps, hm ha, who can truly say? those days are long gone.

However, the bastards with absolutely fuck all better to do,

known to an illegitimate, blowsy, and ultimately, not bothered one jot, world,

as the Kennington Fox,

have taken the trouble to remind an amnesiac Planet Earth of these soaring feats of sponge-fingered rock bludgeoning,

committed by a handful of arsewitted, misbegotten, man-bag jugglers, who should never have been allowed past a condom when they were just sperm, let alone anywhere near a fucking guitar, trombone, or euphonium.

And the compilation album that we have brought them all together on is called:

How Arse Is My Trolley?

And is available in CD, or Edison wax-cylinder formats, mit der fancy cover artvork unt krep, yah?, by mail order, from:

The Kennington Fox Bureau of Shit Jam For Lunatics.

For the keenly priced sum of £1.99. Cheques made payable to: CASH. Thanks.

Or, if your life has reached such a bloated nadir of debauched pointlessness that it seems like a good idea to you, from the hideous blank-minded vampiric veil of all-consuming greyness that you're sitting in with just your pants on right now, we will email you the entire shebang for nowt.

Send your email address to the contact email, and treat your ears to a reaming out that a syringe-full of hot axle grease and lathe-shavings wouldn't even come close to.

No seriously.

And maybe one day. When we can stop eating Haloumi-burgers till we retch, and still think it's funny. We might learn how to make a proper fucking website with all kinds of neato content and you will be afforded the unappetising chance to download them at your leisure.

Strongly doubt that'll ever happen though, in all fairness.

Alternatively, go down HMV and buy Toploader's last album. That's really shit too.

Until then:

MEAT BALL
BY: THE RUTFORD ICE-DREAM
RECORDED: 06.08.75

CARRY ON BEING ALOOF AND CYNICAL. YOUR DRUGS WILL GUT YOUR SOULS LIKE YOUNG PIGS AT BOLT-TIME.
I PROMISE YOU THAT, MY DARLING.

Stu Rutford: Guitar, Vocals
Keith Planter: Guitar, Mandarin
Steven Franks: Bass
Rob Griffhorn: Drums

A four-piece combo of limited ability and altogether majestic stupidity. Began playing gigs in their home town of Wolverhampton around spring of '74. Somehow managed to garner a big enough local following for their manager, Clefton Barrows, to decide that releasing their big crowd pleaser "Meatball" would be worth a shot. Their Stage theatrics habit of spitting Campbell's canned meatballs at the audience whilst playing the song did little to endear them to anybody. Band folded immediately after single's release, when singer and creative driving force Stu Rutford, joined Croydon power rockers the UmBiblical Chords. Never to be heard of again.

FIRE OF LOVE
BY: THE SENILITY PRAYER
RECORDED: 04.11.69

TIME MACHINE BUILT SOLELY TO INVENT WORD, "HAM-FISTED" IN TIME FOR THIS COVER. TA.

Alex Thompson: Vocals
Roger Wood: Guitar
Brian Altridge: Guitar, snakes
Kenny Wratten: Drums

Alex, Roger and Kenny had all been members of the Leamington Spa based blues-band, Clean & Jerk, but left after experimenting with psychedelic mushrooms and new haircuts. They recruited former Sun Kisser guitarist, Brian Altridge, whose reputation as a flamboyant wild man of guitar craziness, was based mostly on his trade-mark gimmick of finishing a gig with a mains cable clenched between his teeth. This first and only single release was the result of 6 months spent in a converted barn in Dorset, "jamming" and trying to find a "new sound". With rather more heroin laying around the place than was actually conducive to said.

TUNE IN
BY: CAVENDISH NEGROHEAD
RECORDED: 25.05.71
LIKE CATCHING THE DROPS OFF A SLOWLY DISSOLVING RED CANDY ARSE. EXCEPT IT'S HORRIBLE.

Bill Catnick: Vocals, Guitar
Simon Vishnu: Guitar
Tommy South: Bass
Kurt Hooghan: Drums & Flute

Ex public schoolboys and lifelong friends, Cavendish Negrohead were formed in January 1970. Making the move from their native Cheltenham to London's East End to find fame and fortune as musicians later that year, they built up a surprisingly large following playing at the UFO club and at Clive Stanger's Boom Bar.
It all ended in tears when they opted to record this single, Tune In, however, as it was a horrible racket and nothing like the songs they'd been wowing their fans with at gigs. Bill Catnick later blamed this ill-judged decision on his breaking up with current girlfriend and dollybird singer of the Firey Brigade, "the Medway psychedelic stormtroopers", Karen Von Jansen. "She ran off with a guru feller from Shimla and I got so pissed off, and quite drunk, I couldn't really tell what we were doing in the studio: it was all a bit of a blur, and it turns out I made the band play this awful, awful song. It's a bit of a shame really, as it effectively ended our career as a band. I've been in sales ever since and I really regret making that stupid bloody record. I could have been bigger than Bolan if I'd not drank so damn much that weekend."

STEEL OCTOPUS
BY:LORD CORMORANT'S NAG
RECORDED:12.08.76

BOLIVIAN CHOKE IN A SIX LITRE STINGRAY KING OF LOVE.

Pete Bullet: Vocals
Danny La Rude: Guitar
Tommy Sick: Bass
Ashton Scram: Drums

Sharing a manager with infamous punk fore-runners Rommel Nitrate, Lord Cormorant's Nag hailed from Bethnal Green. Always something of an acquired taste, even in those days, they surprised everyone when they released Steel Octopus in August of 1976. Including themselves.
The aforementioned manager, Ralph St. Horsham, secretly recorded them fucking about in the studio playing a pastiche of how they thought all crap formula rock sounded. Then released it as a single without telling them.
Unfortunately for him, the fact that the record sold reasonably well that summer offended their high avant-garde, new wave aesthetic sensibilities so strongly, that they split up almost immediately thereafter.
Pete Bullet became a landscape painter and moved to Pembrokeshire. Danny joined a baptist mission in Honduras and went missing in a civil war in the mid-eighties. Tommy Sick became Cambridgeshire regional manager for Railtrak, and took early retirement in 1990 to write his autobiography, "Punks Not Dead, But It Is Quite Old Now." Ashton Scram meanwhile, stayed in the music business, changed his named to Ajax K, and produced a string of hit acid-house rave anthems in the early nineties, for the likes of Ray-D8, Glo-Nuts, Mentalist, and Solid State, amongst many others.

NO WIFE NO HORSE NO MOUSTACHE
BY: HIORUCHI-SAN BABYSHOT
RECORDED: 12.05.75

LIFE IS NEVER EASY WHEN GLANDS TAKE OVER AND ISOLATION IS OVERDUKE TO YOUR SOUL. FUNKY.

Zane Rodham: Vocals, keyboard
Gary Kelp: Guitar
Sam Burns: Guitar
Clive Dodge: Bass & Guitar
Jerry Wexler: Drums

Often called "ahead of their time" by the few people that have ever heard them, Hioruchi-San Babyshot occupy a unique foot-niche in British rock history. Lauded by drug-addled critics like Stig Dagwoood and Chaz "Tzar" Murphy, as a result of their explosive early performances at the Camden Rock Dragon, they seemed poised for great things. Only to piss magnificently on their own bonfire by recording a single that, as "Tzar" Murray succintly put it in the June edition of Pop Gear Now magazine: "just really freaked everybody right the fuck out. And the people it didn't freak out, it bummed the fuck out. Everybody lost out. Crazy." Thanks Charles.

PHAETHON PIE-MIND
BY: URSULA STUGLITZ BATTERYFARM
RECORDED: C.1983

JUST PHENOMENAL BUMBLE-BEE ANGUISH PARTY GONE WRONG IN THREE MILLION LIGHT YEARS OF LONELY SPACE.

Hugh Samson: Vocals
Gaynor Veldt: Ambiences
Tori Hudson-Weeks: Garishness
Matthew Prim: Bull fiddle, Guitar, drums, bass, bath sounds, Mellotrwrong.

Never popular, never under-rated, never sane. Always despised, and with very good reason. A disgusting gaggle of glue-sniffing berks from Chelsea Art College who famously never played a gig without getting stuck fast to their instruments by 2 or 3 songs into a set. A situation which called for the liberal application of strong solvents to unstick them. Causing them, and the front 10 rows of any given audience, to get in an even worse state than they had been previously. Leading to their catchphrase: "We've solved the adhesion, but we've lost all cohesion!" that they would shout a lot, laughing their idiot heads off, and then go and play a song as revolting as PhaethonPiemind. Rounding the evening off nicely, as far as they were concerned.
They effectively ceased to function as a band, or anything much else for that matter, after somebody in the audience ill-advisedly held up a lighter for the encore one night, and ignited the accumulated highly inflammable ether in the badly ventilated venue. Burning all and sundry hideously to death like Apollo 9, but with a 100% cellulose thinners atmosphere, instead of Oxygen.

COME BACK TO HAWAII
BY: THE CANNED MAN
RECORDED: 03.06.71

A BAWLING EXPLOSION OF WANT FOR A LOVED ONE RESOLUTELY NO-WHERE FUCKING NEAR HAWAII

Gus Drubber: Vocals
John Drubber: Guitar
Rich Fallon: Guitar, organ
Kevin Dacre: Guitar
Tim Drubber: Guitar
Shelton Tisdale: Drums

The Canned Man, formed from the remains of Rapscallion, The Too Kinds, and Career Girl, began playing together in early 1969 as the Van Denters. In November of that year however, they lost founding member and guitarist, Scott Freestone, to the Hanging Judges, from Tottenham, and gained two more in the shapes of Kevin Dacre and Rich Fallon. Unfortunately for them all, despite a reputedly spectacular presence live, the world wasn't quite ready for their, "nasally twat shouting gibberish through a kazoo while four loudly overdriven guitars belt out wall-of-sound glam bollocks without any relation to anything else going on in the room, least of all each other," style of rocking, and they only managed to stay together as a performing unit for another 12 months after the release of, "Come Back To Hawaii".
As a sidenote, the Brothers Drubber left England for New York in 1973 to found a new band they called The Romanes. A 2-chord chainsaw sounding punk band dressed all in denim, with matching, eye-hiding bowl hair-cuts. They all died in a hideous Ten-pin ski-ing accident in 1974 however, leaving the field wide open for Joey and Dee Dee to copy the idea, improve the name, and become world famous. Isn't rock funny like that?

TALKING MONKEYS
BY: INVALID TIME
RECORDED: 11.09.74

AN IDIOT GOES ON ABOUT STUFF. THE WORLD WEEPS WHILE MASTURBATING. INSPIRATIONAL HYMN TO SLAUGHTER.

Big Chief Thigh-Spy: Vocals
Maori Eventual: Guitar
Recombinant Diana: Drums

Very little is known about Invalid Time beyond the existence of this, frankly odd little single, and the equally peculiar press release that accompanied it:

We are they and you are it.
No crogsies.
She came she saw, he conquered.
Music is where we draw the lines in the sand.
Bang nails through the bad right hand.
Music is where we fight the doomed battle against him.
The voodoo of the groove fools us too.
He is that smooth.
Don't listen to this.
Don't listen to us.
Listen to the music of the fight.
Fight the music as you listen to the mucus and the filth.
Stand back and relax as reality snaps.
Boom, you've come to live with us for good.
We're happy to have you.
Look, we got some bottles in.
Drink yourself off your feet and be married.
We will not let him cross the lines.
We will not let him through the door.
The song will stop the monkey.
The music will kill the will.
The will is wet with her tears.
We will not let her tears fall in vain.
The fight. The fight. The fight.
We love you.
We don't care.
Love,
Invalid Time

Go, as they say, figure. What a bunch of cocks.
Still; quite the most hummable song of the entire collection. Which is not saying much.

BIG FAT MERCEDES
BY: THE SEEING THINGS
RECORDED: 09.22.73

LIFE IS LIFE, LA-LA, LA, LA-LAAAAH.

Tony Dawes: Vocals
Andy Bourne: Guitar
Callum Channing: Bass
Rod Strong: Drums

Tony, Andy, Callum and Rod formed The Seeing Things straight after dropping out of agricultural college in Cardiff. They arrived on the London scene in 1972, sporting some jaw-droppingly risible Lord of the Rings cum Che Guevara style, outfits. Whereafter they soon shaped up to be one of Hackney's finest progressive, political metal, combos in early '73.
If only Hackney had had any need for, or interest in, a politically motivated Welsh Prog/metal band, dressed like Gandalf pretending to be Fidel Castro, in early 1973.
Hackney had neither, as you might imagine, being far more interested in the antics of acid-blues giants, Marblefloor, or the fey, etheric stylings of Heathcote Malmsbury and the TriceraPops.
The Seeing Things decide to sod this for a game of chess in '74, when they realised that the Winter season at Rhyll Sun-Centre that they were booked to play, was not, in fact, exactly what they were aiming for when they had originally set forth their ten-point magical-military manifesto for becoming a rock band. The berks.

RICHARD HELL'S KITCHEN
BY: CORPORATION POP
RECORDED: 10.08.72

COLD BUTTER IS A HARSH MISTRESS. LISTEN AND GASP.

Will Bunting: Vocals
Stan Ford: Guitar
Chris Groom: Bass
Dale Richards: Drums

Originally from Australia, Corporation Pop had been living as emigres in London for a year, when they got the chance to release this single on the much missed Feltham Vinegar label, run by maverick producer and svengali figure, Damian Calvary-Sacks. It's not entirely clear what it was about them that convinced him this might be a shrewd business move, but he did anyway. Much to his ever lasting chagrin.
It sold about 20 copies and he was left with a lock-up garage in Wapping full of them. Together with a sizeable hole in his finances.
Leading him to dabble in the cocaine selling business to make ends meet.
And his eventually being found, famously, drowned to death in Anita Pallenberg's swimming Pool with a Daschsund rammed up his jacksy.
The band changed their name to Dwarf Alarm to distance themselves from the controversy, and had a modest hit in Germany with the euro-disco classic, Baby Got Sugar-Lump Love (Hey Hey).

WHITE EVIL
BY: PHARAOH ANT COLONY ELIMINATOR
RECORDED: 09.07.74

THINGS GOT ON TOP OF HIM. THEN GOT OFF. APPARENTLY ONLY IN ORDER TO GET BACK ON TOP AGAIN THE MORE EFFECTIVELY. BALLS.

Dirk Frommer: Vocals
Buzz Weston: Guitars
Yorrick Corn: Bass and Vibraphone
Talulah Stackhell-Kain: Drums, Vocals

The prolonged fizzling out of Jazz-fusion legends, Sebastopol Obispo, resulted in flakey New-York crooner Dirk Frommer winding up in Portobello in late 1972, with his long-time collaborator and muse, Talulah Stackhell-Kain.
They hung around in bars for long enough to meet Buzz Weston and Yorrick Corn, a couple of out-of-work BBC Radiophonics Workshop composers, and to get drunk enough to imagine that forming what eventually turned out to be Pharaoh Ant Colony Eliminator might be, "a bit of a wheeze".
Turned out that the reason Weston and Corn were out of work was down to their having created the soundtrack for the children's science-fiction television programme, The Man in the Woods.
Which was subsequently cited in court, in a compensation action brought against the BBC, as the primary cause in the total mental breakdowns of a shocking number of previously chirpy youngsters. The guilty pair were quoted at the time as saying, "whoops."
Gigs were often disrupted by appalled patrons attempting to wrestle members of the band bodily from the stage. An occurrence still novel enough at the time that sufficient press interest was generated to get P.A.C.E. signed to the Elizabethan Cad label, a subsidiary of Decca.
In January 1974, Work began in earnest on what the band intended to be a Rock-Opera based on the life of Ramachandra, the feral Indian fish-boy who had been killed in Uttar Pradesh the previous year, after his burgeoning sexuality had led to his making sexual advances on the women of the nearby village.
Unfortunately, tensions in the studio grew so vile that by June, Dirk Frommer locked himself in there one evening after everyone else had left for the pub, erased all the master tapes, and recorded the single, "White Evil" all on his own.
He left the building that night, never to play or sing another note of music ever again, in what remained of his silly, drunken life.
He died of Pancreatic abandonment on a wet Tuesday afternoon in October 1976, sitting in the lounge bar of the White Pig in Bethnal Green.
In an interview for Liar Magazine shortly before his untimely death, he said of the song, "I just wanted to tell everybody to fuck the fuck off. And do it as loudly and unpleasantly as possible." Which aim he unequivocally achieved.

TROLLEY THEME
BY: THE MUSHROOM CROWD
RECORDED: 05.10.75

JUST RUBBISH. GO AND PUNCH SOMETHING.

Craig Mostyn: Vocals
Billy Stiles: Guitar
Lou Pardew: Guitar
Jeff Swell: Bass
Damien Curtis: Drums

Fluff-rock chancers of the most ornery and cussed sort, The Mushroom Crowd started life as a "Beat Medley" band playing working men's clubs in the North of England.
The inevitable dalliance with mind-altering substances occurred, however, in a chance meeting with a down-at-heel Professor Spacedust, in 1972.
Reduced from his stadium-filling peak of only a year previously - due to the unfortunate incident in Detroit with the Barkus High-School cheerleading squad, and 2 litres of liquid LsD-25 - to playing second on the bill at Mr Frantic's Shang-a-lang Shack in Chorley.
Which is where he "turned on" the band, who had up to that point been gigging under a series of increasingly idiotic names in a bid to find one that might eventually capture the public's imagination better than Kooky Pie, The Humpty Dumptys, or The Sloppy Joes, had thus far managed to do for them.
So, after 72 hours spent guzzling hallucinogens with Professor Spacedust at the Midland Hotel in Morecambe, they moved to Hackney, called themselves the Mushroom Crowd, and embarked on a career of rock imbecility that remains unmatched to this day. Even by Dumpy's Rusty Nuts. Imagine that.
They got one shot at a single, recorded Toffee Love Tumble Clown, which was so bad I just can't tell you, and Trolley Theme was the B-side.
It is quite easily the most ghastly and blundering rock instrumental ever conceived by humans.
And it is in it's honour, that we named this Frankenstein's Monster's bumjuice of a compilation album.
We thank you.

Clingfilm the Hamster, I'm leaving town.

2005-09-17T18:24:00.000Z

Come come.

Come and make eyes at me down at the old Bull and Bush.

Fuck off.

I fucking hate London.

It's so jammed full of cunts it's like a gigantic stinky, stupid haircut having, endless shit about nothing talking, selfish, ignorant, venal, insipid, cruel and pointless jar of Old Mother Dickerson's Traditional Victorian Twat Conserve. With pips.

I went to see open house day at Marc Brunel's pumping station in Rotherhithe. It was open as a part of the fabulous London wide "Open House Day" scheme. A scheme that allows excruciatingly dull buffoons the opportunity to go and be excruciatingly dull in different surroundings from where they habitually do said. For a day. Kind of a cunts in the community programme. A ha ha.

Ooh, the disused Art-Deco greyhound neutering centre designed by Antonin Artaud in a fit of dyspepsia is open today. You can get to see the 30ft tall gold-plated steam-powered statues of Anubis that East end greyhound owners would throw their greyhounds into the feed hoppers of, prior to going and waiting round at the arse end for their dog to come out all confused and ball-less. Brilliant.

That sort of thing. And now far be it from me to be a skull-crushing kill joy with no interest in anything at all but...

That's precisely what the fuck I am. Go figure. I am Satan.

So I find myself at the pump house. It is full of bummers.

Bearded men in those hardwearing trousers you can buy out the back of Sunday supplements. The navy blue ones with a million useful pockets. Americans with Yoko Ono style suncovers for their prescription specs. And no readily apparent sense of humour. Muesli eating neurotics. Jittery re-cyclers with thin grey pony tails. A prune faced woman in pink three-quarter length combat trousers with her hair in groovy twists. Looked like she hadn't had an orgasm since 1979 and was finding the going slightly tough.

Call me a snob. Call me insecure. Call me what the fuck you want I'm really so way past caring. But I didn't want to spend my Saturday in their company. I find the idea of sharing a planet and common genetic make-up with everyone else in the world nauseating enough. Without having to go out on purpose and put myself in situations where I have to look at the fuckers long enough to have to imagine what sort of rim scouring bolloh from space passes for sentient reasoning in their foetid pudgy excuses for a brain.

But there I was. Despite my much better judgement. Ho hum.

We had to take the guided tour of the tunnel. I say had to. I mean had to. And our tour guide was called Bob.

Bob was a gay gentleman with salt and pepper hair. Bob wore a black Isambard Kingdom Brunel t-shirt. Merchandise from the Pumping House shop.

Bob told us that we were about to see at first hand, "The Eighth Wonder of the World!"

Bob was a fucking liar.

What in fact happened is that we got the tube from Rotherhithe to Wapping. And, here's the amazing bit: Back again.

I'm kidding. That bit wasn't amazing. I'm just being petulantly sarcastic. Like a big spoilt twat.

But it is, after all, what I am best at. And it's a shame to waste a god given talent.

As my Aunty Umpleby, the renowned piglet-sized catarrh ball regurgitator, was often heard to say. Generally through a mouth full of yellow phlegm. So in all fairness she could have been saying all sorts of things; the family tended to just guess for the most part and gave her the benefit of the doubt by ascribing motivational aphorisms to her, rather than the more likely bitter and evil mutterings of a 70 year old spinster who'd spent her entire adult life as a side-show attraction puking up bogeys as big as your head.

Aaaanyway.

Eighth wonder of the fucking world. No.

A one stop return journey on the tube being loudly harangued in an informative yet repetetive way by a harshly voiced homosexual called Bob. Yes.

If he had said, "And there you can see Brunel's original brickwork." one more time, I might have had to do for him. At Wapping I contemplated throwing myself onto the tracks, shouting, "You are without a shadow of a doubt the single most exquisitely dull guffbag I have ever had the dire misfortune of having to listen to in my entire life!"

But didn't really think it was worth it for the sake of making a point.

Bob seemed to be of the opinion that we should be impressed and grateful to Brunel for having invented the tunnelling method that would later be employed to construct the whole of the rest of the London Underground tube system.

Impressed? Kind of. That was sort of clever of you Monsieur (he was French, shit, I did learn something) Brunel.

Grateful? For hastening the development of the conveyor belt that delivers the carcasses to slavering Mammon daily, who chews them up and feeds mightily upon their spirits, before it's time for the carcasses to slurry back down into the digestive system of the beast again, to go back to the larders that they pay for by letting their souls be eaten?

Oh fantastic, now loads more idiots can slave their hornswoggled husks to death working toward the impossible dream of money and freedom than ever before.

Peachy. Thanks Marc.

Should I be grateful as well to the man who designed the five jew at a time crematoria for more efficient disposal of the recently gassed?

Damn it. I swore I wasn't going mention Nazis this time. Thought I'd just try the once to get to the end without bringing the subject round to the bastards. Failed miserably.

I'd best get to sleep. The words are all starting to undulate like gently rolling waves. I think Mr Newton's had enough.

Five Diseasey Pieces

2005-09-13T20:07:00.000Z

Dave?

Yep.

There's a big bowl of yoghurt sitting on your kitchen table.

Yep.

And it's got finely chopped mint and green chilli all mixed up into it.

That's the one.

Yes. And I couldn't help but notice that it has also got what appears to be a lot of diced up chunks of a softcover novel in it.

Yep.

Good. We're both talking about the same bowl of yoghurt.

Yep.

Dave?

Yep.

Why Dave?

It's my Paperback Raitha.

Oh dear.

Hm?

Dave?

Yep?

Hang on, I've just got to text someone.

Text text text....

Who was that?

That was the ghost of General Curtis Le May. He's agreed to be good enough to provide me with a hundred-strong ghostly Superfortress bomb run over your sofa. I'm going to nip out for a bit, and in about five minutes or so, they'll come tearing out of the ether and lay a deadly ectoplasmic long box of psychic napalm on you, and you will die an infinite number of horrible deaths in an infinite number of dimensions for an infinite amount of time.

Smashing, will I get to meet Napoleon?

No, you will be too busy hurting.

Never mind then, look after the weasels while I'm gone.

No problem, can I eat that last Rocky bar you've left in the fridge?

How long did you say I'd be gone?

For ever.

Fuck yourself then, I'm taking it with me. I'm going to need something to keep my blood sugar up, after about ganintybrillion aeons of endless death.

Tightarse.

Gayer.

I'm going.

Good. If you go past the takeaway on your way back get me a Wrath of Khan & Pilau rice. I'll give you the money tomorrow.

No.

Why not? I got you a takeaway last week.

No you didn't: That was a BigMac that a nutter had licked and left on a wheely bin on Camberwell New Road.

How do you know?

You told me, you twat.

Shit. It's still a takeaway though.

No it's not, it's rubbish with mad-spit on it.

I'd have eaten it.

You bloody didn't though, did you?

I thought you wanted it.

I told you to shove it up your arse, if you recall.

Oh yeah. Go on, get us some food anyway.

No.

I hate you.

I know.

Anti personnel mine / Anti personnel yours

2005-08-29T15:54:00.000Z

Dave?

Yep?

I'd very much appreciate it if you could clear up some foontling small confusion by which I currently find myself belaboured.

How's that then?

How's that is: How is it, Dave, that every time I've been round your house this week, when you've offered me a cup of tea, you haven't actually made it yourself, and it has instead been brought to us by a be-dreadlocked reggae afficianado from Jamaica, whose name, I am led to believe, is Arthur?

Oh, that. He's a....

Dave...

Yeah?

I want you to be very careful now. I'm warning you for your own good. Just think for a second before you say anything.

What do you mean?

Right. Nothing. Have it your way. Whatever.

I was only going to say he's a Char Rastafari.

Dave?

Yep?

Did you get the Flymo working again after Danny the Cunt borrowed it last Summer and tried topiarising his Conker tree?

Yep.

It's in the shed then?

Yep, behind the Orgone Accumulator full of stuffed weasels.

Of course. How is your Weasel Re-animation Project going, since you mention it?

Slowly but surely.

Signs of life then?

Mr. Jumbles winked at me last Tuesday.

Did he?

Well, I'm not sure, I was sneezing like mad because I'd been seeing how long I could hold a blade of grass up my nose for, but it looked like a wink.

Great. Good. Excellent progress. I expect if you keep them all in there for another ten years on top of the ten they've already had, they'll probably get it together to email an infinite number of monkeys for some writing tips, and knock out the collected works of ace detective twat Patricia Cornwell, over the course of a couple of boozy working lunches down at the Holdall & Machete.

Oh good Lord I hope not. That would be a terrible thing to happen. I carry out my scientific investigations for the improvement of mankind's lot. Not to drive it mental to the point it chokes up it's collective liver because it can't believe how phenomenally shit beyond all sentient reasoning a simple work of pulp literature can get.

Fuck me.
So. The Flymo is still in the shed then?

That's what I said.

Good. Wait there while I go and get it, I'm going to have to mow your face off.

Don't forget the grass collecting bag, it'll make a right mess otherwise.

Good point.

See how the weasels are while you're in there.

Fuck off.

Okay.

Hitler Loved Reggae

2005-08-25T22:26:00.000Z

Walking home from his job that was less fun than having a gorilla with thrush piss in your mouth, Frank noticed a head and shoulders in a top floor window.

Up there on the 4th floor of one of the old houses on his road, half obscured by the branches of one of the trees that lined it, was the top half of a man.

Sticking out the window like a Pitbull that just smelled something well worth savaging to death.

He had a shaved head. He wore a white vest.

He had the type of face that you do not look at.

For any longer than the fraction of a second it takes to form that impression in the first place.

The type of face that said that if you were stupid enough to make eye contact with it, then the man it belonged to would be liable to ask you what it was, exactly, that you were looking at, shortly prior to beating you about the face and neck with his feet and hands until he'd hurt you so much you puke.

He had his fists, planted like a mad bald Midlands fucker's fists, knuckles down, on the window sill. Elbows sticking out to the sides. And he was surveying his kingdom.

Of the road that he lived on.

For as far as his squinty dead black shark eyes could see.

Swivelling his batty lobster-red noggin round left and right.

Like a psychopath.

Organ-rupturingly loud Dutch techno hollering out his wide open windows from somewhere in the room behind him.

Set himself up all nicely for an argument with someone.

"Hoy, y'twat. Turn that fucking shit down."

"No. I won't. In fact, I'm going to have to have a gigantic fist fight with you now."

QED.

Jesus. What a fucking arsehole. Decided Frank. And carried on home to spend another night listening to the junkies upstairs shouting at each other like monsters.

About two in the morning. Frank's rubbish sleep anyway is broken into by the sound of wheely bins being boisterously molested in the street outside.

Some drunk prick, Frank guessed student from the middle-class sounding giggling and snorting that accompanied the activity, was making his way home down the road, and taking every wheely bin he came across for a bit of a trundle. Before coming to the next one and grabbing that instead. And he was making a hideous fucking racket in the process. A lot of hollow wheely bin calubbering and clunking.

For fuck's sake. I fucking hate living here. Thought Frank. And unsuccessfully tried to stop that very familiar train of thought before it ploughed predictably on into the realms of: and my job, and my total lack of a sex life, and fucking everything else I can usefully think of. Like it always did.

Then he heard another voice in the street. Coming as if from on high.
And the voice, addressing the bin-bothering tit in a gruff, no-nonsense brooking tone, shouted thusly:

"DO YOU WANT ME TO COME DOWN THERE AND CUT YOUR LEGS OFF YOU QUEER CUNT?"

Very good question succintly and forcefully put. Thought Frank.

No. That's a lie. What he actually thought was: Fucking hell it's the mad bald pitbull-man motherfucker from over the road. Great! This should be funny.

Unfortunately for the student, or whoever the pissed fool was, he replied to Mr Pitbull in the affirmative, by defiantly continuing to chug the bins about.

Oh dear.

In very short order, Frank was treated to a series of wet flesh and bone thudding slapping sounds. And what sounded like a Business Studies undergraduate taking an unexpected and brutal extracurricular module at the school of fucking hard punches to the eyes, from a man with arms like a stoker.

Serves the twat right. Thought Frank.

Proceeding to fail to get back to sleep properly for the next six hours.

Leaving him perky as a Pompeii Pumice-Person for work the next morning.

Those were the days.

Holy Pig Cocks

2005-08-12T13:29:00.000Z

No, it was. It was actually a very nice thing to do.
Nobody ever dropped an atomic weapon onto an undefended town full of civilians, with nobler and more philanthropic intentions than did Harry Truman.

Because no way were those crazy Japanese bastards surrendering.

We did get 20 calls a day in the 3 months prior to our vapourising them with airborne nuclear furnaces, from some kind of schizophrenic going We Sol Ender. We Sol Enderling. One minute he's called one thing, then he's changed his mind and calling himself something else.

"We Sol Ender." he kept saying.

Who is this Sol Ender guy? We had to ask.

"We Sol Ender. Uncle dictionary", he sometimes said.

We just had to put the phone down on him then.

Just talking nonsense. We were busy fighting a war and we had to keep the lines free in case the Japanese rang up to surrender. Didn't have any time for crank calls like that.

Fuck no.

So it was with nothing but the purest of Christian intentions and love for our fellow man in our hearts that we yakked 4,000° Centigrade radioactive slaughter at the yellow fucks.

The fact that we had just spent two billion dollars on working the sucker up from a scribbled, "E equals MC squared" in that Swiss faggot's notebooks to something we could actually drop on anybody we wanted to out the belly of a Superfortress from a mile up in the sky, was abso fucking lutely neither here nor there.

And you would be an enemy of freedom and Jesus to even think about suggesting otherwise.

There is no possible or conceivable connection between us spending TWO BILLION DOLLARS on making a viable weapon system based on the principle of atomic fission, and us finding out that due to circumstances beyond our control, namely the savage and bestial nature of the barely human and psychotic Kamikaze Nipponese, we absolutely can't, much as we would like to have done, stop ourselves from using the weapon because there really was no alternative. Whatsoever.

None.

At all.

Really.

The fact that we sent another B-29 in an hour or two previous to the Enola Gay, to, "check what the cloud cover was like" which resulted in everybody in Hiroshima hiding in bomb shelters to protect themselves from an air raid that didn't happen, and their subsequent popping out into the open again once the all clear was sounded, just in time to cop for a righteous faceful of 15 thousand tons of high explosive equivalent superweapon armageddon. That we did that, is most positively not because we were monstrously keen to see exactly what sort of an effect our very expensive new toy would have on real people.

Don't be fucking ridiculous.

What kind of a prick are you?

We gathered no useful scientific data at all. Whatsoever. In the time after the bomb. We made no careful study of the immediate effects of the blast and the heat damage from ground zero outwards.

And categorically had no interest of any sort in monitoring the short and long term effects of massive radiation poisoning. No record was made of the fact that the people who drank the black Strontium 90 rain that fell that afternoon, began rotting from the inside. Became necrotic. Within a few days. Why would we have done? Once you've spent 3 years and 2 billion dollars on the weapon that will assure your horribly surprisingly short-lived world supremacy, why the fuck should you give a tinker's cuss what it does to people?

It was not a matter of supreme importance to find out how we could make the bomb more effective, and even less so to know anything about what we could do to protect ourselves or treat our casualties in the event of somebody doing it to us one day. Couldn't have cared less.

It was also an absolutely massive coincidence;

god we laughed about it afterwards when we thought about how it could have looked to anyone who didn't know what really happened,

a massive coincidence that the decision to drop an atomic bomb on a city full of defenceless women and schoolkids in shorts was made after a hard day's talking with our good pal Cuddly Joe Stalin.

In Yalta.

We weren't concerned about Godless Capitalism-smashing Communists and their potential plans for world domination. And we were definitely not, with a capital OF FUCKING COURSE WE FUCKING WERE, trying to blow the fear of God up their asses by showing them precisely what kind of a twatting they could expect if they tried going and doing any sneaky raising the revolutionary consciousness of any of our fucking proletariat. Motherfuckers.

And any similarity with our behaviour viz: dropping the big one, and the beginnning sequence of 2001: A Space Oddity, where the hairy-man-chimp figures out the whole

beating the shit out of the rival hairy-man-chimp using a baseball-bat-sized Giraffe's femur instead of his fists

thing, is even more coincidental than whatever that last really coincidental thing that was just a wacky coincidence was.

Jung would have gone mental with all the coincidences there were flying around all over the place in those days. Like little Japanese people caught up in a supersonic nuclear shockwave. He really would.

All we genuinely and honestly were concerned to do was save as many lives as possible. You can tell our intentions in this direction were good. Just look how hard we tried to save lives by firebombing the living shit out of about 35 major Japanese cities using untold thousands of kilos of napalm and Magnesium Thermite bombs. Causing firestorm holocausts that made the canals boil and killed 100,000 people a night. Burnt the suckers to death. To save lives.

And despite the fact that it has come to light since 1945 that our own official estimates of how many of our boys would take the big dirt nap if we invaded the mainland were only actually 20-50,000, guess we were jazzing the figures up a bit when we said a million, oops, we incontrovertibly saved absolutely hundreds of zillions of lives, by the very humanitarian and caring means of our horribly murdering 672,000 civilians, some of whom just burst into flames like fireworks on account of the 980º heat the silly bastards, in an orgy of destruction that saw more humans die in a shorter space of time than at any point in history before or since. Because we love life.

And bellyflopping 32 kilotons worth of Uranium pandemonium onto a couple of Japanese towns full of strategically unimportant women and children of absolutely no destructive power or offensive capability whatsoever was just our way of tying a big old cankerous suppurating radioactive ulcer of a silky red ribbon on our gift of kindness to the world.

Yes it was.

I think I want to say a prayer now.

Park 'n' Lied

2005-07-22T00:04:00.000Z

The entire Kennington Fox on-the-spot reportage crew decamped to the park yesterday.

To see what was going on down Oval station way, from the comfort of the grass, sitting in the sunshine, looking through the fence.

Our scouting party, Dave, came back from his preliminary situation-assessment bike-ride over, at about 3pm.

He reported that it was a really nice day, and let's not sit indoors listening to twats on the telly saying, "Bomb bomb bomb bomb bomb bomb bomb."
for a second longer, eh?

Oh yeah, he says, and there's this African guy, mid 40s, wearing a nice sports jacket & waistcoat combination, and a smart pair of charcoal trousers. He's passed out cold in the sunshine, lying flat on his back next to the floral borders on the station side of the park. He's got one arm stretched out on the ground above his head, if you're looking down at him, and despite the fact he's about comatose, he's still gripping his can of Tennents Extra with the hand at the end of said arm. He looked quite happy. And a quarter of all the police and TV cameras in London not 20 yards away from him too. Amazing.

So we put on our best on-the-spot-reportage shorts and t-shirts, got on our Kennington Fox limited edition fancy schmantzy reportage grids, and cycled over. To do some reportage.

Sit around reading,

and look at girl's arses.

That sort of thing.

We'd not been there long at all it seemed, and a sort of lurchy figure in black came towards us out the corner of our collective eye. We all got ready to say, "Sorry love, we haven't got any cash on us." having interpreted the figure's silhouette and tell-tale gait as unmistakably those of a heroin fan.

Dave did a marvellous job of acting as though he was surprised to find that there was anybody there at all, when the figure spoke and it politely asked, "Excuse me, I don't suppose you could tell me what's been going on could you?"

It wasn't Sports jacket and Tennents can from the roses bushes. As stated previously: The boy wuz a booze hound. Not a jockey.

It was in fact a surprisingly attractive and coherent brown-buff. A girl in her mid to late 20s. Long straight dark hair. Dressed entirely in black. Attractive, but for the heavy faceful of crack acne she was sporting.

"I've only just woken up and there's something gone on hasn't there?"

Dave told her it was more bomb stuff cracking off. Though no-one killed this time. Three tubes and a bus again.

"Gawd and they've come down 'ere this time."

We all agreed that we'd stupidly imagined we were safe South of the river too.

"Yeah, it's why I come down this way in the first place. Fuck."

"Yeah, fuck." We concurred, then wished her well and said, "Be careful."

"And you. Cheers."

And she shuffled off across the park towards St. Agnes Place. Pale curls of dried grass clinging to the back of her fleece.

Maybe two and half hours later, at nearly six o'clock, we looked over just in time to notice the sleeping Tennents feller wake up.

He sat up from the waist like Frankenstein being switched on for the first time, and looked to his left, and looked to his right.

There were fucking shitloads of commuters having to unexpectedly walk home for the second time in a fortnight, crowding the street behind him. And lots of cameras, TV crews and rozzers.

He reacted swiftly and decisively.

And took a really big long swig out his can.

He then reflected momentarily.

And got to his feet marginally less unsteadily than Bambi does in that clip they always fucking showed every Disney Time. Where that little fuck Thumper laughs at him for being shit, and then practically sticks his head up his arse in a perky comedy attempt to help the new-born cute thing.

He sort of slumped forward from his sitting position, with his legs sticking straight out in front of him.

Rolled onto his side a bit to get them out behind him.

And kind of carefully walked his hands and feet towards each other with his arse sticking up in the air, until he had to clean and jerk, and wobble himself into an approximately upright position.

Having done so, he performed a little jig to get some life back into his legs. Like somebody thinking out loud with their body, trying to remind themselves how a boxer shakes himself when he comes back out of his corner.

Then gamely staggered straight for the nearest spot of shade behind a tree.

Although rather than laying straight back down again, but out of the sun like we - having underestimated him - were betting he would do, he shot out one arm straight up above his head to brace himself against the tree, and with the other hand, began directing a fierce stream of piss at the tree's base.

Seemingly without having made any move to unzip his fly that we could readily discern.

We were very impressed.

He put the full stop on his piss by letting two fat gobs of spit shimmy down a dribble rope, repaired back to the roses, struggled a shoe that we hadn't noticed he wasn't wearing, back onto his left foot, and zigzaggy crab-walked off towards the basketball courts.

Having been unconscious drunk for at least three hours.

Consequently we had a full meeting of the Kennington Fox editorial bored to discuss the implications of what we had seen that day.

We decided unanimously that he had actually got the right idea, and from tomorrow onwards, if anyone has any enquiries or needs to get hold of us for any reason, we'll all be available 24 hours a day, in a cheap, strong booze stupor, somewhere on Kennington Park.

Probably near the roses, because they're pretty and it's handiest for the Offy across the road.

Until we get turned over by fuckers and killed, die of exposure, or we succumb to cirrhosis of the face.

You haven't got 10p we could borrow have you? A quid? Whatever.

Thalidomide Disco

2005-07-20T01:39:00.000Z

Well fuck me fucking sideways with a rusty fucking Job-Centre.

Fuck.

In nine fucking days time motherfucker shit in your pants cockstain bumjuggler cunt, The Kennington Fox, hey fuck, that's us! Will be a whole fucking year old.

Golly.

A whole fucking year. Of this shit.

Somebody give us a pat on the fucking back.

Since we started pumping undiluted hundred year old congealed walrus slurry into the cyber-ether, our audience has swelled like a disposed-of corpse in a hot Florida sewer from fucking absolutely no-one, to um, fucking hardly anybody to speak of.

And for all your support, enthusiasm and kind words over the last 365 days, we here at Fox House would like to extend a huge warm horse's cock of thanks to all of our loyal and long suffering readers.

Cheers Paul. Cheers Rob. Cheers Chris.

We couldn't have made it without the three of you.

Well, we could have actually. But you know what I mean. It's a figure of speech.

And thank you all very much and we're really terribly sorry, but it's not like we didnae warn you, to anyone else damn fool enough to have persevered beyond the homepage.

Oh, I just fucking remembered.

I knew I was going to fucking say something.

It's fucking anniversaries a-go-go round these parts at the minute and no fucking mistake.

This cat's piss on your pillow that you're reading now is the 100th Kennington Fox post.

Yes.

What an achievement.

That some posts consist of no more than a crappy picture, or are less than a sentence long notwithstanding, it's still some sort of cock-eyed fucking landmark for us.

A whole one hundred flaccid fucking gripes from Mr Angler Fish and the scared of their own fucking reflection crew. Well done boys and girls. Remind me to feed you again sometime this year.

We couldn't decide between marking this momentous pair of occasions with a stroll down Vietnam-flashback-lane, type retrospective of all the best bits, which should effectively obviate any immediate need to think of anything new to say.

Although, ha ha, yes indeedy, that would be a fucking first anyway.

Or to come over all hmmmm thoughtful and fucking reflective and make some massive fucking overweening - what the fuck does overweening mean, exactly, you cunt? I don't fucking know and just for fucking once I can't be fucking stuffed to fucking look the fucker up on Dictionary.com so fuck yourself, I like the sound of it and none of these arseholes know what it means anyway and wouldn't have given it a second's thought if you hadn't gone and opened your big fucking mouth - overweening and sententious point about this, that, or the kiss my fucking clagnutty arse-cheeks other.

We looked into the best of route.

And had to conclude in very short order, that we was on a hiding to fucking nothingsville with a jet propelled squid up our arses.

It's all absolute fucking fucking shit of the most irretrievably bollocks kind.

Keeps us amused but the judgement call stands.

And as far as points to be made goes.

Here's a fucking point for you.

They declared war on a fucking noun.

Pop-eyed lying psychopaths that would make Fred West blush are ostensibly in charge, and they are spending more money than has ever been invented on the obliteration of a fucking noun by overwhelming military force.

They are fucking us and we are fucked.

Let's have a conversation about trainers.

The man on the TV just said he's an evil demon here on this Earth to make it a living hell beyond our most horrible imagining.

Who do you think's getting evicted this week?

Text:
WhoFuckingGivesAfuckingFuckingFuckYou
FuckingTwatTheFuckingNazisAreFuckingBack
AndYou'reTalkingAboutBigfuckingBrother
JesusFuckingWeptIthinkI'mGoing2have2
KillYouNow

to the number on your screen now.

Did I hear them saying on the news tonight as I was flipping up and down trying to find a programme with breasts in that we'd killed 25,000 civilians in Iraq since we arrived? I think I might have.

Twenty. Five. Thousand.

Oops, our mistake, price of freedom, beg your pardon.

You're fucking liberated now aren't you?

Yep, we came to liberate your souls from your fucking bodies in some cases. 25,000 of you and counting. That's just how dedicated we are to our ideals.

Did you see the footy?

You can't go on the tube without wondering what a face full of white-hot, tube-carriage-window hitting you at approximately 600mph might feel like.

Ooh no, tell me more about Paris Hilton.

And it's only just fucking begun. You know that don't you?

You know there's no, "winning" a fucking, "war" against a fucking word.

Throughout all the ages, forever and ever, war without end.
That is their entire ideology and reason for existence.

Those cunts are only just getting warmed up.

What we've seen cracking off in the last four years was just heavy-petting.
Some extended fore-play.

You fucking wait till China decides it's time to make their own particular fucking point regarding how they feel about America going round stealing all the fucking oil before it runs out.

That's gonna be such a hoot I may laugh so fucking hardy har hard I shit in my fucking wet-suit.

Here's my fucking point:

Rich people are cunts. The planet's fucked.

It's our fault.

And I can't think of one single useful thing to do.

Not one solitary constructive or helpful response.

I think I shall take up going blind for a hobby.

See if that doesn't allow me to develop a more relaxed attitude to life.

That or walking up and down Oxford Street on Saturday afternoons wearing a sandwich board saying:

They are fucking us
and we are fucked.
You are all going to die.
Ask me how.

That's my fucking point.

I'm sorry it is neither original interesting or funny.

But it's the only one I've fucking got.

Yay 100 Fox.

Spam Chunks and Monkeys and Fat Sweaty Britons

2005-07-18T16:27:00.000Z

A small bookshop, five miles just South of Cocytus.
A customer approaches the counter with a book-like object clutched in his warty fist. It is a book.

Hello.

Hello, just this one please.

Ooh, Tools for Tantra, that's a good one. He knows his onions that Harish Johari.

Oh, have you read it?

Yes.

Oh right. What did you reckon to it?

Oh no, you know, I wouldn't like to bore you.

No, really, I'd be very interested. I've been, oh, ha ha, ahem, my partner and I have been, I should say....

Ha ha yes.

...Yes. Have been practicing the exercises in the Margo Anand book for a couple of months now...

Oh yes, that is a good one to start with.

...Yes we quite like it, and we decided we wanted to get into it all in a bit more depth, and one of Kristal's; that's my partner, one of the other ladies at her yoga class recommeded this one as a good second book. So, no, seriously, any suggestions or helpful hints, more than welcome. Be my guest.

Well... if you're sure...

Yeah, no, really. It's all interesting, and I'm very keen to hear and learn from anyone with any experience, after all, "We are all disciples continuously being taught life's lessons by the Shiva and Shakti in everyone" hahaha.

Ha ha ha yes. Well okay, since you ask. If you want my honest opinion about this book...

Yes, yes I do.

I would have to say:

Warning: tread carefully on this path that seems so bright.

Buy this book, read it carefully, reflect on what you find, assimilate what you can, then move on and don't look back!

There is much about Tantra and Hinduism and it's nature that is valuable in this book. You need to know it and what this "thread" of Tantra is about.

For the web of life is created by many such threads.

Look for yourself on page 26, table 5 to understand the true nature of this Tantra:

The Ten Karmas of Mantras!

Look and see for yourself what this path is about:

This is a path of power, manipulation and desire.

Only the peaceful mantras of Shanti Karma do not bind you to the invisible "thread" of the dark side of Tantra.

As a university graduate in Comparative Religion and India studies, an ex-personal student of Mr. Johari in the 70s, and as a person who has lived and travelled in the Far East for the last 8 years studying Hinduism and Buddhism, take my advice and do not be led into any New Age dreams or fantasies about the real nature of this type of Tantra.

If you are attracted by the beautiful sensual art of this book and enter into the "Door" where they stand guard and beckon so seductively, know that in this house of Beauty and Music and art Philosophy and Laughter lives deep within the basement a terror of dark magic power far beyond your comprehension:

Dhumavati - She who stalks the burning ground, She who haunts the crematoriums. She who waits in dark places unkown and long forgotten to most living men to caputure unsuspecting souls.

She who is distorted and disbalanced. She who's Yantras and Mantras cause pain, suffering, death and despair. She who does not fear Shiva.

This is part of the Tantra that is contained in this book. Do not think it is myth or old wives' tales. It is as real as the primal sounds and patterns that this book contains.

Tread this path as carefully as you would when walking a razor's edge. Do not think it is fantasy, it is indeed a dark reality few can fathom. If you, as a neophyte tantrik, think you can cope with the dark forces unleased by the Uchchatan, Vidweshan and Maran Mantras that you may desire to invoke, you are totally deluding yourself.

Beware - amid the images that entice so gently and blissfully also live the the dark side of Tantra and power of Kali ma, Chinnamasta and Dhumavati.

When you open this book and when you close it Circle yourself with the protection of the Maha mantra: Om Shanti - Sita Ram, Ram Ram, Hari Ram, Om Shanti Shanti Shanti.

Read this book! And take care.

Good luck my friend. Om Shanti Shanti Shanti.

Om.

Oh.... Err. Really?

'Fraid so cock.

Piss. Maybe I'll just get the new Harry Potter instead. Unless of course there are hidden incantations within the text that will enslave me to a White-Bone Demon of Death for all eternity or something.

Blimey! How did you know that?

Fuck it.
You're mad, I'm going.
I hope your shop goes bankrupt before the end of this financial month.

That's what I'm aiming for Sir.

Really? Why am I not surprised? Goodbye.

Goodbye.

Just for the record. That description of a book is a real description of a real book really on Amazon. See for yourself if you don't believe me.

Om Shanti everyone.

Busby Berserkely

2005-07-17T16:10:00.000Z

Dave?

Yep.

What's on this video?

It's a documentary film about a man with really bad guts and all his mates say that when he lets off it's like something dead's crawled up his arse.

Is that it?

No, he wants to get his socially crippling flatulence cured, so he goes off to the mountains of the Hindu Kush to find a mystical yogi type who's supposed to know an ancient Vedic remedy. He's rumoured to be hanging around either in Northern Pakistan or Southern Afghanistan, so he has to dick about looking for him all over the border country between the two.

Shit. What's it called?

"Carrion Up the Khyber"

Dave?

Yep.

I'm just going to contact Darth Vader using the Dark-side of the force and ask him if he wouldn't mind aiming and firing the Death Star at you, and destroying the entire planet Earth in the process.

Smashing. What's for dinner?

Sheperd's Pie.

Lovely.

I hate you Dave.

I know. What's that great fruit in the straw-boater doing to the girl in the postcard's arse?

Looks like he's holding his jacket out to hide an erection, to me Dave.

Seed of love my arse.

I expect that's what he was hoping she'd say.

Disgusting. Where's my dinner?

Lust Curd

2005-07-17T14:45:00.000Z

So you've been smoking drugs since you were 16.

More than half your lifetime thus far.

And for a great deal of that time, you've been saying to yourself:

I wish I could smoke a bit less, and do a bit more.

Write that book. Make that film.

Do some of your absolutely brilliant music that the world can't live without if only it knew.

But it's taken you this long, till now, to finally stop.

And that wasn't because of some fantastic act of will power on your part was it?

Fuck no.

You just ran out of fucking money didn't you? You stupid cunt.

Because the only jobs you'd ever had were absolute shit.

Because you'd always been too happy to smoke one and forget about taking the trouble to work at making a living doing something you enjoy and that you're good at.

The last of the shit jobs that fell into your lap without you trying just went massive bollocks shape.

Like they all seemed to do.

Funny that isn't it?

They made you redundant from your last job but one, when the management stuffed everything up to the tune of a million quid and you were amongst the least necessary members of staff. They kept on the guy with the feet that smelt like dead animals from 6 yards away. But they got rid of you.

And you didn't get on in the last one did you? Poor darling. Found it all a bit irksome. A bit of a nuisance. So you left.

And you're too skint to buy drugs now.

So you've told yourself and all your friends, who aren't remotely fooled, by the way, that:

Yeah, I'm off the weed now, and I can start doing stuff at last.

Really. Haven't managed much have you?

Apart from roll through Halo 2 another three times.

Isn't about time you faced up to the fact that it wasn't the drugs that made you lazy?

You were fucking bone idle in the first place, congenitally and from the get go, and that's how come you were attracted to that particular drug.

Them as can't deal with the weight of an adult personality and the socio-sexual straight jacket that comes with it round these parts, regress into a warm sea of worm-like emotions by guzzling down booze like motherfuckers.

If you don't feel too sharp in the talking department. If you don't feel too Ka Ka Charismatic. If you don't feel that you're quite the charming devil you would like to be. Coke is it. It's the real thing. It's a great way to make friends and meet people. And have them suck you off for a gramme.

If you're an annoying cunt with no regard or concern for anyone else but your selfish fucking self. Spike up and be happy. Your bath tub might be full of shit, but the brown's great tonight so who gives a fuck eh?.

It's not the drugs that make you useless you fucking idiot.

They just make being useless a bit more bearable, and give you an ever present excuse.

Congratulations. You got handed a life that 90 per cent of the planet would have gouged each others' eyes out for.

And you stayed in bed.

And smoked drugs.

And thought you were clever.

You're going to look like such a prick when you die and find yourself swirling down the U-bend of light back to the creator.

And you suddenly realise what you just pissed up the wall.

And have to spend a thousand dis-incarnate years getting the Karma kicked out of you in the absolute elsewhere.

You'll be needing a fucking joint after that.

Fucking spoilt cunt.

Life's too good for your sort.

Cheese-Arsey Dew of Mad Feverish Things.

2005-07-16T11:06:00.000Z

There was a television programme listed on the Radio Times website the other day.

And the title of the programme was: Slaughterhouse - The Task of Blood.

The idea behind the programme was to examine the truth of the well known saying I'd never heard which goes: "If slaughterhouses had glass walls, we would all be vegetarians."

Hm. And ha.

I can sort of see what they mean by that.

I expect some people might stop eating meat.

In the same way that if you broadcast 24hr a day tumour-excision surgery on the TV for a week, and posted slices of cancer-riddled lung to everyone in the country for another two, Marlboro sales might suffer a bit.

For a short while.

Until everybody forgot about it all.

Two months tops I would guess.

And so, at the very high risk of being just a teensy bit on the predictable side,

I can't help but feel that there is something fucking close to a distinct possibility that in the actual event of slaughterhouses across Britain being made to replace their brick walls with ones made from glass,

by some demented extension of the anti-hunting laws, and the drive for accountability and transparency in public life,

What would in fact happen, is that such huge crowds of cunts,

i.e: Everyone,

would turn up to gawk, rubberneck, masturbate, go: "Whoo! Jackass!" and generally enjoy the free horrorshow, that it would be difficult for the people who actually have to work there to even get in the front door, for all the mongs crushing up 30 deep to watch the hook-through-the-nose, annnnnd....Yank! pig-flaying machine in action.

Men in hot-dog vans would arrive to feed the hungry throngs.

People would be videoing all the best bits with their phones like nobody's business.

And texting them to their mates.

The management would start making more money charging mile-long queues of enthusiastic amateurs for the privilege of operating a bolt-gun, than they did from actually slaughtering animals.

There would be a public hanging, t-shirts and commemorative wellies type carnival atmosphere.

Within a couple of months it would be a hugely popular TV show format.

With annoying twats turning up on discussion shows and grinningly admitting, "I can't help watching it. It's just bloody good telly." to big laughs from Dominic Brigstocke and Lee Mack.

A different variation on the theme for each channel.

Through the Chest Cavity with Lloyd "Gross-out" Grossman on ITV, hectoring a studio panel of sub-celebrity nothingnesses to guess the famous person wielding the chainsaw and wearing a hockeymask tonight.

Past the SlaughterShed with Germaine Greer on Two, comparing the regional differences in slaughter techniques and methods, and the wider socio-cultural significances thereof.

Channel 4 would be way ahead of the pack with their Glamour Guts show, where world-class catwalk wraiths, "it" girls, and FHM models, get shown the finer points of livestock disassembly, and practice said, wearing the latest haute couture fashions.

Which would be behind Kate Moss's finally ditching talentless junky twat-boy, for a member of the new rock'n'roll aristocracy of slaughtermen,

Gareth Colthwaite.

Well, I got me Manolo's caugh' in ver large intestines wot I'd just slung out all over ver floor, and I went arse over tit, head-first into the livers bin.
It woz a right giggle.
N'en Gaz come up and pulls me ahrt.
Acted like a proper gent 'e did.
And once I got all ver blood & stuff arht me mincers, I realise he's quite dishy too.
It all kind of went from there.
Really.
I s'pose.

Thank you Kate.

And before you know it, her career is on the slide because now she's not sharing her previous beau's favourite pastimes, and is indulging in those of her new one: she is eating a lot more pies and bacon sandwiches.

And puts on enough weight to look female and start having periods again.

A small triumph for glass-walled slaughterhouse culture.

Fucking vegetarians my arse. Give me the necessary marketing budget, and I'll have the whole country going knacker-shed mental in a fortnight.

It's not like they'd need too much fucking persuading is it?

Or is it?

Hm.

And ha.

Hm.

Shit.

Just been looking on google images for a suitable picture to accompany this load of old bollocks.

And in the process saw rather more piglets being buried alive and veal calves chained up in their own shit than I meant to.

And found myself reading an article and being reminded of the fact that the animal dispatching business got monopolised in America.

Leaving a relatively small number of absolutely huge, million animals a year, industrial-scale abbatoirs that run at top speed all day, all night, and stop for fuck all ever.

Even when workers get caught in the cogs and all that.

And this leads to really kak-handed workmanship.

So shit from the guts of the animals gets sprayed all over the meat by the big fucking buzz-saws.

and I don't mean shit like just general, "stuff", I mean honest to goodness fear hormone and pain-juice suffused pig & cow excrement.

I do mean shit.

There is pig shit in the wieners.

And cow pat in the burgers.

And the incidence of food-borne poisoning deaths has quadrupled in the last 15 years.

Into the hundreds of thousands.

It's a slow and painful way to go, it seems.

But you know, it's fair enough.

If we want cheap & plentiful meat on our tables everyday so we can keep pretending we're loads better off than Russia and all those places where everything looks really shit and everyone's poor and stuff.

We've got to accept that a quarter of a million people are going to puke themselves to death every year.

So long as we've got plenty of cheap meat.

That's the main fucking thing, eh?

Fuck. I love my sausages, but I think I might be going gay and turning vegetable-ist.

It's the only appropriate moral response.

Until Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall is minister in Chief of Beef and runs all the world's slaughter facilities with a rod of benevolent iron.

Allowing all animals for food to live lovely meadow bound lives. And experience a ridiculously quick and painless death by high velocity sniper rifle shot through the head.

Even then I'm starting to feel a bit nasty about offing the poor bastards.

Mostly because I was never keen on the idea of aliens tipping up and doing the same thing to us, in a War of the Worlds styley.

Despite the fact that I remain at least semi-convinced that they've been here forever doing just that and that's precisely why the world is the appallingly cruel and pointless shit-hole it frequently seems to be.

It's not our material bodies they feed on though.

Oh dear me no.

It's the misery they're chowing down on.

They should be some fat fucking ultra-terrestrials in that case.

Oops.

Pass the tofu.

Cthulhu Surprise For Tea

2005-07-15T01:34:00.000Z

Cthulhu surprise for tea! Shouted Mama, dear Mama, dragging her flippers behind her.

Oh super, Mama dearest! Cried we little ones: the fry.

Grampa Siphon and Papa harumphed approval in their measured, grown-up way.

Through their gills.

Calm down my darling sprats, squelched Mama.

It hasn't quite finished baking yet. Here, gnaw on these elbow joints of men for an appetiser.

And the five of us, Grampa, and Papa, Mohobanabh, Jign'untpth, and me, Chadbagulon all set to pulverising the man-bones with a sickening icthyian gusto.

We can only have gouted the one or two gallons of curdled plasma and marrow over Mama's new tableclothing, so the after-shoal etiquette lessons we have been attending are really starting to pay off.

Which was just as well. Mama was especially fond of this decorative feeding-slab tarpaulin as it was a new one she had purchased last epoch, for the bargain knock down price of only 6 decadent and eldritch artworks in alien gold, suggesting antediluvian and un-guessed at mind-strangling terror.

It had a cheery, yet somehow oppressively nauseating design, noisomely redolent of nighted gulfs of cosmic foetor, showing the great lord himself, resplendent and envigorated after countless dark and dreaming aeons of enforced & brooding slumber. Getting his shit together massive style, and really laying it on thick. With regards enslaving an uncomprehending bovine humanity.

What did you do at work today Papa? I asked, with the intention of beginning a round of pleasant and intellectually envigorating conversation.

Oh, you know Chad, the usual sort of thing really. Although, the Great Deep Ones of the fabulous sunken empire of Gnath have been kicking up a dreadful stink over their quotas this week.

Khanekrablad the black nightmare of madness has been throwing his weight around something rotten, the big girl's swim-bladder, trying to convince His Great Not Dead And Dreaming Badness's sub-altern planet-wide domination and eternal nameless torture committee, that the deadlines him and his team have been set for getting mankind to kill and kill and kill again and to rejoice in that killing without end, are just not feasible and needs to be entirely re-thought.

When in actual fact everyblubbery in the department knows it's because he's been messing about wasting at least the last aeon or two having improper relations with that awful slattern Shaggassboleth the slimy creeper of the ghastly sphere, from Accounts. There'll be rivers of blood before bedtime if his soul-annihilating destroyer of worlds from before time-ness hears about it, I'll tell you that much.

Really Papa? But I thought the killing and killing and killing again and rejoicing in that killing was going really well. They said on R'Lyeh Today that the men creatures were going absolutely batshit for each others' throats like a bunch of unreasoning slaughter-crazed fuckwads, in greater numbers today than even the golden years of Hitler Stalin & Mao put together.

Ah, sadly it's just propaganda that the rugose star-shaped cone-things of the desolate plateau of Leng have been putting about to keep morale up. The truth is, that despite their having a really good stab at getting right back into top gear with the planet-wide mechanised slaughter cruelty and gibbering insane bestial atrocity, they just aren't quite getting there yet. Apparently our dead, yet slumbering in the strange star spaces Lord of the black and horrible realms of idolatrous malignity is absolutely livid about it and has been tentacle-beating the Dholes of Sarnath over the whole thing something chronic.

Golly.

Golly is right.

But is there nothing anyone can do? Have not Hat-Shabsurbat the devourer of the lurking void, or Tsorragathnog the pyramid skulled chatterer of the between realms been consulted? They normally have a trick or two up their stifling cloaks of air-less virulent panic.

Ah, yes, but sadly they have been getting a bit Shub Niggurath around the congeries since the Pre-Cambrian period, and most of what's been attributed to them since, was mostly the ideas of their juniors dressed up to look like they thought of it. That's what a Shoggoth from pain analysis told me last week anyway.

Then what is to be done Papa dearest?

Well, since you ask, there's something of a prodigy coming up in the hideous cyclopean ranks of the Travesty of Matter and Defiling all that is Healthy, Wholesome or Clean Department, who's generated a whole legion of really quite amazingly evil felchers of the filth between men's souls. Even the cold and ruthless majestic corruption himself is worried it might be going a bit too far.

Goodness Papa, and by what names do they call such vile, obscene malevolences of wanton putrefying brutality and mindless slavering death-lust, that even the Majestic Delirium of the Charnel Dimensions himself, greatness and wonder be around him, can judge them so harsh?

Rhruhm∫fhåldht, Chæne¥h, V'lfµrvih'tse and Pœõrlh,

calleth he they.

And they are a right bunch of ghastly cunts and no fucking mistake.

Yipes, they sound just yakky Papa, when do they start the great work?

Etc etc etc.

Let's not labour a fucking lame as a one-legged millipede idea for any longer than absolutely necessary eh?

Horrid Patter and the Ponce of Peeves

2005-07-10T22:19:00.000Z

Marjorie sits in her big white sofa watching Big Brother Live. She could never figure out why whoever it is that's in charge of all the microphones & things seems to prefer recording the sound of birds tweeting. Why haven't they sacked him yet? Surely it's more important to record what the house-mates are saying? But she carries on watching. She knows the birdsong freak will get bored soon and start listening to what's going on inside the house again. And until then, she can enjoy guessing what they might be talking about. Usually turns out to be more interesting than when she can actually hear them anyway.

There is a knock at the front door. Marjorie wonders who it can be at this hour. But, with a flabby grunt, heaves herself up from the sofa nonetheless. Despite herself she is curious.

She opens the door.

It is a neat looking man in a neat looking suit. He has neat looking hair and a neat little moustache. He is carrying a neat looking clipboard, and is holding out his neat little ID card in his neatly manicured hands.

Hello. Says Marge.

Hello Madam. Good evening. I am sorry to disturb you. My name is Mr. Collins and I am an inspector for the TV Licensing Authority. We have had a detector van in the area over the last week, and we have reason to believe that there is an unlicensed TV somewhere in this house.

What? Nooo. I pay for it by direct debit. £10.49 a month it costs too. Which is bloody steep for my mind seeing as we never watch any of the BBCs. Course I've got a license. I'll go and get it for you if you hang on a sec.

I'm sorry Madam. Perhaps I didn't make myself clear. We are the T.V. Licensing Authority: T.V. As in transvestite. Not television. I beg your pardon. We get too used to using the abbreviation in our office. What I should say is: We have reason to believe there is an unlicensed transvestite in this house.

What are you talking about you silly bugger? There's no bloody transvestites here. There's only me and my husband, and he's not a cross-dressing weirdo. He's a builder's labourer for heaven's sake. I should call the police. The nerve! Coming round here with your mucky inseminations.

Might it be possible for me to speak to your husband Madam? Then I'm sure we can have this matter cleared up in no time, and I can leave you both to go about your evening in peace.

What? No it wouldn't. Bloody cheek. Sling your dirty-minded hook and leave us alone.

I'm sorry Madam, but I'm afraid I must insist. If you refuse to co-operate I am fully authorised by the letter of the law to return with several burly police officers and a search warrant.

To look for fucking trannies? Fuck off. Since when was it against the law for a man to dress up like a woman if he wants to?

It isn't Madam. So long as they have a properly authenticated license for it they are perfectly free to dress how they please. That's what living in a democracy is all about. Once a gentleman has passed the government's psychometric vetting procedures and we can be sure that his one solitary filthy deviancy won't progress, diverge, or otherwise spill over into other, less, how shall I put it? Less legal and socially acceptable forms of perverted moral degeneracy, he is free to dress like as big a jessy as he sees fit. I personally, am a big fan of Paul O'Grady, for example.

Are you fucking mad? Who are you? Really. Go away. That's not the law. You're just a loony. I'm going to close the door now. Get off my property and leave us alone or I'll call the bloody police on you, you fucking weird sod.

On the contrary Madam. Under paragraph six of the, "Round up and catalogue anybody a bit different, just in case. Act." of yesterday morning this year, enacted in a knee-jerking hurry in the wake of some half-arsed media generated hysteria panic type exercise in Totalitarian Draconian Bringhomethebaconian Neo-Fascist governance, I am acting in perfect accordance with all relevant legalities. And furthermore, I would strongly advise against your shutting the door in my neat little face. I can call for armed response back-up on my radio, and have the street full of hyped-up carbine-toting gun-nuts in uniform within minutes, if you intend to physically obstruct a sanctioned representative of her Majesty's Government from carrying out his duties.

Oh for fuck's sake. Right. Stay there you little bastard. Take one step inside my house and I'll eat your fucking neck. I'm going to get Derek. He'll tell you to to stop being so bloody stupid and then you can go away. Fucking transvestite my arse. Derek won't even wear flip-flops on account he says they're a bit whoopsy. Fuck me. Hang on.

very good Madam.

Derek, meantime, has been blissfully ignorant of recent developments on his very own doorstep. He is in the back bedroom. With the door locked. Confident Marjorie will be glued to, "that mindless bollocks" on the telly, until she falls asleep with her face on the satellite remote. Again.

Leaving him to enjoy his favourite pastime of dressing up in stockings suspender & a bra. Popping a big tomato in each under-wired cup. Putting on a slinky little black number. Wig, make-up. False eye-lashes. And his one pair of size nine stilettos from the specialist shoe shop on the King's road. A little extravagance he treated himself to last year after he nearly broke his ankle tottering about with his feet half-jammed into Marge's size fives.

Lovely. He thinks. You look a sight better in that dress than Marge does Derek.

Since she developed such a close relationship with the fridge.

And for an hour or so, once or twice a week, Derek gets to admire himself in the mirror.

And pretend that he is something glamorous and fantastic. In his eyes at least. For just a short while out of his gritty, grunting, dull as buggery Builder's Labourer life.

Derek! Let me in love. There's some silly bastard at the door reckons you've been dressing up as a woman. Open the door pet.

Derek....

Derek? Are you in there?

The door opens.

Ah there you are.... Ooh fuck. Derek love, I had no idea. That dress suits you loads better than it does me now. Shit. What are we going to do? He wants to take you away for psychiatric tests and all sorts of horrible shit.

Don't worry love. I've been expecting this for a while now. Invite him in, close the front door behind you, and bring him in to see me in the living room.

Why. What? Oh Derek. He's got armed coppers he can call wh....

Don't worry chicken. I'll take care of it. Just do exactly what I tell you, and everything's going to be fine. Go on now. I'll see you in a second.

Oh. Alright. If you think it's okay. I'll go and get him.

That's my girl.

Very shortly thereafter, back on the doorstep.

Hello, Mr Collins? Come in will you? Derek's in the living room.

I see Madam. Very good. Seen sense has he? Glad to hear it.

In you come. That's it.

Marjorie clunks the door behind her and leads Mr Collins into the living room.

Good evening sir. My name is Mr. Collins, T.V. Licensing Authority. I can see all too well that our detector van's readings were indeed correct then?

Yes Mr. Collins, yes they were. Very well done. Good job you caught me in time. Who knows what disgusting evil I might have graduated to once the thrill of silky underwear and lipstick had ceased to be enough to satisfy my sick lusts, eh?

Precisely sir.

Bear with me just two ticks while I get me stillies off. I'll need some sensible shoes on if I've got to come with you. I can't walk further than a couple of yards in these things.

I would imagine not sir.

There, that's them off. Now then.

Derek gets up out of his armchair.

Derek is clutching a six inch stiletto-heeled size nine in each hand.

Derek spends every day of his working life carrying bags of cement and bricks around.

He has been known to swing a 16lb sledge-hammer unceasingly for a solid three hour stretch.

Derek's knuckles are white and his breathing has become quite heavy.

Mr. Collins notices neither. He is busy being inwardly appalled at the putrid taste with which these estate-living dolts choose to decorate their hovels.

Mr. Collins is more surprised than anyone to suddenly find himself unable to see the putrid taste with which this particular pair of estate-living dolts have furnished their hovel.

Derek appears to have very brutally and without warning, shoved a six-inch stiletto spike into each of Mr. Collins' eye-sockets.

With enough force to, yes, I appear to be dead. The big man dressed up like a prostitute has killed me with his shoes. Thinks Mr. Collins. As he floats above his not quite so neat anymore body, and he looks down at it.

That's that cunt sorted out then. Come on Marge. Let's get him cut up into joints and stuffed in the freezer. This should save us some money off the food shopping for a good few months. What do you reckon?

Right you are love. But what if they come looking for him though?

Looking for who?

Mr. Collins. Him! The... Oh. Yes. See what you mean. But what about you and your dressing up? They're bound to catch you sooner or later, aren't they?

Not if we go and live in Thailand. I've been salting money away as a precaution against exactly this eventuality for quite a few years now.

Ooh lovely. Thailand. The food there's delicious.

Great, that's it then. As soon as we've eaten our way through the man from the ministry here, we can emigrate.

I love you darling.

I love you too Marge.

Good. Come on then you big hairy tart, get him laid out in the kitchen and I'll get the fucking hacksaw.

Take Your Price Tag Off And Make My Dinner.

2005-07-10T02:01:00.000Z

Incidentally, my own personal cut out and keep, cut out and shove it up your arse, hot tip for avoiding depression:

Never watch, listen to, or read the news.

Hit the mute button on the remote the instant an ad break begins. Don't let them in.

and keep Eastenders off the telly.

Always always always.

It is the misery-monger.

If the plot doesn't get you down.

The fact that a terrifyingly large proportion of your fellow countrymen do watch it, will.

Fucking should, anyway.

That and the fucking acting.

Although the chap who played Pat's son Barry. The one that got pushed off a cliff by that horrid tart Janine. He was good, bless him.

So don't listen to, read, or indeed ever watch, the news, and keep your head fully submerged in a coolbox filled with elephant strength, Selective Serotonin Re-uptake Inhibitors.

Do both those things and you'll be laughing.

Your keel will be so even you could use it for a snooker table.

Would do wonders for Sylvia Plath even.

Swear to god.

She'd a been running round the house kissing Ted and writing

Yummy.
yummy yummy I've.
Got.
Love.
In my tummy.
And I.
Feel:
Like loving.
you.

etc etc

And the only reason she'd have gone anywhere near the oven would be to bake muffins and stuff.

Swear to god.

Captain Hassle Bladder's Yellow Peril, Pt4.

2005-07-09T01:38:00.000Z

Knock knock.

Come.

Hello sir. Jeffreys: form 3b. You wanted to see me.

Ah. Jeffreys. Yes. Come in lad. Take a seat.

Thank you sir.

Now then Jeffreys, ah, what's your Christian name? I'm sorry, it's hard to keep track of you all at my age.

Christian sir.

Yes yes, your Christian name. First name.

Yes sir. That's it. My name's Christian.

Oh, oh beg your pardon, get you now. See what you mean. Christian name's Christian. Very good. Good solid name for a young feller. How old are you now Jeff... ah, Christian?

15 sir. I'll be 16 next month. All my friends just call me Chris.

Do they? Do they do they do they? I see. 15 going on 16 you say? Hmm.

Yes sir. Er, sir?

Yes lad?

This isn't about what happened with Timpkiss Senior and the Castor Oil in the Cricket Pavillion last month is it? Because I was only walking past at the time sir, I swear. Really sir, honestly. I promise I didn't have anything to do with it.

Oh good lord no boy. Nononono, no. No. Mr Underwood and myself are quite satisfied we know who the culprits are on that one. It's just a matter of time before they make a mistake and leave some concrete evidence: they're bound to get sloppy eventually, and when they do, believe you me we're going to come down on them like a ton of bricks. Ho dear me yes.

Oh good. That's a relief sir. How is Timpkiss now?

On the mend, I hear. Still can't look at a cricket bat without blubbing, poor blighter, but at least he's up and about and walking again. Albeit with a bit of a limp. So Matron tells me at any rate.

I'm glad to hear it sir.

Yes. Yes, very good. Now then Jeffreys..... Christian, um, Chris! I beg your pardon, Chris. Now then Chris. What it is that I wanted to see you about is ah, is ah, ah. Welll.....

Sir?

I hear you're doing very well in your English classes. Chris. Mr Fletcher says you're a very talented young man.

Thank you sir. Is that why you wanted to see me?

Uh, not exactly: Mr Fletcher came to me this week and said that he was a little ah concerned? about you.

Me sir?

Yes uh.... Chris. Concerned. He was concerned about you and he showed me the composition you handed in last week. He said you'd all been given the theme, "Toward the Future." I believe it was.

Yes sir, that was it.

Yes.... Ah, well, anyway. Mr Fletcher showed me the piece you wrote and ah, I ah, we um...

Did I confuse subjunctive clauses again sir? I'm sorry sir. I've promised Mr. Fletcher I was going to try really hard to get my grammar perfect before Easter. It's just those subjunctive clauses are ever so ruddy tricky sir.

Language Jeffreys. Chris, sorry. Oh blast it, do you mind awfully if I just call you Jeffreys? I know all those books on modern educational techniques that Ms Sorensen keeps making me read are all very well and good. I'm sure there's a lot of sense in them. Somewhere. But I'm an old soldier in this war Jeffreys my boy, and it's dashed hard to learn new tricks at this late stage in the innings if you know what I mean. You're sure you don't mind?

No sir, not at all. I beg your pardon for swearing sir: It's just that every time I think I've got the tricky devils pegged...

Devils? Where? Which devils?

Subjunctive clauses sir. Sorry sir. They are tricky devils though.

Oh yes, good gracious me yes, beg your pardon. Them. Yes lad, I know what you mean. All the chaps at King's used to rib me terribly for not getting my subjunctive clauses straight. Course, most of them are dead now. Silly buggers all signed up for SOE and got caught by SS Liebestandarte. Hung them up by the fingernails with fishing hooks till they sweated to death after a fortnight. Horrible inhuman fiends. Still, that's were too much education can get you sometimes.

Sir?! Eh?

Oh good lord! Sorry Jeffreys lad. I think I must have drifted there. What was I saying?

I was trying to say that every time I think I've finally got the hang of subjunctive clauses the rules seem to change and I get it all wrong again.

Oh yes. Of course you were. I know Jeffreys, I know. Subjunctive clauses the Offside rule and women. I'm nearly 64 my boy and I swear to the man upstairs that if I lived to be a thousand I'd never understand any of them. Especially women. But that's a talk for Mr Prendergast when you all get to the Upper Sixth. No Jeffreys, Mr Fletcher is quite happy with your progress in grammar, he knows you're trying your hardest. No. What he was concerned about was more the, ah, tone, the general, overall tone of the piece.

The tone sir?

The tone. Yes. The content. The point of view as expressed therein, you might say. The whole thing really.

Wasn't it any good sir? I'm really sorry. Mr Fletcher said we should all think ever so hard and look right down inside ourselves and write about our hopes and fears for the future. I tried my best sir. Really I did.

Yes Jeffreys. I'm sure you did. That much is self evident.

Then what is it sir? Please sir. I'm not in any trouble am I?

No lad, bless you. No. At least, not with us you're not. I think the best thing for it would be if I read the whole thing out in it's entirety, and then we can discuss it point by point. Man to man. I'll get Mrs Dawkins to bring us some tea and biscuits and we can spend the whole afternoon on it. What lessons have you got after lunch?

Double trig with Mr Scranny sir.

Well I dare say you won't mind terribly missing out on an afternoon of that old duffer then.

Not much sir.

Good, then I'll get straight on with it and we can have a good chat. How's that sound to you Jeffreys? Fair enough?

Oh yes sir. More than fair enough. Do you think Mrs Dawkins has got some Lemon Puffs in?

If I know Mrs Dawkins like I think I do, we shall very shortly be labouring under an agricultural surfeit of the blessed things.

Oh good. They're my favourites.

Good. Right then. I'll get on with it then eh?

Yes sir.

Right. Ahem:

Toward the Future

by Christian Jeffreys 3b

I've got indigestion so bad it's like I'm dissolving. Like I've eaten a soft-boiled car battery.

And the bird outside my window, that goes chif chif chif endlessly and mindlessly at a fucker of a stupid time in the morning, is off again.

Chif chif chif.

Bastard.

Please remind me that another day is on it's way, you beaky chirpy dogshit on wings.

I don't feel so great.

And there are no human words to adequately convey how disgusted I am.

How full of disgust.

Filled full of it until I'm drowning in my own bile.

I'm only going on like this because I'm trying to find some way to relieve the pressure.

Causing black squiggles to take shape on white paper.

That should do the trick.

Nothing quite like it to stop cancers growing.

Ulcers ulce-ing.

Hearts from attacking.

Bowels from twisting again like they did last Summer, when milk made my arse shit like I'd eaten hot diamond hot-dogs for hot dinner.

All night.

Getting raggedy wire pulled out your pooper for a prolonged period.

Thank you. Thanks for that.

Mountains of bile.

Tons to spare. And such high quality gear if you're into that kind of shit.

Really top notch, A1, quality loathing.

Venomous rodentine bile to make your balls drop.

All the way off, potentially.

And I am almost certain I am very very very stupid. Like an idiot.

But by the same token, I get a strong feeling there is roughly six times more going on in my skull than most fuckers.

Largest share of whom seem about as well endowed in the figuring department as a brain-damaged Tench.

It hurts me physically to think down to their level.

It scares me witless, and I try not to.

But it's hard not to think of maggots when you're eating, if you've just reminded yourself not to think of maggots when you're eating.

These are the people who allow the world to be the way it is.

They actively demand the horror. The brainless hideous idiocy of it all.

They wouldn't know what to do with themselves in a planet without cruelty.

Would be lost and scared, confronted with a world of truth beauty freedom and love.

And would hit it in the head with rusty scaffolding poles until it looked like so many hundred pound of raw hamburger. With eyes and teeth and ears.

And piss on it laughing. Before they turned on each other again.

While someone plays the national anthem of the Yahoos, on a steam-powered accordion.

Somewhere in amongst all the thoughts in my head, I occasionally, for a laugh, like to imagine it might be true that they're not even in my head.

Possibly somebody else is having them for me for their own embarrassingly gay reasons.

Or else equally possibly the thoughts don't originate within my head.

In any way you could test with a meter.

Quite an exciting thought I sometimes feel.

And in all the thoughts of uncertain provenance that for convenience's sake I habitually think of as mine.

It being a bit IN-convenient to go insane and spend all your time dissociated from the thoughts in your head because you didn't believe they had anything to do with you anymore.

In all those thoughts, I sometimes have glimpses of how maybe the answer is, "in the question." somehow.

Like the man repeatedly banging his head against the wall, who keeps saying, "Ow that fucking hurts".

Without quite managing to remember that it does.

Before he jams his nut full square unto the masonry once again.

He seems like a good metaphor.

Good as I can think of right now.

But for what, precisely, I couldn't for the fucking life of me say, I have to admit.

My guts still hurt like a rubber gun bludgeoning, but the black squiggles that mean nothing at all seem to have helped.

Never understood how that works.

I remain strangely grateful that it does.

Long live black pointless squiggles.

I think I'm going to go outside and find that bird now.

Find it and kill it.

With my hands.

Break it's vile reptilian scratchy bird legs.

Slowly.

Chif chif now you silly cunt.

Hold a lighter to it's wings so it sings a song of shit its pants. Sniff that singeing feather honk.

De luvverly.

Lay it out twitching and smoky on the concrete; then hit it until the bones get stuck in my knuckles, and it's blood and tubes are all Jackson Pollock up my night shirt.

Fuck you chif bird.

I'll miss you, you piece of shit.

Not at all.

Can I join you in the dirt with the worms you spent your fucky piss-stupid bird life chasing?

Can we spend a geological age avoiding all the disasters on the horizon?

Just you and me chif bird, what do you say?

Not much, obviously, I just tortured you to death and smashed you to a pulp with my puny claw.

What better companion to guide me through the hell that I have worked towards all my mean life.

Than the pain-emboldened spirit of the angry, just dead, Chif bird?

None......

So. Um... Is everything alright at home Jeffreys?

Fine sir. Quite happy thanks.

I see. You're not being bullied are you? The Millar boys not throwing their weight around again are they?

No sir. I'm not scared of the Millars.

Good. Good lad. Glad to hear it. But I'm sorry Jeffreys, you're going to have to give me a clue I'm afraid. What on earth possessed you to write something like that? I get the impression that Mr Fletcher was rather expecting you all to write about the sorts of careers you were going to go into once you graduate from University. You know, that sort of thing.

Really sir? Oh. I'm terribly sorry, I must have misunderstood. Did Mr Fletcher fail me for this assignment?

No Jeffreys. In fact he's given you an A minus for it. The thing we're worried about lad, is your state of mind. You must be unhappy about something to have written that.

How do you mean sir?

Well, if you'll allow me to quote, "What better companion to guide me through the hell that I have worked towards all my mean life?" To me, personally, that doesn't sound an awful lot like someone looking forward to a long career in the Foreign Office, a lovely wife, some adoring children, and a house in Hampshire. I have to say. Now, I'm going to have to ask you a very personal question here Jeffreys, and please don't be offended or ashamed. You can tell me anything, you know. I've been around the block a few times and I've just about heard it all by now. At least, I thought I had until Mr Fletcher showed me this. So there's nothing you can say that will shock me. Tell me Jeffreys: Is it another boy making you unhappy? You know. A boy you might be fond of in a way you don't really understand yet, and it's making you confused and miserable?

A boy sir?

Good grief Jeffreys yes, a boy. You're obviously an intelligent lad. Do I have to spell it out for you? The sin of the Greeks. Going Ganymede. Man love. Have you got a crush on one of your classmates? Have you both been, um, experimenting? Has the relationship gone sour and now you're punishing yourself? What? What is it?

Oh! Buggery sir. See what you mean. No. Me and Chalfont J. tried it a term ago, but decided it wasn't as much fun as most of the upper sixth seem to make out. Anyway, I'm rather fond of girls to be honest with you sir.

Good God, did you? I mean did you, did you. I see. Well, at least you've got it out of your system. And you do like girls you say? Good. Glad to hear it. Not that there'd be anything wrong if you didn't of course. I should say. So it's a girl that's making you miserable then? Heaven knows that's something I can understand my boy.

No sir, my girlfriend Fiona and myself have a very active and fulfilling sex life. Our relationship is a constant ongoing experience of openness, understanding and loving compromise.

Jesus. I imagine it probably is. Yes. Of course, why wouldn't it be? Alright then Jeffreys. You really have got me stumped. What is it that has caused you, a good looking, bright young lad with a glorious future ahead of him, to write something as bleak and nasty as that?

Oh, I see what you mean now sir, I do beg your pardon. Yes, sorry, no, er well, since you ask, I suppose I'd have to say it's probably a lot to do with having eyes in my head and ears stuck to the side of it.

Eh?

Well sir, I see what goes on. Is what I mean, really. I read books. I watch television. I see the people in the town. Wherever I go. I hear what they say. I hear them saying what they think about this and that. I hear people talking. I hear people on the news talking about one thing or another.

Yes?

Well, if you'll pardon the expression sir, but a good ninety five percent or so of it, and I think that's being exceedingly generous with regards the remaining five per cent, is total and irredeemable bollocks of the highest order, isn't it?

Wh?...

The planet we live on is a lunatic asylum populated by inmates armed with machine guns, sniper rifles, cluster-bombs, tanks, and at an improvised Grand Guignol pinch, pig-slaughtering machines.

And we all just sit here and act like it's the most natural and beautiful thing in the world.

Until the men with the pig slaughtering machine turn up in our village, of course.

In which case, all of a sudden it's just not cricket.

It's so fucking ludicrous you could weep, if it wasn't for the fact that that would be unconscionably self-indulgent of you.

Bearing in mind nobody actually tied your Dad to the back of their Armoured Personnel carrier and dragged him round town till there was just an ankle and a five mile long red smear left to show you'd ever had one.

Least not this week at any rate.

And in the midst of all this terrible, awful lunacy, some people who've thought about it all a little bit more clearly than most, which, let's face it, isn't remotely difficult bearing in mind most people spend about 1 minute a day thinking about politics, morality, or matters spiritual, somewhere in between Eastenders and having a shit, and again, for a lot of other people, the latter two activities do actually constitute their entire involvement with said fields of human thought.

These people, the people that have taken the trouble to think about the way of things.

And I'm not talking about the ones who thought about it for long enough to realise that the great and stinking masochistic majority are actually clamouring to be dictated to, governed, and oppressed.

And who took the opportunity thus presented with both hands.

The ones who make themselves busy signing the orders, placing the firing squads, administering the law, keeping the machine guns manned, planting the frag mines, and tightening the thumbscrews.

Whilst turning an obscenely tidy profit for themselves and their ungodly kind.

No, I'm talking about the people who have seen through it all to the roots of the problem, have expressed clearly and unequivocally how we can stop all of the wars and the murders and the brutality and the poverty and the hunger and the suffering and the illness and the death and the misery.

How we can stop it in its tracks, get on and move past it, and fulfil our destinies as the children of god, and live in love and harmony and all that gay sounding shit forever.

And all we do is ignore them, if they're lucky, put them into prison to die, if they're not quite so, or just out and out nail them to trees if they really get our backs up.

Did you know most psychologists or therapists start learning some form of martial art or another after practising for a month or two?

Once a couple of their patients that they've tried to get to accept some aspect of their psyche that they don't want to have to confront, start trying to break chairs over the doctors heads by way of a response.

Heaven fucking help and saints bloody well preserve the damned fool who wants to save the world: Only a fucking idiot sticks his head in front of a shit-chucking machine. I quote.

And the truth is, we don't want saving.

We fucking love this, up to our nostrils in the sewers while someone else is pouring petrol down the manhole covers and setting fire to it, world we live in.

We'd be geet disappointed if there weren't children to shoot at with tanks in the name of here's a foetus, he's a Hitler.

We hate joy.

Pleasure embarrasses us.

Beauty makes us uncomfortable.

Love is a dirty word.

I'd say we were a bunch of fucking monkeys if it wasn't for the fact that the monkeys are a billion times better behaved and more noble than us.

And they sit around nibbling their own shit, fucking members of their immediate family, and occasionally eat each other if the mood takes them.

We're fucked. Absolutely stuffed. Dead and decomposing, blue and bloated in the water, while demons rape our giggling, rotting corpse. And we fucking love every cosmic-horror second of it.

I think that's what it is, mostly.

That and I'm a bit fed up about not being able to get off Cairo Station on Legendary setting in Halo 2.

Why do you ask?

Good god. No. No, I've no idea since you mention it. Silly question. You're absolutely right. And I know what you mean about the Legendary setting too. Who the fuck can play it on Legendary? They have to be psychopaths. Well, I think that's us about done for this afternoon Jeffreys. I've just finished writing a formal statement to the effect that I'm leaving the care and education of the entire school in your hands.

Tell Mrs Dawkins I shan't be wanting my Kedgeree for supper tonight on your way out will you? There's a chap. I'm just going to pop out the window with a noose round my neck. Good luck convincing the Upper Sixth Jeffreys, and I hope you make a better fist of it all than every generation up to this point in history has managed to. Cheerio.

Cheerio sir.

Mmmm. Lemon Puffs. Scrummy.

And now, for everyone who was stubborn enough to plough all the way through that shit. Here's a picture of a simpering jessy with a big pair of Easter eggs. Although I get the feeling that's not the only "surprise" he'd like to give you.

And for anyone who was so exceptionally mad they actually spotted or noticed my use of were instead of where. That was my idea of a joke. It was on purpose. "That's were too much education gets you." See? It's hilarious.

Any way, thank you for making it this far, here's the simpleton:

Joyous pack indeed. I'm sure he has.

I stink like a dead fish in a tampon bin

2005-07-09T00:30:00.000Z

A word of advice from LTFC

Lying Two-Faced Cocksuckers

A government-funded help, advice, and information agency.

Aimed at helping young, youthful, youngsters to get the unbiased, government-funded, help, advice and information that they really really need, about the drugs that absolutely all of them are taking as a reaction against the horrors of the appalling state of the world that said gaily be-funding government is causing willy nilly, and without much in the way of let or serious hindrance.

And because it is expedient to have a nation where the most intelligent people who find themselves disagreeing with government policy, and/or just government generally, gravitate towards types of drugs which very effectively stop them from being able to think, or speak, coherent revolutionary thoughts.

Or from being remotely fucking arsed to act on them if they once in a blue moon manage to have any.

Bless them. Have another bang on that.

Chapter 1:

How do you know when you're stoned?

•You know when you're stoned when the clattering sound of the tin lid going back on your own stash jar makes you jump.

•You know when you're stoned when you stare at yourself in the bathroom mirror and scare yourself. Usually takes 30 seconds or so before you turn into a flesh eating demon from Moloch's Jap's Eye.

•You know you're stoned when you try to write songs like this...

I am a towering mountain of angriness
I am a horrible pit of snakes
I thought that you really loved me
Fuck knows we all make mistakes

You are the drooling queen of bitches
You're the lying mother of all whores
You gave me a million reasons to hate you
Including a faceful of cold sores

•And it seems like a good idea

•You know when you're stoned when you find yourself brushing your teeth for over an hour, or until you puke. Whichever's soonest.

•You know when you're stoned when you realise you're desperately trying to think up a moral justification whereby you would feel okay about having sex with someone you know you don't actually find remotely attractive and you don't intend to be seen dead with outside this one situation, but you're randy as a jackrabbit right now and you know they are very keen to get you into bed. Hmm. That is a poser kids.

Come on, Come on, Come on, Come on, Now, ROCKET, I'm Gonna Launch ya soon.

2005-07-08T23:04:00.000Z

There's a Mud tribute band that plays charity suppers and gala evenings attended by the higher echelons of the British legal profession.

All it's members are top ranking High Court Judges. They do the whole bit and dress up just like Les, Dave, Rob & Ray did in their glory days when Tiger Feet was Uber Alles.

The guitarist even wears authentic Christmas bauble ear-rings and flares so big they look like he's wearing a Margot Leadbetter evening dress.

Very authentic.

Except they do it all with judge's wigs on.

Of course.

That's their gimmick.

They make their big entrance onto the stage and,

"Sentence you, a crowd of drunken barristers, to breaking down and boogying, to hard glam rock, for 45 of her Majesty's minutes."

They're very good. Their rendition of, "The Cat Crept in" is unbelievable.

Have a guess what they call themselves.

Yep.

M'lud.

This very poor joke is standing in until something better comes along to be a fitting tribute to the mighty LES GRAY.

Who I'm ashamed to say I only just found out tonight had, sadly, pegged it from a heart attack in February last year.

God rest you merry Les.

You fucking rocked.

Bury them alive in a catfood coffin

2005-07-08T00:01:00.000Z

My name's Darius I'm from Bethnal Geen I'm 28 people say I look like John Cougar Mellencamp but I don't know who he is I think he's got something to do with Mel & Kim I'm a Virgo & I like fishing coarse fishing not game fishing you know with flies that's for posh gits and I like going clubbing but not the sort of night where the music's just bzh bzh bzh neer neer bzzzh bzh doosh you know what I mean? Where your stomach resonates with the sub bass so bad you're sick all over your trainers & you have to spend the next day on a come down picking crusty spew out of them with a toothbrush. They're shit. I used to be in marketing but I got titsed off with that and now I'm a Reiki therapist do you want me to adjust your aura? I can if you like I can tell you've got a lovely one but its Saxomadrigent Co-laminal bifurcation needs a slight massage into proper alignment with your fizzog Chi....

Umm....

Yes? Yeah? Yep? What? What do you want to know? How can I help you? God this is really exciting getting to know each other like this isn't it?

Ahm. Ahhhhh.... You're kind of buzzing your nuts off aren't you, nh?

Too right I am. Too right. Not joking. You know it you know it. Too right: I've hoofed enough Billy to strangle an Octopus. If there was any more Zip Gun Boogie going off in my nose I'd need bouncers on my nostrils. I'm frothing my fucking gills off. My saucepan lid's spinning like a Bangkok slab-cutter. Woowoowoo. Umf. Unh. Nyeah. Whydoyouask? What's the problem? What's going on? Don't you like my tie? There's spinach in my teeth isn't there? I knew that wasn't enough Listerine before I came out. Don't you fancy me? We've only just started chatting. I quite like you you've got nice eyes kind of like Sharon Stone but not in Sliver 'cos they made her wear brown contacts for that 'cos William Baldwin had a best eyes in the picture clause written in his contract before he signed on to do the movie he loves his eyes and he knows Sharon's got the best set in Hollywood you don't say much do you? but I'm really feeling some chemistry why do you ask?

Mm... 'Cos, I think you've... ah, got the wrong night petal.
You came for the Speed dating didn't you?
Speed dating's Tuesdays....ah....This is Weed dating: We're all bonged fuckless.

What?

Yeah, no, they moved them all around a couple of weeks ago 'cos the E'ed Dating night got out of hand and turned into a gigantic luvved up clusterfuck. They had to get the police to come round and hit 'em all with sticks for an hour or so. Trouble is the coppers made a mistake and burst into the Bleed Dating evening, for the Sado-Maso Vampire types going on in the next room, and that lot enjoyed the beating so much they didn't let John Q leave till gone midnight.

The police were all behind schedule now, and tired 'emselves right out smacking the orgy upside its collective noggin much harder than they might have otherwise, to make up for the fact they couldn't spend as long on it as they'd have liked to. They all had strained truncheon arms the next morning, and most of 'em threw a sicky. There was a minor crimewave as a result. The Detective Superintendent banned the E'ed Dating and the Bleed Dating for having wasted police time, and causing a nuisance to the community viz a viz the ensuing lawlessness, so the nights all got swapped around like I say. You've got the wrong night love.

Shit. Give us a bang on that joint then. My head's pounding like a bongo. What did you say your name was again?

I didn't but it's Gayle since you ask.

Pleased to meet you. This gear's proper pokey isn't it?

Yep. I can't actually see anymore.

Wicked. Pffffffffff.

I just farted in my own mouth.

2005-07-07T23:35:00.000Z

Good citizens of Rome.

The revolting slaves are at the gates of the city.

Don't worry, I'll look after you all and stop the little tinkers.

Looks as though Bedtime Prayer arrived two days early.

I repeat.

You fuckers will fail.

Ad Infinitum.

God you make me fucking puke.

Trained Monkeys

2005-07-06T23:25:00.000Z

On a train. In Merrie Englande. Heading for Birmingham & the NEC.

Haunt of ghouls.

A group of business people. 12 year olds with suits on. Monkey fuckers.

An alpha male: James Corrigan

His ghastly stooge: Steve Stokes

And about three women who are so in awe of the mighty James, they never refer to themselves by name. Or require that he does.

One is the primary female gob though. She is the most voluble and just plain loudest of the three. Unfortunately, she is a quintessential plump and jolly stereotype. Endless sexual innuendo and loud cackling, and goes to bed alone and cries after doing herself with her "three-pronged attack on your clit" vibrator and wearing out the fifth set of triple As that week. Shit, I'm just guessing.

For the purposes of this waste of human endeavour, we shall call her Jean.

The other two are quiet and kind of mousy. But happy to be part of such an elite group of movers and shakers. Let's call them Karen and Lynne.
What the fuck.

So:

They are settling into their seats around a table.

James Corrigan: Did you see Dragon's Den last night? It was awesome, brilliant.

Jean: He's a pervert!

Karen: Shh, it's the quiet coach.

Jean: He's a pervert!

Lynne: The meal cost £80,000. That was just the deposit.

Jean: 1/4 of a million.

Karen: 85 grand.

James: No that was Steve's service charge.

Turns out nearly everyone they do business with is called Steve, and he's not talking about Steve Stokes, the stooge.

Jean: Ooh I hope he's not on this carriage.

James: I don't care, I'm in the mood for a fight.

Jean: Did you see my dancing partner last night?

James: What sort of dancing was he doing?

Steve Stokes: Was he breakdancing?

Lynne: Did he keep his hands to himself?

Steve: I was talking to the Croatian bouncer.

Jean: Didn't go back to his room did you?

James: Ever see, 'See No Evil Hear No Evil' ?

There is a general grumphing, suggesting none of them watch such intellectual cinema

James: Gene wildman and Richard Pryor. One's blind and one's deaf.

Gene fucking Wildman: the prick's got Gene Wilder confused with Gene Hackman. The train pulls into Milton Keynes.

Steve: Milton keynes. Shall we go for a day out?

James: An away day?

Karen: Plastic cows.

James: You want to get a dog for picking up women.

Steve: It never worked.

Jean: Ooh no. A baby!

My concentration lapses momentarily. The conversation has moved on from pick up props and back to the subject of the big corporate hospitality do they were at the night before.

Steve: And you're really really [lost in noise] 'cos he didn't touch you up.

James: That red flashing light at the top there means you've got an email

There is an announcement over the tannoy, accompanied by strenuously high levels of feedback. EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEERRRRGGH!

James: I don't need that.

Tannoy screeches horribly again for no discernible reason.

James: I don't need that.

Steve: Couldn't tell if it was CGI

Karen: Ooh like on Thermo Man!

James is having a, "business call" on his mobile now.

James: Andrew. Hi, how are you?

I'm on a train actually

How are things with you?

Oh you'd like it. It's like a Sherlock Holmes movie set. All Victoriana.

Mike's been there.

Ha hahh.

Last time he got his wallet out.

Yeah, meant to give you a call, we got your mails.

Pulling all the stats together.

The phone call ends and...

Jean: It's just when Steve starts taking his clothes off you gotta start worrying.

Lynne: He was nice, I sat next to him last night.

James: Steve keating?

Steve: You sat next to everyone last night.

Karen: The other one.

Jean: Jay taylor.

James: That Frenchman seemed very patriotic.

Jean: He was waving his serviette about when I was doing the can can.

Two female train staff roll the trolley of 2nd-mortgage-for-a-sandwich refreshments down the aisle. They sell something to Steve Stokes. He acts like some kind of asshole, prompting one of the trolley girls, a feisty Northern lass, to comment thusly:

Trolley Lass: You think a lot of yourself don't you cock?

She rolls on leaving the Stokester reeling

Steve: She called me a cock.

James: Have you heard that joke. Time on y'cock?

Steve: She called me a cock.

Took him quite a while to get over that. Couldn't for the life of him get it into his dullard's noggin that just because the sentence she had used included the words, YOU and COCK, that she hadn't actually called him one, and that it was a figure of Northern speech. Had the cunt never seen Coronation Street for fuck's sake? Or was he being deliberately thick for the sake of an argument/joke? We shall never know. Much less remotely approach care.

Jean: So you got invited back to his room? I bet you were disappointed weren't you.

James: 3i, great company.

And I sat there listening to them.
They were just a bunch of things they've seen on TV.
They were boring.
Obvious.

And they continued to talk loudly, over each other, at cross purposes, and incessantly, for the remainder of the horribly tedious journey.

I make no especially significant value judgement. Strikes me they were all kind of wankers. But I would have sounded no less a tosser in the same company. If James is the big man, and you were working "under him" you wouldn't try and be funnier or cleverer than him. He'd make sure you got fired in six months. Money tends to make monkeys of us all.

Can you imagine living in such a fucking dull skull though? I found it a bit mindbending to be honest with you.

But I was the self-satisfied artsy fartsy intellectual bint trying to ooh whoopsy-daisy read my copy of, "Scientist of the Invisible" and ponder the life and works of Herr Rudolf fucking Steiner.

Who's the cunt? Who's to say?

Except, for my money

which is always on the nail

And because all this relativistic bollocks is really unsatisfying when you just want to hear about how shit some people are so you can walk away feeling loads better about yourself 'cos at least you're not as big a fuck as these cuntpunchers clearly are:

So:

They were definitely and without a shadow of a doubt, a bunch of dreary brainless bourgeouis counter-revolutionary cunts, that are just as much a part of the problems that planet Earth and the future of mankind's evolution into starpeople are facing, as are the politicians and Masters of War that govern burn and grind us into the shit under their feet daily.

Phew. That's alright then.

Bedtime Prayer.

2005-07-06T00:30:00.000Z

Occipital parietal blown clean out.

In front of a crowd and on film so all may see.

On the balcony at the hotel.

Just in case the bastard came to anything.

And in the kitchens, the little Palestinian presses forward.

Look in this direction you fucking idiots.

While The Devil's right hand is busy there behind.

Another one down.

I think that's the lot.

Do you think they'll figure it out?

If you think they might, you're stupider than they are.

We've won then?

For all time.

Boy that was a close one.

The snot-nosed kid nearly had us there.

In our sleep,

pain which cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart until,

in our own despair,

against our will,

comes wisdom through the awful grace of God.

You fuckers will fail.

By your actions and your thoughts you will fail.

By your crimes and by your sins you will fail.

And your eternity will be the agonies that you designed.

And your eternity will be the hell that you have made.

Because you are not of him and you murder love.

Because you are not of us and you would kill the light.

So you will fail.

For all the blood and for every tear.

For every lie and for your torture.

You will fail.

And your eternity will be seared by hate.

And your eternity will be measured in pain.

And You will fail. You fuckers will fail. You fuckers will fail.

And as long as we have breath.

And as long as we have eyes.

In everything we do.

We struggle without end to stop you.

Until the fight is won.

And you have failed.

You fuckers will fail.

You fuckers will fail.

You fuckers will fail.

You fuckers will fail.

You fuckers will fail.

You fuckers will fail.

You fuckers will fail.

You fuckers will fail.

You fuckers will fail.

You fuckers will fail.

You fuckers will fail.

You fuckers will fail.

You fuckers will fail.

You fuckers will fail.

You fuckers will fail.

You fuckers will fail.

You fuckers will fail.

We Are The Go On Squad. Beep Beep.

2005-07-04T21:06:00.000Z

There are a million stories in the naked city.

Only about three of them are remotely interesting though.

And they're generally the ones about a gang of sex barmy lesbi-oids, their ten litre bottle of cold pressed extra virgin, and what they got up to in a bouncy castle's dungeon with a crate of aubergines and a value pack of Viagra.

Similarly, but sadly a great deal less interestingly, there are a million reasons why I hate fashion.

And by extension therefore, of course, so should you.

Shortly I shall relate just two of them.

And if you're very good boys unt girls, and you manage not to fidget or mess yourselves while I'm telling you, I might show you the photos from the bouncy dungeon, greasy eggplant ram-a-thon.

Let's start with the basics, and begin with a definition, so we all know precisely what it is we're talking about here.

Fashion. n. To waste your fucking life, breath, psychic energy, and precious time on this paradise earth, on chasing your tail whilst being led by the nose, in a futile attempt to remain constantly on the verge of being in danger of looking like a right cunt in about a week's time from now.

Wobster's New World Revealed Truth of the Ain Soph Old Shents Dictionary.com

It's not that i'm doing a Toyah and saying

"Don't want to be told what to wear
So long as I'm warm who cares?"

Because she is clearly a gold-plated maddy and ended up marrying Robert "Mahavishnu Orchestra" Fripp.

Who is actually some kind of Changeling, Killcrop or Elf-man.

All I'm saying is:

Fashion is just shit.

This needs repeating.

The people who peddle it, make it, set it, and work in it, are all very much surplus to requirements, "B"-Ark material in waiting, and should be fucking ashamed of themselves.

There is an old Latin word for them which describes them very well.

It is:

Cunts.

Fashion is not only fucking shit.

And damaging to the collective psyche of a planet.

But fashion can cause directly observable, scientifically measurable physical damage too.

Take this sorry fucking case for an example.

"My Name is Darren Aldred.

When I was going through puberty in the early eighties it was deemed the very height of fashion to wear skin-tight stretch denim jeans.

Little did I fucking know know then, what effect a restricted circulation could have on a young man's developing organs of generation.

I fucking do now.

I'm hung like a Dung Beetle.

If I'd had the courage to not follow the herd, and the pertinent medical facts at my disposal, I could have spent my early teens wearing loosely fitted slacks and being a laughing stock, only to emerge in the sixth form as the most brutally well endowed (yet horribly psychically scarred from the years of teasing) stud-cake, of all my immediate peers.

I would be all deep & brooding thanks to the shit I had to take for not being fashionable, all the girls would have thought me sensitive & edgy, and I would have had an opportunity to sow more wild oats than Old Mac fucking Donald, armed with an atomic belt-fed oat-sowing bazooka.

As it is, I didn't lose my virginity until I was 32.

Because I was too scared to show any woman my cock.

In case she ran out of the room, off down the street, and straight to tell all her friends.

Laughing all the way.

When I finally did have sex for the first time, it was with a cross-eyed Russian prostitute at the end of her shift, in a backstreet brothel somewhere in an acid-rain blackened Czechoslovakian slum.

It was horrible.

I only went back the eight times or so.

I am a midget-willied psycho-sexual cripple and fashion is to blame.

Can I say fashion is fucking shit now?

Good.

Fashion is fucking shit."

Thank you Darren. Most salutary.

Next, I want to tell you about a case of what we should strictly categorise as, "an adherence to trends" but it's too good a story not to include, even if it doesn't directly involve wearing fucking stupid clothes.

I used to know a girl, daughter of a sixties/seventies rock musician.

He used to hang out with people like Steve "Peregrine" Took, and Mick Ronson.

By way of saying she was of good solid hippy stock.

And susceptible to fads.

And in her early twenties, she bought herself a juicer.

And a hundredweight sack of carrots.

Can you see the punchline yet?

She'd heard fresh carrot juice was good for you,

So drinking gallons of the stuff must be really good for you, right?

Not what the Doctor told her when she turned up in his surgery complaining that all her extremities had turned Oompaloompa orange.

You drank how much?

I think were his exact words.

And by all the second-hand accounts I heard, from people who'd been told by them as had boldly gone: when I say all her extremities, I mean:

ALL her extremities.

She had a Satsuma-shaded Shaznay.

Fancy that.

Fashion.

Always seems to get you in the downstairs.

At leastways it does in our exhaustive test sample of a highly representative

two

people.

To this day, well, a couple of years ago anyway: last time I saw her in fact, her hands still look as though she smokes a hundred a day.

Fashion.

It makes your cock small.

And turns your fanny orange.

And by the way, while I remember.

Catwalk models.

Ooh they're sexy aren't they?

Ka-WRONG!

They are the nearest the gay men fashion designers can get to the young boys they design clothes for in their heads, in female form.

Your taste in women is being dictated in large part by the preferences of a lot of gay men.

I'm not saying that they're bad for being gay.

I'm not saying you shouldn't find a model sexy.

But they're not really women.

They're 17 year old bumboys with boobs and front bottoms.

You can find them attractive, it's fine.

But in a world where Jeniffer Kill me now please Lopez is deemed to have a noteworthily sizeable arse.

When if truth be told, all the talentless fuckwit is actually sporting there is basic fucking minimum requirement.

Well, I figure something's gone a bit out of whack.

Fashion.

It'll fucking kill us all.

Situations of the Chris

2005-07-04T16:51:00.000Z

There's a website called Knowhere that allows gap-toothed dimwits to leave their fatuous & badly-informed opinions regarding the shops in their town centre.

So other gaptoothed & badly informed dimwits can read them, and find out what a particular shop is like prior to visiting it.

It's a totally shit idea, because all anyone does is write abysmally unhelpful bollocks of the highest order.

This was good though

• Beaties was good until they re-aranged the store! i used to rob load of stuff from there... Virgin Megasore is about the only place thats easy to rob nowerdays

Virgin Megasore eh? There's a shop I gotta visit.

Or yet another great name for a deathmetal band to add to the list.

Out of the mouths of babes, innocents and the self confessedly guilty, etc.

I'm surprised someone with such obviously excellent communication skills is making his career as a thief, though.

You'd think a consumer helpline somewhere would kill for an operative as mindbendingly shit as him.

monkty tonktliarian honkin. In 2 easy-to-open sachets.

2005-07-04T15:13:00.000Z

Dave?

Yep.

Since your family have arrived here for the holidays, I have to ask, although somehow I get the feeling I may regret it:

How come they all mope about all day wearing black, and listening to Ministry & Nine Inch Nails?

They're my industrial relations.

Mm hm.

Dave?

Ah Yep.

I'm going to ring my Uncle Jimmy and see if he'll be good enough to drive over in his Chieftain Tank. When he gets here, would you mind awfully if I asked you to bend over in front of it so he can drive the 120mm L11A5 rifled gun up your arse shortly prior to his firing it at you?

So long as he hurries up. Most Haunted's on at nine.

Is it the one where Derek pretends he's talking to Ruth Ellis?

No, he gets possessed again and grabs Yvy's tits.

Shit I haven't seen that one yet.

It's a belter. You'd best get Jimmy round pronto.

Nice one.

Ahura Toyota

2005-07-01T22:59:00.000Z

The other day I was wondering if any progressive go-get-'em Christians had actually set up their own porn site.

Or at least one showing semi-erotic swimsuit pics.

Thought it might be a possibility that some of them had decided to show how they're just like normal people, and found an ecumenical loop-hole by which they felt it was not just okay, but actually god's will, to show off the beautiful bodies of his creations or some such.

found some right malarkey

There's an organisation called xxx3church.com or some bollocks, who campaign to outlaw porn.

For our collective good.

And because God tells 'em to.

See what the obviously deliriously well educated Kelsey has to say for her sorry ass.

Which one do you reckon it is?

My guess is she's the perky nazi flid in the middle.

This is what she wrote (in crayon, tightly clenched in her monkey fist) on their website after having harangued pornstars and dipshit punters for a week at a big porncon type affair:

From Kelsey:
To be a light to this world is what we are called to be.
Jesus worked along the sides of prostitutes.
I felt as though I was in his place this weekend.
The place where I felt Christ called me to be was the porn convention.
My heart broke to see how the girls had no respect for there bodies.
Or guys to that matter.
Our body is a temple of Christ and so many temples where exposed.
I wanted to go cover everyone up.
I offered my jacket to a girl that said she was cold but I knew she probably wouldn't take it.
The girls where like a machine.
People can come up and grab touch and take a picture with.
Underneath that machine is a person.
I have so many thoughts on how this weekend went.
I don't even know where to start.
I guess I can say I left knowing that God used me to touch a couple of girl’s lives.
I know I will contact a couple of them that I built relationships with and my hope is they will respond.
I trust God had me there for a purpose.
I feel as though I was called to let people know just how much Jesus loves them.
I’m no better then anyone I met there.
We all fall short of the glory of GOD.
HE IS GOD THOUGH AND HIS GRACE IS AMAZING!
From now I will pray that the images I saw will erase from my mind.
With going to this convention I feel I did pay a price.
The images I can picture in my mind now are disturbing and sad.
I know and trust that God can take them away.
I’m thankful I got to go and be apart of this.
God can use us now to reach people back at home.

Bless her.

She should learn to fucking spell though, before she sanctimoniously parses piss at porn parties.

S'all I'm saying.

No, actually it's not all I'm saying because I'm all fucking indignant and disgusted.

What I'm saying is: You depressingly stupid bitch. You aren't clever enough to correctly use the written form of what is doubtlessly the only fucking language you're ever going to learn in your self-satisfied preppy white master of the universe life.

And you think you know enough to have decided there is definitely a fucking god?

And to go around recklessly annoying people with your soggy & premature convictions?

Fuck you.

Fuck off.

Maybe porn IS bad.

Maybe there is a god.

Who knows?

But I'll tell you one thing for fucking certain, and that is that: YOU DON'T KNOW.

YOU DON'T.

You don't know for sure.

Any more than you know the difference between "their" and "there", and "were" and "where".

I'm embarrassed I was never taught what subjunctive clauses and definite articles were.

I'm even more embarrassed I've never taken the trouble to find out.

You don't even know there is such a thing as a subjunctive fucking clause.

But it seems you're sure as fucking shooting that there is a God.

And that his grace is: "AMAZING!"

Brilliant.

Which heavy duty bit of theological wrangling did you pick that up from then?

Origen?

Justinian?

St Augustine?

Or was it listening to your Dad singing the Elvis fucking Presley version of "Amazing Grace" When you were three and he'd come home drunk again, tried to kiss you goodnight and puked beernuts marinaded in Wild Turkey all over your slightly hydrocephalic head?"

That's what I'm fucking saying.

"I know that his grace is amazing" Fuck me.

Are you also convinced of the creator's marked propensity for "swinging low in a sweet chariot" on the occasion of one's demise, when he can be steadfastly relied upon to be "coming for to carry you home" within 2-3 working days of life-function cessation?

Smug, self righteous, self deluded bastards.

I think the photo of a cornered Ron Jeremy with the two founding members and leading lights of xxx3church.com says all we need to know.

Look in his eyes.

He's seen a lot in his bigdicked eight zillion porn films life, but these two fucks have really freaked him.

And for the record they are DEFINITELY gay.

Jesus fucking wept. Closet homo anti porn christians.

I read a Top 10 list of famous closet homo anti porn christians from history on the back of a cereal packet once.

Top two were St. Au fucking gustine
The shit for brains weasel dick who brought us all 2,000 years worth of the hilarious and not even slightly twisted and evil concept of

Original fucking Sin

Thanks Aug-man. You wanker.

And number two was (a joint entry) Kramer and Sprenger, the demented lungfish fucking jiggersluts who wrote, "Malleus Maleficarum" because they were scared of the cunt too, and as a consequence, half the women in Europe got tortured, and then burnt to death.

In the name of the god of love.

Apparently.

Glad to see we haven't had any new ideas in the last two thousand years.

What a ball-chewingly pointless waste of everybodys' fucking time.

Why is Ron wearing the make-up for the cowardly lion out the wizard of Oz though?

This website here is just funny.

Tons funnier than this shit.

I should fuck off and read it if I were you.

Really thought they meant it for a minute.

Little black toad on your forehead

2005-06-13T09:36:00.000Z

Never afraid to admit when I'm wrong.

In fact, I'll give you a blanket admission of fallibility

a-right now.

I'm never right.

Everything I say is total bollocks.

Unless of course you paid your fiver for the magical and easily learned secret of power over others.

In which case I'm bang on the money Charlie. Like fly away home.

But case in point. All that bollocks about the devil being real. And the Louvin Brothers being able to back me up on the matter.

The devil isn't real. Noooooo.

Satan is.

Leastways as far as our erstwhile guitar & mandolin plucking eschatologists pictured herein would have it.

Not the devil.

Satan.

So apologies for any misunderstandings, confusion, or nightsweats, caused by my incorrect Principle of Bougre-Your-Ass, appellation. With regards the principals of Bluegrass Appalachians.

Sorry, that was too contrived and stupid a trick to miss.

Satan.

Not the devil.

So take it easy.

Do Not Incur My David Lee Roth

2005-06-10T09:23:00.000Z

Dave?

Yep.

Why is your Grandmother so flat & pastey looking,
and kind of smells like hot raisins and almond flakes?

She's my Peshawari Naan.

Dave?

Yep.

I'm just popping out to the garage to fill up my Paddy Hopkirk Explo-Safe petrol can. Don't go out or anything, I'm going to set fire to the house with you inside it when I get back.

Nice one, get us some pringles.

What flavour?

Steam off the Shit of a glinting white-toothed, healthy-sexy generation of snack scarfing fasciste Jugende with garlic & herb.

What if they haven't got them?

Salt & Vinegar.

Righto.

Before my Eyes Die

2005-06-09T11:28:00.000Z

Keen-eyed adherents to the rigorously moral way of life known to millions as

"Eh? What the fuck are you talking about, you cock?"

and maybe about 2 people on a really good day - and both of them are my other personalities - as The Kennington Fox, may recall mention way back in Judith Chalmers, a fleeting walk on role for a true life individual who exists.

"The greasy, hairlipped, and congenitally addled enforcer."

I'd like to clarify that description by pointing out that it isn't so much that he is greasy in his entirety. Because he isn't.

It's his hair-lip that's greasy. He keeps it anointed with Vaseline or similar unguent on a fairly permanent basis.

It alway looks quite red and sore.

You've got to feel for the poor bastard.

In some ways.

And when I call him an enforcer, more strictly speaking, I should say: member of security staff.

At a "landmark" building on the South Bank

(oooooooohhhh Tate Modern country, how now brown cow is that? Graham Norton used to record his groundbreaking talkshow just down the road. Melvyn Bragg walks past occasionally!)

containing shops, restaurants, design, amenity, leisure and vomit.

I paraphrase the mighty one.

I hope he doesn't mind too much.

As if he'll fucking notice what's going on on his computer over the enormous hillocks of £50 note-wads currently filling his house up to the rafters after his recent spate of speciality tea hawking.

I'm only jealous.

I'd advertise napalm for two quid and a pat on the back, at the minute.

The reason I mention the cunt anyway, the enforcer, not the tea boy:

One day I heard tell from colleagues that he had been disciplined by his bosses on charges of "Rrrrrrrrrracism"

What? Racism? What did he do?

And I half expected it, in an unthinking prejudiced middle class slag sort of a way.

Well, you know: he is a Cockney.

He does go on about Chelsea.

So what act of racism did our man commit?

"He called someone a Nazi."

"Nuh? What?"

Seems some posh bloke got into an argument with him when he told him he couldn't leave his fat-arsed Mercedes wherever he'd chosen to indiscriminately beach it.

"But calling someone a Nazi isn't racist."

"Yes it is."

"No, it's not. Calling somebody a racist, isn't racist."

"Yeah, well it's offensive"

"Which isn't the same as being racist."

"Yerm well, mummb grump nurm."

Fuck me people are thick as fuck.

When did we get so stupid that we can't tell the difference between someone being a Nazi and someone calling someone a Nazi?

Have you all been fed so much half-understood knee-jerk political correctness horse shit for so long that all it takes is for someone to say Nazi and you get all confused and somewhere in your fuddled hamster's bumhole of a mind you know that racism is bad and Nazis were kind of like racists weren't they? So if somebody says Nazi they're definitely being racist?

We haven't got a fucking hope in hell have we?

Yawn, good point.

Show us your tits.

Tomb Mulch Nympho-nation

2005-06-06T19:49:00.000Z

Make me a pizza you fat shit.

Or I'll dangle you out the window by your eyebrows.

Pardon?

I said I reaaally love you and it's great being us isn't it.

Ohh. Yeah.

I'm going to suck your soul out your arse one day when you're not looking.

Mmmh? 'Zthat darling?

I'm going to suck you so hard and give you a good fucking.

Ha ha, lovely, just got to finish these figures dear. Ah, there we are, that's the last of them.

Ooh sweetie, you're so sexy. Am I sexy? You know, like pornstar in the city, girl who does lunch, gateau-fabulous? Am I, Am I?

Oorgh, I'll say.

Oh goody. Oh you're so cute. How affluent are we right now? Quick, ask one of the gadgets.

Well, my fashion ho, street honey, I'd say from looking at our mobiles that the answer is: Not only are we affluent as someone with a top celebrity lifestyle, but that we are really funky innovative funky design funky led funkyfunky metrosexuals to funky boot in addition, too, as well. But to make you happy and your index linked vaginal secretions start to flow, I'll ask our 60 giga-nazi, pencil thin, Xtreme fact bandit, palmtop.

tap tap tap.....

What's it say Biggy? What's it say? Ooooohhh it makes me gooey just thinking about how much I've got.

We.

Eh?

We've got. How much we've got.

That's what I said.

No, I'm sure you said..

Ooooh ooh Biggy, I'm rrrrrreeaallly hooorrrny. Shall I bend over for you? I've been practising doing it just like a proper pole dancer.

Whuh? Oh go on then. Oh dear me. Yes. Mm hm. Now if you j..

Hhahahahahahahhaa, I'm a bigass strippa, hahahahahahha!!!!!!!!!!!!!! How much have we got honey? How much have we got?

Ah? I thought you were going to str... Yes. The money. Ah, the fist-pod here says we've got so much money we are are now officially important...

Oh scrummy, important, I always thought we were and now it's official. It's like being told I'm a good girl by my Daddy.

Yep, important, we're important, and the readout says we're rich enough to have class, style and really good taste, people will like us for how interesting we are, and a whole underclass will envy our peacock quotidians.

Pimp Unction Shit Goon

2005-06-06T19:46:00.001Z

What's wrong with this picture?

Apart from the fact that the cruel Nazi with a fag on only has half a face.

I'll tell you what's wrong with the picture.

On the original there is a little black swastika either side of the author's name.

I wiped 'em out in photoshop.

Because I was too damn scared to leave them in.

Obviously had no qualms previously, sticking der Fuhrer in a caravan somewhere in Australia.

That's just funny.

Hitler's just funny, but as soon as the swirly bad boys turn up, then somehow it's serious and you've got to doubt someone's motives.

Obviously, if I had left them in, you would have been right to assume that I am of course red hot keen to exterminate at least six million Jews. Before tea-time next Wednesday if possible.

My leaving them out leaves you to enjoy the post-ironic fucking chuckle. He said Whore and there's a Nazi in the picture. Go ahead. I did.

I was scared that a computerised note would be made under the mountain and I'd be watched for life, until I sneeze inappropriately on Clapham High Street and the total lack of thought police nab me, put me away forever and stick me in a box full of electric shit till they get bored.

But I had a dream anyway. And a fat fucking Arab cunt (don't ask me why he was a fucking Arab, I was asleep and I won't be held responsible for my unconscious mind. It's a fucking idiot. And mad as piss too.) had decided that me and a friend had been conspiring to blow him up in his swimming pool. That's a sensible plan. We hadn't been, as it happens, but had a sneaky li'l inkling he might take our denials of any intention to do any such thing, as a big fat juicy invitation to torture us more than he might otherwise have done.

And from the moment he turned up and laid out his big photo album of aerial shots of loads of different swimming pools in front of me: "This one, huh, how 'bout this one? You going to blow me up in this one?" I could feel my heart trying to crawl out through my arse. I got really hot and everything went all horrible and slow and, go figure, dreamy. All I could see coming down the pipe was years in his shitty little prison having an unimaginably shit time until I died from my fifth rubber hose drubbing some particular morning. It was not a nice feeling. And I was inordinately glad to wake up shortly thereafter.

I can fucking tell you.

Being falsely arrested for terrorism is really bollocks.

You should have seen me coming back from Turkey a year or so back. They took us into a little room and went through our bags. There was a massive sign outside that said "Homeland Security this that or the other, try objecting and see what a good fucking laugh sticking up for your rights gets you, you twat, blah blah." And the huge suitcase groper in a uniform got right between me and my bag and could have put any fucking thing the cunt felt like in there, just for a fucking giggle, and I'd have been so fucked You'd need to stick a spud up my arse to take up the fucking slack.

I must have gone white. And all I could think of was Midnight Express.

They don't mention this shit in the Rough Guide: How to not fill your knickers with poo when you're having your luggage unreasonably fondled for the sake of keeping an isolationist nation of fuckwits ruled by endothermich yod cunts happy.

Might put the punters off having their "lifestyle choice" dance around on the faces of the natives in sulphuric acid-coated hobnail boots type holidays.

No. Actually it wouldn't would it.

I could go on. And on. And on. But I think it probably best if I did no such fucking thing.

I'm tired.

fatdrunkspaceman

2005-05-27T12:48:00.000Z

barktotal

2005-05-23T16:02:00.000Z

Look Esther; an aubergine shaped liked Mr T's Cock!

2005-05-23T15:59:00.000Z

I've been fucking busy alright? And this is all I've got time to show you right now. Which is pitiful I'll be the first to admit. But......

I find myself not caring.

Found following listing for following book title on Amazon. Whoever had listed it evidently exceeded the 200 character limit for a condition description, without realising it. The big boys do it all on automatic upload y'know. Ah-Whoops! How hilarious.

I know I know. But look, it does say front bottom.

Erotica: Anthology of Women's Writings
Margaret Reynolds (Editor)

Comments: - Pictorial Cover. Very Good Condition. New Edition. Paperback. 362 pages including index and biographical notes on the authors. A tiny crease to front bottom

Now here's a radish shaped exactly like Henry the Eighth trying to fuck a peacock while Anne Boleyn carves it up for Sunday roast, and a signpost near Cornwall that says:

Do us up the bum with a cement-mixer and call me Suzy: 12miles

I could weep. Give me some fucking MONEY!!!!!!!!!!

Do-It-Yourself FlatPack Nutter-Kit

2005-05-03T21:54:00.000Z

Chitlins.

Not only is the Devil not unreal, but his effects on human hands, hearts, and bumps-a-daisy, are extremely not unreal as well.

That which doth beeth followthing is phenomenally not unreal too.

It is transcribed from a fax.
The fax was a photocopy of a series of letters.
That were sent to the Housing Department of Nottingham City Council.
That swallowed a fly.
Regards their providence, I can say little more.

Because the details are actually quite boring.

They are, however, absolutely genuine, actual letters, actually sent by an actual human.

To other humans who had to read, understand and act on them.

I've changed the man's name and the address that he put at the start of each one. Everything else is verbatim.

The block capitals and the formatting of the words in relation to each other on the page are as close as I can get to reproducing the appearance of the originals.

I've had to use bold type where he used a very terse underlining to emphasise certain words.

Otherwise it's a dead-ringer.

The letters then:

MR DAVE CHALLONER

23 OAKDENE AVENUE
BESTWOOD ESTATE
NOTTINGHAM
NG8 6GB

SATURDAY MAY 1.5.99

BELIEVE IT OR NOT, BELIEVE
YOU ME
THE MAN IS DOING HIS
BEST TO GIVE ME I MR PHILLIPS
A MAJOR STROKE IN MY
SLEEP MY THOUGHTS THIS
YEAR FEBRUARY 1999

DATE TUESDAY 4.5.99

-----------------------

SATURDAY MAY 1.5.99
MR DAVE CHALLONER GROUND
FLOOR No23
WRATH BATHROOM
DOOR SLAMMING HAVOC
MAYHEM TIME 4.45AM
DIN DINNED IT
INTO HIM
THE-WORD-PARALYSE
PARALYSE THE BRAIN THE
HUMAN MIND

AFFECT WITH PARALYSIS
RENDER POWERLESS CRIPPLE

THE-WORD-PARALYSIS

NERVOUS DISEASE WITH
IMPAIRMENT OR LOSS OF
MOTOR OR
SENSORY FUNCTION
OF NERVES STATE OF
UTTER POWERLESSNESS

THE-WORD-PARALYZE WITH
TERROR INABILITY TO
FUNCTION
TERROR INTENSE OR
EXTREME FEAR COERCE
OR INTIMIDATE

---------------------------------------

MR DAVE CHALLONER
No23 OAKDENE AVENUE
BESTWOOD ESTATE
NOTTINGHAM
NG8 6GB

TELEVISION SHOW ON
BBC1 MASTER MIND

MASTER-STROKE
OUTSTANDINGLY SKILFUL
ACT OF POLICY
MARTIAL ARTS JUDO
KARATE
TRANSLATE TAKING
ONE'S FINGER OUT
TRANSLATE
TACTICAL TACTICS

-------------------------------------

MR DAVE CHALLONER
LIVING AT No23 OAKDENE
AVENUE GROUND FLOOR

I AM CONVINCED MR CHALLONER
FROM GROUND FLOOR HE'S
DOING HIS BEST TO KILL ME

I MR CARTER LIVING UP
STAIRS FLAT IN MY OWN
BED

MR PARKER DON'T BE
SO SILLY HOW ON EARTH
IS IT POSSIBLE
MR CHALLONER LIVING
GROUND FLOOR FLAT
AND YOU MR PARKER LIVE
UP STAIRS FLAT

ITS IMPOSSIBLE BUT IT IS
FEASIBLE
WRATH BATHROOM
DOOR SLAMMING HAVOC
MAYHEM

THE-WORD WALLOP
HEAVY BLOW HARD STROKE
WITH HAND OR WEAPON
SUDDEN SHOCK

I MR PARKER LIVIN UP
STAIRS No22 OAKDENE
AVENUE
SUDDEN SHOCK TO
MY HEAD MY BRAIN AS
I SLEEP IN MY BED

Why the fuck didn't I just scan the bastards?

Because I'm the stupidest cunt on the planet, I'm guessing.

Any other suggestions wilfully ignored at the usual address please.

Oh. Right. I just scanned them. Took longer than writing them. That's why.

Still, here they are in all their censored glory.

Blow me tantivvy on your cream hunting-horn, do.

2005-04-17T21:56:00.000Z

So I was walking down Stamford Street past King's Reach Tower. The home of IPC publishing. The people that make all the magazines.

As far back as I can remember, my Great Uncle Bill-

(A dead-ringer for actor Robert Dawes from Jeeves & Wooster, but a sight taller, and one time ace-striker for the, "Stepney Templars" football team. But that was way back in the old days before cats had been invented and is not, strictly speaking, relevant to this story.)

-Would come round to see us every Tuesday evening. He would bring boxes of Hampshire's cakes, a half ton or so of assorted Toffos, Curly Wurlies, Fruit Pastilles, and the like: "rations" he called them, and, most pertinently in this instance, a selection of comics generally including The Beano, Whoopee!, The Dandy, Whizzer & Chips, and Buster. Then one day in 1977, he arrived with something new, a comic just for me (and not my two brothers): 2000AD.

He bought it for me every week until he got so ill with liver cancer in 1986 that he went to hospital and died. And in all that time he only ever referred to it as, "Toofarzand".

I asked my parents if we could put a copy of it in the coffin with him before he got cremated. As far as I'm aware, they did just that. The front cover was a Brian Bolland drawing of Psi-Judge Anderson surrounded by horrendous demons from Deadworld. What the vicar must have thought I don't know. Although I seem to recall he made mention of both E.T. the extra-terrestrial, and Stone-henge, during the service, so I suspect it was all par for the course round his diocese.

And on the inside front page of 2000AD every week, the editor, The Mighty Tharg, would greet all his jammy-faced readers with a cheery, "Boragg Thung, Earthlets!" and go on about something more or less apropos of whatever the fuck was going on in that week's issue. All of which, he would always tell you, was being created in his huge Betelgeusian spaceship parked by the Thames. Cleverly disguised as a big office building.

King's Reach Tower in fact.

And as I was walking past the Mighty Tharg's huge Betelgeusian Space-Office, I took the trouble to actually take some notice of the over-sized front pages of their various titles that they hang behind the smoked glass windows at street level, for purposes of demonstrating exactly what the building is busy doing taking up quite so much square yardage, I suppose.
I don't know.

I'd walked this stretch of street a fair number of times over the last few months, but prior to this particular occasion, I'd been too pre-occupied with being self-righteously disgusted by the state of my fellow human beings - that were generally swilling about all over the place like a bunch of king-size fucking idiots at the time of day I tended to be there - to take any notice of what the front page blow-ups actually said.

Not to mention the fact that the majority of the magazines on display seemed to be, on cursory inspection, mostly celebrity based, arse-wipingly bad, Marmoset semen. With mind-bending titles like, "Good TV Cat-keeping Today", so I had decided a long time ago that reading them too closely could like as not result in an aneurism at the very least, and so it would probably be better for my general well-being, on the whole, to concentrate on the idiots in the street, and not the mad rubbish magazines a lot of them almost certainly were engaged in the day to day creation of.

But today I did.

And one of the over-sized front pages carried the title: "V W Golf Owner". Which I have to say, right off the bat, struck me as something of a niche market.
I found myself unavoidably imagineering a scene, viz: A magazine of astronomical insignificance being pumped out of a lonely office, somewhere up on the three thousandth floor. Containing one balding hack, veteran of, "Pebble-dashed Electricity Sub-station Fancier's Monthly". And a young & callow novice, with more sculpting wax in his hair than sense.

For argument's sake.

Hack grumbles to novice over his pint of gin cleverly disguised as a pint of gin: "Any late-breaking super-hot V W Golf related news come in on the Teletype from Reuters, Kelvin?"

"Ner." Says Kelvin, chugging his way merrily through texting his mate, Taz, and wondering, but only briefly, how you spell, "serlivah".

"Have any of our doughty, free-lance, roving V W Golf reporters filed any crucially important stories via email, then? Continues the hack, knowing exactly what the answer will be, but the gin tastes lovely today and the view's so wonderful from up here, how could he possibly mind, whatever happens? That would just be churlish.

"Ner." Kelvin repeats, swarfing his fat thumb madly back & forth across the keypad until he finally manages to write, "perratononteum" and eases yet further backwards into his inordinately uncomfortable office chair, with a look of ratty satisfaction on his pockmarked penalty-area-in-winter of a face.

"Yes, well, that is a tadge on the predictable side, what with us two fuckers being the only two roving, free-doughty, and lance, V W Golf reporters in the sodding country. And we're both in here at an altitude only marginally greater than Jupiter, where the V W Golf related action is a bit scarce, to say the very least. God I hate V W Golfs. This is really boring."

"Shall we just publish the issue from 6 months ago again then?"

"God yes, then we can call it an early night, how about it?"

"Too fucking right."

And so Kelvin and his Jedi Master, the hack, while away their professional lives, rotating an unchanging catalogue of only ten issues, safe in the knowledge that no-one ever. Ever. Buys more than three issues of V W Golf owner before they get extraordinarily tired of it. And buy no more, ever. Ever. Again. And anyone who does, they know too, will be such a crushingly huge imbecile anyway, they will be too outrageously stupid to be able to tell.

Leaving them both plenty of time to manage their highly profitable second-hand V W Golf spares business through the classified ads in the back of their own magazine. Which is, quite frankly they'd tell you, all the bloody thing's good for as far as they're concerned.

I wandered on down the road, cut through towards the arcade, and ducked down underneath the spaceship, past the underground car park entrance and turn right for the skip. Full of rubbish. It was my favourite route back to work when I'd been out on my lunch minute.

As I was heading toward the bus-sized trash compactor they employ on a full-time basis, I noticed a very large, oddly well thought-out looking pile of big cardboard boxes. I got closer, and heard what at first I imagined might be some of the legendary, "rats as big as cows" that are, apparently, never more than six feet away from you in London.

Hiding round the corner with Kevin Bacon, one imagines.

An actor who, for all the famousness of the trivia game associated with him, has never actually successfully understood it's rules. And has spent a haunted lifetime since it's invention, vainly attempting to remain no more than six feet away from everybody on the planet. They had a devil of a job trying to let him know he'd got the starring role in The Woodsman.

I peered round the corner, into the cardboard construct, and rather than heiffer-big rodents, I was surprised to find a small crew of smartly dressed, yet oddly dishevelled young men and women, who all appeared to be suffering from various unpleasant degrees of ill-health. I soon noticed also, that they had syringe-needles hanging off them from all kinds of unlikely parts of their unkempt bodies. Some, I realised, were injecting heroin into their hair.
Crikey, I thought, for a bunch of skaggy tramps, this lot seem to have a surprising amount of desktop publishing equipment knocking about the place.
Then, one of the men who seemed to be the least heavily sedated, made a noise that I think was an attempt at speech, and intended for me.

"Nerrhhngffff yuh bzuhnuh kuh." He drooled, as he stretched his arm out toward me, and proferred a vomit-encrusted claw, clutching a knackered looking bit of cardboard. I prised open his caky fist, and, brushing the flakes of dry bile off my hand and the cardboard, I uncrumpled it to see what it was.

It said:

Simon Davies, Editor.

Homeless Junky Magazine.
Incorporating Weeping Abscess Monthly.

And verily did it come to piss

2005-04-17T18:45:00.000Z

SUNDAY 17 APRIL

Documentary

All New Cosmetic Surgery Live

11:15pm - 12:20am

Five

Subtitled

Vanessa Feltz, Hollywood surgeon Dr Jan Adams, and Danniella Westbrook, present the show that delves into the phenomenon of cosmetic surgery. Tonight, a nerve-shredding radical cure for male premature ejaculation. Live from Texas, a teenage mum gets her pre-natal breasts back. More viewers' private parts are analysed in public via video link. Plus, how the boys from Brazil become Lady Boys in time for Mardi Gras.

FRIDAY 22 APRIL

Documentary

All New Cosmetic Surgery Live

11:10pm - 12:10am

Five

Subtitled

Vanessa Feltz, Hollywood surgeon Dr Jan Adams and Danniella Westbrook present the show that delves into the phenomenon of cosmetic surgery. Tonight, live from the Vaginal Rejuvenation Centre in Los Angeles, amazing surgery to reinstate a woman's hymen. And breaking, scraping, sawing and shaping - just to fit a shoe! Foot Facelifts are the talk of New York. Plus, how to win a penis extension - if you live in Brazil!

It's not a joke. That's real. I just copied it out from the radiotimes website. To prove a childish point.

Is that what a documentary is?

Is it?

Is that actually what FUCKING, "DOCUMENTARY", actually fucking means?

A documentary is a witless car-crash horror-show live from Behemoth's rectum that does less than fucking nothing to educate or tell a story?

A documentary is a pitifully flimsy excuse of a word to hide behind while you poison the skulls of a planet with your giggling electric evil?

A documentary is a Nazi pair of smiling vacuum people pretending desperately, yay though the skies may fall, that what they're being paid more than India's annual grub budget for, is all just good entertaining,

"FUN!"

fucking, FUN!

Light-hearted, harmless, ha-ha, eeyew, gross-out, post ironic, past the watershed, pass the fucking ammunition motherfucker for I am an angry unreasonable twat of a god right now, just a bit of a laugh, picnic of cosmetic surgery

FUCKING, FUN!

GOD DAMN IT YOU ARE EVIL,
YOU ARE DEVILS,
YOU ARE THE TWIN-HORNED BEAST.
OF BLESSED ST. JOHN,
THE MUSHROOM-TEA-DRINKING PSYCHOPATH'S
EVERLOVING,
EVERLASTING,
TIME TO GO NOW JOHNNY,
A-FOR ARSE RAPE-
POCALYPSE.

YOU DISGUSTING,
SHIT-EATING,
FILTHY FUCKING WHORES, YOU!

And I haven't got the words to explain how much I hate you.

Fucking documentary.

If that's what a documentary is, then my arse is not only on fire, it is doing differential equations while it burns.

You godless, godforsaken, hellbound donkeyturds of Ahriman.

I curse you and your time-tentacles of stultifying putrefaction, all down the aeons to the after-birth of the universe whence you fucking came.

Cunts.

I'm sorry I made you read all those block caps and exclamation marks. I don't know what came over me.

And they've very thoughtfully subtitled it too. So the hard of hearing don't have to miss what life-changing, life-affirming wisdoms thou shalt be spouting. Deaf community breathes collective sigh of relief.

Or is it pre suicidal despair? Hard to tell.

Vanessa Feltz and Daniella Westbrook. Jesus.

What is Vanessa Feltz for? Please? All I can remember is she used to be a vast Jabba the Kilroy on daytime cancer, specialising in getting the mentally infirm to gibber a bit less coherently than usual on, "topical hot-potatoes" like, should gays be allowed to fuck old men in the ear on the NHS with money from the lottery? Then she takes the trouble to stop eating so much her fucking ass-sphincter bleeds with every motion because she accidentally ate a car again in her mad feeding frenzy, slims down to just chunky, and suddenly everyone thinks she's somehow fucking noteworthy for not being a gluttonous, useless cunt motherfucker anymore.

Ooh you clever, non-gluttonous, useless cunt motherfucker, you. You must be reet proud of yourself and your achievements.

Says the useless cunt motherfucker, sitting at her computer, fuming at all this meaningless piss as though there was actually some kind of point to doing that.

Forgot I don't exactly got the moral high ground for a second there. Sorry everyone.
Sorry Vanessa. It's not your fault. You're okay really.

None of us can escape the grey one's touch if we don't know it's not what we thought it was.

Anyway. Let's have an hour's worth of satellite beamed genitalia slicing, with intelligence insulting commentary by bastards from hell shall we?

Yep. At least we're not showing pornography. That would be wrong.

Planet full of hypocritical fuckwads. Sooner you all get chained to the slag-heap earth for eternity the fucking better.

Piss on you all.

I rock.

You don't.

the Devil is Real.

2005-04-05T14:25:00.000Z

It's been too too long, because the devil is real, and sometimes we have to go away and wrestle with the gay bastard.

Usually in a pink leotard and covered in raspberry jelly.

Depending on the kind of mood he's in.

Anyway, he's real.

Ask the fucking Louvin Brothers.

They'll tell you straight out, serious mister, no messing, like a shot. The devil is real.

And the cunt's been keeping me busy like I say.

I expect you missed me terribly:

"Oh no. Where's my brain tumour gone? I'm really going to miss it."

That much.

I came back because you needed to know some things.

First one being, that thing about the devil, which I think we already covered fairly adequately.

Second thing you need to know is:

Jesus loves you,

almost as much as I do,

dying is actually good for you,

and you've wasted your time if you weren't as nice as you could have been to everyone you ever met.

Near enough.

Between the saddle and the ground, god's grace he sought, god's grace he found.

Said a duffer on the radio.

And the other extremely important things I need to tell you for your own good, and to stop you being a raving fuckmuppet the rest of your life are,

We went out driving in our very shit car. It's so shit that when it got nicked by joy-riders

(who can't have been such very great car experts, I don't suppose, or they would have known our car was ultra-shit from the get-go, and not fucking well nicked the damned thing in the first place.

I don't know, maybe they were just really optimistic car-thieves.)

they only got about half a mile from where they stole him, and they must have turned to each other, expressed their bitterness about the singular lack of joy this particular ride was bringing them, on account of our car being so crap, and dumped the fucker on the most conveniently situated Council Estate they could find.

We went out driving in our very shit car on a very windy day.

And at the first set of traffic lights, two men were crossing the road.

One of them had a Craig David Beany-hat for nitwits on.

And the wind was so strong, it blew his nitwit hat clean off his head, and into the hollow in the middle of the back wheel of a nearby bus.

All the people on the bus observant enough to cop a highful, giggled quite a bit, and remarked on what an exceptionally windy day it truly was.

The man, bless him, laughed too, grabbed his hat out the wheel before the bus drove off again, and caught up with his mate, still grinning.

We drove on for a bit, until we got to a right turn junction of a main road, with traffic lights, pedestrian crossings, & everything. The one just opposite the undertakers by the edge of Kennington park. We stopped. The lights were red.

A man in the pedestrian island between lanes, waiting for the lights to change, didn't notice his upright shopping trolley-

(like those ones old ladies tend to use, but a four wheeler version in this case. Which is a good job for the purposes of this story, because if it hadn't been, then the following un-exciting pish could not have occurred: The two wheel versions tend to stay where you put them, you see?)

-rolling slooowly out into the oncoming traffic behind him, blown along by the wind.

Like Artoo Detoo in a lumberjack shirt.

A way over-sized 4x4 was bearing down on it, and you could see the face of the driver as he weighed up the pros & cons of either flattening the trolley and making a point about how important he is, and how stupid the man with the shopping trolley was, or stopping, and not getting his obviously much-loved, shiny 4x4 fucked up.

He erred on the side of no-claims-bonus, and slowed down whilst hooting his car-horn. Thus alerting the oblivious owner of the wandering shopping droid. Who looked extremely surprised when he twigged what the fuck was happening behind his back, and rushed into the road to rescue his comestibles. Phee-yew. Eh? How we laughed.

Okay so we drove on, sort of heading West, and after a tadge, we got to Vauxhall Cross.
A place that hitherto, I may have erroneously referred to as Vauxhall Circus. I don't know: what are the odds? It's my damn boyfriend's fault. He told me that's what it was called. And I was stupid enough to listen. I looked it up in the A-Z the other day. Vauxhall fucking Circus. He just makes stuff up.

We had to stop at the lights. With the big super-gay pub-club to our right

- I can never remember what it's called: the Rimmer's Arms? something like that -

and the huge railway bridge, running at right angles to the road we's on, in front of us.

Underneath the bridge, in the tunnel that the 4-lane carriageway of mardy cars chews round, we saw something amazing.

It was a black guy with shoulder length, regular dreadlocks. The neater types. The ones you don't have if you're trying to be a proper, proper Rastafari. Who tend to go for the lumpy, wholemeal, and altogether more earnest sort.

Any road, he was really handsome & noble looking. Well built, like the Predator. He had a tight grey t-shirt & a pair of jeans on. I think he might have had biker boots on too. Shit, he may as well have, for the sake of this actually quite true story. And the amazing thing was, because so far, a handsome black feller in Vauxhall is pretty fucking far from headline news:

he was riding on an enormous piebald shire-horse.

Quite calmly, in the middle of the windy Sunday traffic, on one of the busiest and least well disciplined junctions this side of the Arc de Triomph, like it was the most normal thing on Earth.

We sat and gaped at him like tits.

As he rode majestically towards, round in front, and off to the left of us.

Heading for the Bus Station. With the mad Thunderbird launching ramp for a roof.

On his Shire horse.

For fuck's sake.

Once the lights had changed we caught up with him in the car, and overtook him considerately slowly, with him to our left.

I looked out the window at him and caught his eye for just a second, so I smiled and nodded, maybe even gave him a thumbs-up sign.

I might well have been that stupid. And for the very short while that he looked at me, he allowed himself the smallest smile of,

"Yes. I am so fucking cool you could keep beer in me, aren't I? And you know what? I fucking love it."

And he was absolutely right. And so he should. Amazing feller. I hope he wasn't actually a massive twat.

The possibility occurs to me, in retrospect, that he was actually a kind of thought-projection.

A tulpa, if you won't.

A bleeding big bit of strongly longed-for wish-fulfillment.

The dirty word made flesh. Because, if a huge & handsome, way-buffed black Adonis on horseback, coming to take you away from this grey and depressing puckered up rat's bumhole of a city, isn't a fondly held gay man's fantasy of the fist order, then, darling, I don't know what is.

I could be majestically wrong of course.

But a place like the Rimmer's Arms. Full to groaning with really exquisitely gay men, all busy being so gay it would strip the paint off a frigate at high tide. All high as kites on their sniffy stuff and M'DAM powder. Dancing like merry hell till 10 every morning. And wishing they didn't have to live in a world that hates them as much as it does.

No matter how, "in swinging London" they live, or how many rainbows hang outside their special boo-hoozers, they all remember the nail bomb.

They've all been punched in the back of the neck or stabbed or spat on or passed over for a house they wanted to buy.

Because they'd rather put their cocks in another man's arsehole than a woman's cunt.

And there can't be a one of them that doesn't wish that that one fact would just be okay with everyone for once and for all.

So they can walk down any street they like, anywhere they want, holding their lover's hand, and not have to worry about getting a burning car tyre round their necks for their trouble. For argument's sake.

I imagine they might quite like that. And don't fucking start in with that perfidious horse-shit about them only liking being gay precisely because of the fact that it is all illicit, naughty, and toilet-trade furtive.

That is a very dull thing to say.

Dull, boring, and dull, dull-witted.

Yes, I'll bet you loads of them quite enjoy the, "other-ness" of it all.

The underground but overground, whole thing of gay.

But I bet you five dollars not only that I will beat you next game, but also that every last man Jill of them would more than fucking gladly swap any Alt.sex cachet that being a homo brings them, for the privilege of never having to get shit beat up again, just for being who you are.

In a just down the road from Stonewall, New York second, Jack.

Mind you, having said that, I'd love to not worry about getting shit beat up just for being who I am, and I'm not even gay. Fuck.

Where's my horse?

The Devil is real man. I'm telling you.

Aino a thing or tutu

2005-03-26T00:21:00.000Z

I'm not telling you this because I thought she was a twat.

I want to make that clear.

I'm telling you this because she did things I wouldn't dream of doing even if I'd gone insane.

And she believed things that I would probably only ever believe under similar circumstances.

But I didn't think she was a twat.

She was really nice actually.

A Finnish girl.

Did you ever read the Gnomes book by Will Huygen & Rien Poortvliet?

Oh yeah, the fucking Gnomes book, I know just the one.

They had a cod-anthropological, National Geographic style, "What Gnomes Look Like Naked." couple of pages. And there was a pretty, young Gnome-maiden depicted therein. She was almost exactly what the word buxom was invented for describing. And had really amazing tits for a Gnome. Plus she had blonde, Helga-style plaits, and a wildly healthy Scandinavian face.

Well the girl I'm talking about always reminded me of the Gnome girl. Never told her of course. She could, just conceivably, have taken it the wrong way.

Although I probably do her a disservice, cos she was a bluff old thing and very pleasantly even-keeled. Occasionally to the point of being annoyingly laid-back, I seem to recall.

And one day she drew out this chart showing the way she felt the world works.

She didn't draw it for me. She was trying to explain it to someone else in the staff room.

But when she'd finished, I asked if I could keep it.

Partly because the faces of the starving kids made me laugh. The way she'd drawn them looking kind of grumpy. And partly because I liked the idea it was a diagram of part of inside her head.

It shouldn't have been a surprise to any of us when she announced she was having a baby by the dwarf rastafarian acrobat who span bike wheels on his head-

-No, he did, I gave him a quid for it once I was so impressed-

-who did tumbling turns just round the corner, in front of crowds of fat-headed tourists with little or no idea about absolutely anything.

And it would have been so fucking easy just to call her a twat, because I personally wouldn't have allowed myself to be impregnated by a 3foot tall natty dread with an NVQ in Circus Skills.

In something approaching a million billion years, if I'm any judge of these matters.

But somehow I never could, quite. And it's not even as if she had tits as amazing as the Gnome-maiden either. She didn't. I'm fairly sure.

She wasn't a twat.

She was just a middle class Finnish hippy. Who was quite nice. For all of that.

And I've got a map of part of her brain.

Isn't life just the wildest fucking trip ever?

Wee woo and wah.

Strewth Mate

2005-03-24T12:31:00.000Z

It's the radiation.

From the Sun.

All the cosmic rays have been pissing through the ionosphere like it wasn't there lately.

On account of it isn't.

Plays Mungo Jerry with your DNA.

Strange thing is though; it's only effect so far has been to turn all the aborigines into Hitler lookalikes.

All of whom, even more strangely, seem to enjoy nothing more than tearing up and down the Nullarbor Plain with their heads sticking out the sunrooves of their caravans.

They take it in turns to drive.

In the interests of fairness.

Sometimes they have a go at doing some of his old speeches.

I think.

It's hard to tell over the engine noise.

Never seem to tire of it.

Up and down all fifteen thousand miles of it.

Start in Eucla, get to Darwin 12 hours later, load up with enough grog for the return journey, fill up with petrol, sell some tribal giftware to make ends meet, and fuck off back in the direction they came from as quick as the station wagon can drag 'em.

It's an ecological nightmare scenario.

Specially since the kangaroos started mutating into Panzer tanks as well

Great big hopping skipping 15 ton Panzer tanks.

With little blind foetus baby Panzer tanks curled up inside their pouches.

First time I saw one I nearly shit.

Scared the wits out of me.

Came flying down out the air from fucking nowhere.

Made the most shocking god awful fucking racket when it landed.

Pointed it's main cannon straight at me.

Thankfully didn't seem to be in a bad mood still, from finding out it was a tank now and not a kangaroo, so it didn't fire at me like I've seen 'em do since,

( I thought I'd adopt a submissive kangaroo body-language stance anyway, to be on the safe side.)

and fucking hopped right the fuck off again.

Like the old VolksWagen advert in reverse, but with a very large World War Two armoured vehicle.

Pretty fucking startling if you aren't expecting it.

And you're as drunk as I was.

Fucking radiation.

Mr-Sludge

2005-03-15T12:15:00.000Z

Here he comes.

I can smell him a mile off.

Like poisonous white lumps on your tonsils.

Old boiled eggs. Cold cabbage. Bad-drains. Sweat. Burglar cum.

And sweat. And sweat. And sweat.

Sweaty.

He'll probably try and sell me a computer again, the cunt.

No thanks. I got one already, didn't I? You horrible bastard.

Sorry, he'll say, Been busy making sure children get experimented on in illegal plague labs.

Sure thing, course you have, it's gotta be a helluva a schedule for a cat like you.

You said a bundle negro, things don't get any easier as the 21st century thunders on. How's the internet treating you?

You're doing fine, I'll say. I haven't been happy in weeks.

Lovely. What did you reckon to the scientist of the invisible? I never thought there was enough about me in there, considering how fucking important I am.

I don't suppose you would, no. I thought it was really good, to be honest.

It's alright.

Don't you ever get bored doing what you do, year in year out?
Aeons wheeling and passing, and still the same old slog?
Couldn't you take a break and get some highly motivated under-colleagues to do all the hard work for a bit?

You know that's a stupid question.

Oh yeah: No time for the time-being.

Yep. Not to mention I really enjoy my job. I was kind of built for it after all, and after all else. He's not stupid is he?

No. Just very very weird.

That he is. I swear I'll never figure the fucker out, even if I lived to be...um...well, you know what I mean. Anyway: It's not that it hasn't been absolutely excruciating talking to you darling, but I'm way behind schedule turning people into mewling gummy wank-maggots, that they may suckle blindly on my etheric net-filth tentacles. I can't tell you how much I love the hot waves of desperation and mis-directed intimacy they pump up my bum.
I'd best go, chuck.

Of course. Have fun.

You know I will.

Bye.

Bye.

And there he goes. Dry-ice mist wafting off the pavement where he stood.
And the air gets fresher.
The birds start to sing again.
God he's a fucker.
I can still hear his voice, wheedling in my head like a rapist on the telephone:

"You'rrre sooooo swweeeeet. Sooooo sweeeeet."

Still, it must be odd knowing you were born to lose like that.
I guess that's where he gets all the hostility from.
Set up for a patsy by your own Dad. Bummer. Who wouldn't be pissed?

But anyway, keep taking drugs.

Keep doing jobs.

Keep all your money for yourself.

The big bang theory is an incontrovertible fact.

So is evolution.

It's all chance and chemicals and that.

You've got it figured.

Buy things.

Watch tv.

And fuck.

And laugh at spastics.

Kill things like queers and women and dogs and babies and men and boys.

And spastics.

And most crucially, yourselves. Of course.

Never help anyone.

Never love anything.

Never laugh.

Never sleep without him reaming you to death for ever.

Mine's a gun, cheers.

ether nits

2005-03-15T00:10:00.000Z

They just hang around. Suck psychic scurf. Shit it back into your brain at night. That would explain the dreams about trying to be Ricky Tomlinson's best mate. Probably. They don't actually exist. Yes they do. I fucking hate everything.

Lemmings no proof of Atlantis says Bobby Duffy

2005-02-22T22:35:00.000Z

No but Dave,

Yep.

There was this bloke bent over a glass table getting fucked horribly in every hole. It was happening forever and wouldn't ever stop.

What?

By a sort of half invisible amoeba demon thing. It didn't look like much fun.

What?

Then they turned a man into a dogpet kind of fucktoy thing with a big swollen head like a week old balloon gone wrinkly and shrinkly. He was really miserable about the whole thing. They were laughing their demon asses off. And wiping their swarfega dripping space tadgers on his arse. It was worse than that woman on the programme about Megatumours last night.

Shrinkly isn't a word.

No, and neither is Dave, so why do you keep answering to it?

It's my name.

Yeah but it's not a word.

Yes. It. Is.

No, it's just a name. They don't count as words. They're names.

Yeh. In fucking scrabble you twat.

Ohh. Yeahh. Scrabble. I thought it was something they'd taught us in english at school.

Cunt.

So anyway, what do you reckon about those weird fucky things.

Doesn't sound any worse than having Fred West sitting on the barstool next to yours and chatting you up with his hand on your arse.

Suppose not. They were horrible though.

I don't doubt it. Make us a cup of tea.

Fuck off.

I made the last one.

I bought the cakes.

Wanker.

Twat.

I'll give you a quid.

Alright. But you're still a twat.

That's okay. Shrinkly still isn't a word and you're still a bell end.

I wish you'd just go home Dave.

This is my house.

Two sugars?

No, one. Like I always do.

Righty ho. Fancy another cake?

Yes. Give us the cream horn.

Dave?

Don't. I will make you very sorry.

Fair enough. Here's your cake.

Thank you.

pork piss hat

2005-02-22T21:57:00.000Z

Dave?

Yep.

You know how, when you're dreaming, what you're actually doing is floating about in the eternal one-ness of like, everything, in contact with time-being spirits like yourself?

Yep.

Oh fuck this: For a second there I was going to try and say something that might actually mean something. What the fuck came over me? I must be turning into some kind of absolutely massive twat. Thank god the mindcrushing hideous mundanity of the everyday humdrum came gibbering through my psychic porthole balls first and clubbed a mammoth helping of cold material death cum in my rosy cheeked and innocent face of a poet. Pass me the fags you gayer.

Make us a cup of tea.

Fuck off.