Seecuhritaaahy

Everyone is so paranoid about security these days. I have to admit I have become just as paranoid about it too. Having had my credit card details stolen twice, but fortunately the fraudulent transactions have been intercepted by the bank. It's no wonder I'm a little suspicious about the security of my personal details. So as a precaution I now use the same strong password for every account I have whether online or otherwise.

It's really simple to remember: ●●●●●●●●

It's just 8 black dots, easy.

Guns don't kill people, tourists do.

I watched the film Hostel 2 last night. In the same vein as the first, the film depicts people being lured into a foreign Hostel, where they are captured and taken to a mass torture facility, where rich people pay to torture and kill them, fulfilling their own psychotic and often sexual fantasies. A nice sunday afternoon family film for sure. In the second part the film not only follows the victims but also 2 men 'murder tourists' if you will, prepared to partake in the act of torture and murder in the hope of changing their own life for the better.

I was watching the film thinking, I bet this really happens somewhere. What are the great taboos of civilised society? Illegal sex is one of them, sex with children, but allegedly (I say allegedly, it's a well documented fact) 'sex tourists' can go to Thailand or Cambodia to indulge in such a truly evil and mentally retarded practice. Drugs are another taboo in civilised society, but there are plenty of places in the world where anyone can go to indulge in whatever they like.

So is it really so inconceivable that a place exists that people, with enough money and no morals, can go to torture and murder innocent people?

I believe this is not too far from the truth, it happens somewhere. There are enough impoverished people in the world that would be easy targets, living in slums, with no family, no one to care about or protect them. These people could be easy targets, viewed as sub-human by some Western cultures no doubt. Perhaps these poor people's lives would be thought of as having less value than someone from a rich society who has the means and will to sustain their own life and develop it. So I am under no doubt as to the fact that there would be rich pickings around the world for any organisation wanting to set up such an operation.

It is possible, but is it conceivable?

I think it is. Killing someone is the greatist taboo of the human race. No matter how much of it is around, in wars, in the national or local news. The fact remains that humans, in general, know that killing another human is a bad thing. It is held as the highest of all crimes in Law: Murder. So if there is a rule, a moral, a code or a law, we as flawed and perverted creatures will seek to ignore it and want to do it anyway. For these reasons I fully believe that the greed of our species will seek to exploit this taboo for it's own gratification and proliferation.

So what would it be like to kill someone?

I find it a matter of some intrigue. Now I must state here that I'm not going to rush out and slice some poor bastard up, just to indulge that. But what is it like? The moment when such a complex organism, capable of thought and reasoning and self awareness just dies. Imagine it, something that lived, that had thoughts and memories and opinions, just gone. The shell of the organism still present as a dead body, but the body isn't the person, the person is gone forever. What must it feel like to be directly responsible for extinguishing that life. It's curious, that's for sure. I don't think I ever want to see someone die and I realise that some people who read this will have had the experience of watching someone die and not have relished it, in fact, quite possibly be scarred by it.

The whole matter leaves me confused. With so many questions:

What is it like to kill?
If life isn't the body, or the brain, then what is it?
Could someone gain a greater understanding of life by extinguishing one?
How would it change my perception of my life seeing another life disappear?
What drives serial muderers to repeat the process most people find so abhorent?
Why has each of these questions got longer until now?

Maybe that's why people want to kill. To answer these questions. I know I couldn't do it. We all joke about it and make flippant comments "I could fucking kill that bastard" or "I wish he was dead". But when it really comes down to it most of us, thankfully, couldn't kill a fellow human.

Perhaps the reason we can't kill is that we spend so much of our lives actively trying to stay alive. Protecting ourselves from real and perceived threats. Insuring our lives and those of our loved ones. Is that what makes us cherish life and hold it sacred, that we realise the fragility of our own life?

Luckily I have never been in the position to suspect that my life is about to end iminently. Maybe if that ever happens, my views will change about life and death. For now I am not scared of death, although I will be doing my utmost to avoid it.

So I believe that people would want to kill an innocent person for 'fun' or even just 'curiousity' but I don't think I'll ever understand why or how any sane person could justify it to themselves. Let alone, live with that knowledge afterwards.

This post typifies my life in some ways. I started off by watching a film, a piece of fiction (or 'kidology' a great word my dad uses). It ended with me tying myself in knots with unanswerable questions, unfathomable posturings and more confused than I started out.

If I ever think of a conclusion to all this I will be sure to add it, unless of course I am doing a 20 stretch for murdering Jade Goody (and everyone thought it was cancer, pah!)

Demented!

I have noticed there is currently a radio and television campaign about Dementia. I kind of know what Dementia is, having some personal experience of a family member who suffered from it. Nowadays it has a proper definition:

Dementia is a syndrome (a group of related symptoms) that is associated with an ongoing decline of the brain and its abilities

This encompasses all sorts of diseases and conditions such as Alzheimer's disease. Whereas in years gone by it just meant: being old and a bit mental.

One of my Grans had Dementia. She was as mad as a bag of snakes. But she was a lovely lady and even as a youngster of 5-10 I could see that there was a normal person with a normal perception trapped in a mind which obscured the outside world with 'smoke and mirrors'. Thinking back now I wonder what frustrated her more, was it the delusions which made her act in the way she did, or was it the moments of clarity in which she realised that her condition robbed her of the real world around her and the cognition to interact normally with it?

The aforementioned adverts use the slogan: I have dementia. I also have a life.

Two things popped into my head after listening to/watching these adverts. If the people in these adverts are real and not actors, they have real Dementia. So how fucked up will it be for them when they are sitting at home one night, minding their own business and suddenly, their own face pops up on the screen, telling themselves they have Dementia? Still, at least the next day they'll have forgotten all about it. A constant cycle of surprise! Also I thought with such a serious and debilitating disease, they could inject a little humour into the campaign by changing the slogan to:

I have Dementia. I also have a bag full of magic Marbles and did I ever tell you about the time that I paddled to the moon in a canoe made of Pedigree Chum?

The Mont Blanc challenge

When I go to the gym, I always try to take the time to read the hastily made and amatuerish notices posted up around the place. They are usually mundane, rich with trivial details which are soul-crushingly boring to me: A new class which the brain-dead mums can go to make their fanny's tighter again, why the air con has been moderatley too cold in the men's changing room, a reschedule of this week's 'Spin Class'. But last week one really caught my eye.

The notice proclaimed. COMPETITION:

Complete the Mont Blanc challenge, 120Km trek/climb on the cross trainer this month. The person with the quickest time will win 3 sessions of personal training.

If I could complete a 120Km trek/climb in a sweaty gym, choked by the stench of stale sweat and testosterone, I wouldn't need a fucking personal trainer, because, arguably I'd be the fittest (or at least the most competitive) person in the gym. I think that the person with the worst time should win the personal training, they obviously need it most!

This kind of incentive is self-defeating and nonsensical. It's like watching Michael Schumacher winning a Grand Prix and then walking on the podium to receive his prize of... 3 free driving lessons.

The Pizza constant

Every good mathematical or physics formula has a constant.

I discovered a new constant yesterday , quite by accident, whilst writing an email to my good friend Joni.

I was explaining to her about when my cooker suddenly broke down. Not in an emotional way, it just stopped working. I'm not sure cookers have emotions. I think some electrical appliances do have emotions, for example my fridge, which has been revelling in my torture for some time now.

My fridge is just a youngster of about 2 years old. It was manufactured by Beko, a company I always presumed was Japanese, but it turns out they are Turkish in origin. Already, you can see the problem, letting Turkish people make electrical goods. A nation famous for kebabs and other fatty delicacies. However Turkish labourers re-built Berlin after WW2 and made a bloody good job of it, so why not have a manufacturing industry? Unfortunately for the Turkish kebab swilling labourers, fridges and other electrical equipment aren't usually constructed from bricks and mortar, under the direct supervision of a squad of Nazi commanders who've just lost a war and have been 're-skilled'. I am sure the Turkish took a few short cuts with fridge building, using materials like egg-plant and yoghurt, where clearly alloyed metals should have been employed. I guess that's why, just after the 1st anniversary of it's purchase, it failed horribly, defrosting everything inside. It's only got worse from there. I paid £300 for one year of reliable refrigeration. This is very un-Turkish indeed. I have been eating kebabs for years and by the look of my bloated frame, they are ALL still with me. I digress (which is the point of blogging).

So back to the story of my cooker. Ironically due to the nature of this post, which will become clear no doubt, I discovered that my cooker was knackered when I found a stone cold pizza in there after 20 mins of cooking, with cold air. So I rushed out to buy another one. I got a second hand one though because we want to move this year and I didn't want to shell out for a new one that we may end up leaving behind. The new one is very nice, nice and gassy, which the other one wasn't.

Electric cookers are shit to cook on but the nature of the fan assistance in the oven makes for perfect pizzas. They are crispy and cooked all the way through. Gas however is a different story. The hob cooking experience is a sheer delight, instantaneous temperature control, a luxury. The oven however is total toilet. Put it on, wait for a fortnight, then it's just about ready to cook, badly.

So here comes the real science behind this blog. Whilst writing the email to Joni, I realised that I use the hob more than I use the oven for the specific task of cooking pizza. So although I am happy about the thrill of instantaneous temperature control, I am disappointed about having burnt round the edge-soft in the middle pizza.

Let's put that into a formula where:

H= Happiness (measured in Jollynesses)
nP= Number of pizzas cooked for any given time period (expressed in pizzas per unit time) The SI (Scottish Idiot) unit for this is Pizza/week.
F= Fuel type where Electric ovens have a higher 'oven quotient' than Gas.

The formula is therefore:

H=F/nP

Elementary you may say, but my discovery is the 'oven quotient' for Gas. It's -5, whereas an electric oven is 7.5. So with 1 pizza per week cooked on Gas Jollyness is -5. Conversely, for every 1 pizza per week cooked in an electric fan based oven the Jollyness is 7.5.

So as we can clearly see, whilst cooking with a Gas oven, Happiness is inversely proportional to number of pizzas cooked. Whereas with an Electric oven, the opposite is true.


I am hoping to get this ground breaking and philosophical epiphany published in New Scientist magazine. This could revolutionise the world, by promoting happiness and unhealthiness across the globe.

Stephen Hawking popularised 'String theory', the understanding that a body with a gravitational pull acts like a ball in a blanket, please, spare me, was that one of the blankets he was dribbling on? What the fuck has he ever done for science except disprove one of Newton's fundamental laws. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction according to Newton's third law. So what happened when his wife knocked fuck out of him in 2004? He fell out of his wheelchair and she escaped without sanction. Well done Stephen, you've just blown away one of the foundations of Physics.

And Einstein, what the fuck did that forgetful fluffy haired weirdo ever add to society. I'll tell you, 2 flattened Japanese cities and 40 years of cold-war terror. Well done old man. Pretty clever eh, but never remembered to wash.

So in short, I hope to be held up there amongst the greats with this discovery. It has also led me to the conclusion that to attain true happiness I must eat less pizzas from now on, unless I change my cooker of course.

Extending the smelly hand of friendship

There's this man, who drives a bus. Let's call him the bus driver. Anyway it's a bus that I have to use to get around work and he's one of the regular drivers. He's a nice man, very friendly and polite, a gentleman. He's one of the people in the world that can put a smile on your face because you know that when he greets you that he's doing it sincerely and genuinely.

But there's a problem. He loves to shake hands with people. A warm handshake, not only with one hand, but with the other clasped around the back of your hand in a very welcoming way onto his little bus. That's not the problem though. The problem is his hands smell. They smell like they've been doused in aftershave overnight and then sprayed with some more just to make sure they still have that eye-wateringly strong aroma.

So what's the problem with that you may ask yourself? Perhaps he gets up in the morning, has a shave, then pours some Brut into his hands and rubs liberally on his freshly scraped face, it's what lots of men do. (I don't know if his face smells, thankfully, so I can't confirm or deny that) The man has a sense of hygiene, he's always smartly turned out, surely I can't knock him for that? What's the big issue?

So I just wander into work, sit down and get going for the day. Then it happens. I put my hand near my face, perhaps resting my head in the palm and I can smell him. He's invaded my day! He's invaded my nose, he's with me at work, my hands even smell of him. This is not acceptable to me. I begin to think that everything I've touched previously will smell of him, my pen, the mouse (I keep a little mouse in my pocket and stroke him every now and then, it makes me feel big and powerful). It's not even nice aftershave, it smells like he concocted it from cheap household cleaning products from Lidl. Even Cillit Bang (Barry Scott's favourite aftershave) would be an improvement. So off I traipse to the toilet and scrub the bastards until there is no trace of the repugnant stench left.

Afterwards I start to resent the bus driver. I feel that he's upset my day by invading my personal space. It's not that I mind shaking his hand, that's just polite. It's the that he then proceeds to follow me around, on my hands no less, until I wash him off. Also he's got very rough skin on his hands, no wonder if the aftershave he uses can also be used to descale toilets! So now when I'm walking towards the bus and I see his face gurning out of the window like a fish in a tank full of turgid bleach I think 'ah fuck, it's old stinky hands'. I imagine sitting in the bus with my skin withering away slowly, unable to touch anything in case there's a sudden onset of leprosy and my epidermis departs my person in one large hand-shaped scab. I get phobic about walking to the bus in case he's there and starts beaming out of the window at me, ready to infect me with his aromatic AIDS.

Then I feel guilty. The bus driver is a nice man, he only wants to make friends and make people happy. Sometimes his kind words are the only kind words I hear all day and here's me hating him because of his rough skin and refusal to use a spray on aftershave or at least one that doesn't have the same effects as Sarin.

I'm trying to think of a logical ending to this little saga.
Maybe it's that no matter how nice you are, you'll never please everyone.
Maybe it's don't befriend bus drivers.
Or maybe it's subliminal advertising for a company which produces hand sanitising gels.

Swimming

Today I had a swim for the first time in ages. I really enjoyed it. I don't know why I don't do it more often (laziness may be the answer to that question). It's a very liberating form of exercise, although it does make my back ache a bit. I swam in the pool in the gym I go to.

There's a man who goes to that pool every day and he gets in and just walks up and down. I call him Luke Poolwalker. It's not that funny really cause he's disabled and looks like some sort of hunched hobbit from Lord of the Rings. He went over and spoke to the young lifeguard today at length. I watched the interaction and was imagining that he explained to the young man that he'd dropped his ring in the pool and he had to walk up and down everyday, feeling for it with his toes. Of course that wasn't case, by the look on the young man's face I imagine he said "Do you know how to make an old crippled man happy? No, then suck my cock and we'll see how it goes" Of course that's probably not what happened either because I imagine his cock is crippled too.

I am going to burn in hell one day for my thoughts. And If I don't, I'll burn in hell for posting them here.

Also I was reminded today how fucking disgusting my fellow men are. Men are desperate, desperate for sex or just even to look at women and imagine themselves sliming all over the women they covet. There were a couple of pretty women in the swimming pool. I think they were mother and daughter, but both well kept. There was also a couple of lecherous men in the jacuzzi (I was observing them from the sauna). The jacuzzi sits in front of the pool so in walking from either the changing rooms or the sauna to the pool, one must pass the bath of bubbles and piss. Anyway these 3 guys watched these 2 women as if they'd never seen a woman before. They craned their heads, leering and leching with their eyes almost on fucking stalks as if Beyonce and Alicia Keys had just started to lick custard off each others naked bodies (Beyonce and Alicia Keys aren't members of my gym, to my knowledge anyway, although maybe they slip in and out early in the morning).

These guys though, they looked like they'd never seen a woman in a swim suit before. I hate that desperate streak in men. Have some dignity, look, but don't make it so obvious. The two ladies were clearly uncomfortable by the unwanted attention of two men who looked like candidates for a UK Border Force eviction special and a fat beer bellied speccy twat who hasn't seen his own cock for 12 years. The kind of guy you see hanging around outside men's toilets in the hope he gets the 'come-on' for a bit of willy fun.

At the risk of repeating myself (and I can it's my Blog after all) I fucking hate men like that. There was another man in the pool when I was swimming doing the same thing. The younger lady was swimming in the lane next to me, about 10 meters in front. This horrible hairy greasy desperate fuck had positioned himself at the far end of the pool to letch at her when she turned and swam away. I watched him, he didn't care. I was watching him while I swam to the wall and she had swam away. H didn't even try to hide that he was transfixed by her body. He might as well have held up a sign saying "I AM MASTURBATING RIGHT NOW BECAUSE I HAVE NO SENSE OF SELF WORTH OR OTHER PEOPLES PERSONAL SPACE, I WATCH WOMEN IN SWIMMING POOLS THEN GET INTO MY CAR AND WANK INTO THE ASHTRAY".

I hate people like that. Men like that. They are sad and clinically unable to keep their testosterone in their pants, or a in handkerchief where it belongs.

The duality of man presents itself here. Lets put the boot on the other testicle. If a gay man were to openly ogle a straight man in the shower or changing area of the gym, he'd most probably end up as a mess on the floor, blood seeping from every conceivable orifice, staining the tiles. The same man who would give the gay man a kicking would most probably stare at a pretty woman in a swim suit and think nothing of it, even if it made her uncomfortable.

While I'm on the subject, another thing I hate about the typical man is their total lack of hygiene. You would be surprised how many men have a piss in a pub toilet and don't wash their hands. Maybe they think it's a bit gay, or they are too hard to wash their hands. Piss soaked idiots the lot of them.

Sometimes I hate being a man. Not that I want to be a woman, I would definitely hate myself more then. All women hate themselves for some reason or another. Maybe I should be a cat in my next life. The only down side to being a cat is the compulsion to lick your own anus twice a day, with an unfeasibly rough tongue. Actually, maybe licking your own arse is a small price to pay to live a life without the minutiae that I get myself so worked up about.

Conclusion of this rant: If I lick my own arse, maybe I'll be more content.

Crying

Today I cried for the first time in ages. Why?

My best friend left London today. Not just London, he left the UK. Now let's just get things in perspective, it's not the first time he's been out of the country for an extended period. But this time it's different cause this time I think it's forever.

He and his wife have gone on a once in a lifetime trip around the world which is due to last 6 months. 6 months is nothing really. There are people I don't see for 6 months and I couldn't care less. However this, is different. I think they'll find that they belong somewhere else, that they can have a better life somewhere else. I don't blame them if that is the case, but selfishly I'll be sad. It's not something that happens often, that 2 guys meet and become friends and 15 years later they are still in the same place, still knocking about together, talking shit and getting drunk. But there are the friendships that only happen once in a lifetime.

So, my best mate is gone for a while. I hope that whatever happens to him on his travels only enriches his life. But I'll miss him. We only met maybe every 2 or 3 weeks. In a pub in Wimbledon with a grumpy Scottish barmaid who sounded like she smoked 300 fags a day. But it was always good fun and we always put the world to rights. I hope we can again. Maybe, since he'll have seen more of the world, we'll be able to put more of it to rights!

So I wrote this after much cider and whiskey. That perhaps has amplified my normal emotional response. But so what? I don't care.

I don't mind admitting I had a good cry tonight (not very manly or macho I know).

Everyone cries. About different stuff. Life affects us in different ways, some cry at the birth of their first child, some because Celtic lost the old firm game at the weekend. Today, I don't mind admitting, I cried because my best friend, Colin, left.

Tommorrow I'll be back to my hard-hearted self no doubt.

Malvinas

The Falkland islands.

28 or so years ago Argentina decided that they wanted the Falkland Islands (or as they call them, Malvinas). However as the UK have had this sovereign territory since 1833, we said: no, fuck off.

Argentina then proceeded to invade the islands and claim them, holding the British citizens hostage. What happened next is not only well documented but is one of the things that makes me most proud to say I am British.

A small island in the North Atlantic, a tiny island nation called Britain, sent their finest troops on a 3 week sea voyage to defend British territory. A tiny British territory, which many may have called insignificant. This was a point of principle and that's what makes me British and proud to be so. We could have easily given up that barren rock deep in the south Atlantic and simply recovered the few residents and re-settled them here. But we didn't, we sent our forces half way around the world and gave Argentina a bollock punch by wearing their troops down to the point of surrender.

So now Argentina and a group of other impoverished south American countries are condemning the UK for drilling for oil off the Falkland Islands, our territory.

Fine I say. We may be at the depths of our deepest recession, we may be over stretched in Afghanistan. But fuck it, bring it on anyway. At the risk of sounding like a fuckwit neo-nazi loony, just try it and see what happens. You can say whatever you like about the British, but our spirit and resolve will always prevail.

We have values, we have pride and we have determination, that will never be crushed, oil or no oil, 10 or 10000 miles away, whether for 5 British citizens or 5000 British citizens or 5 million British citizens.

In 1982 British citizens were reminded of what we stand for, why we are proud and what we can achieve as a nation. In these disparate days of British politics, perhaps it's about to happen again. I hope not, but in a horrible way, I hope so. We are not to be undermined and we are not to be divided.

Oh my, who the fuck do I think I am, Churchill?

Fridge/bus mentalist

An excerpt from an email which I enjoyed writing:

Well I've been off work, and I have to say, having fun. However, I suffer from a crippling deficiency of motivation and this plagues my time off. So other than socialising, going to Tesco, drinking more than the government prescribes, scratching my arse, the odd gym visit and pondering long and hard about my return to stand-up, I've achieved very little. I did do a wee bit of DIY the other day. You see I've been 'doing up' my hall and living room for about a year now, with small and tiring bursts of activity and long periods of inactivity, longing for the 'magical DIY fairy' to visit during the night and finish it. I've pulled out 5 of my teeth and placed them all under my pillow (one at a time of course, I'm not daft), but that fairy never comes. I noticed the other day that the house 2 doors down has nice new living room decor and curtains, maybe just another 2 teeth and the fairy will make it here. Of course the re-constructive surgery will be more expensive than just getting a painter and decorator in to do it, but I'm a man and will never admit defeat. Unless defeated by a fairy of course. This is one of my great failings, being a man.

I haven't been sleeping well, because of my fridge and nightmares. My fridge was making a horrendous noise, today I ripped that mother-fucker apart and found the source of noise that was keeping me up nights. I had to force defrost a frost-free freezer (LIES damn LIES). I have diagnosed a new defrost cycle timer is required, cost £20, better than a new fridge-freezer, cost £350. I will feel very smug when that tall white bastard starts acting like the 2 year old it is, then I will sleep easy. It ruined 3 haggis today, the fucking Japanese bastard.

The nightmares are mainly the usual: unable to get upstairs on a double decker bus due the poorly thought out design and anti-tall-people devices fitted in the future and then abusing a tramp loudly about not moving seat. Then being chased through a high st shopping centre by an angry bus-rage fuelled mob, who plainly couldn't see my point. I think some of them have pitch forks, that should be reserved for vampires and aliens, not the Scottish.

Maybe I have issues, with white goods and public transport. Maybe a I should go for some counselling. Or a new mattress, that might do it.

Mick, fridge/bus mentalist.

Up to date

I am really shit at keeping things up to date. I probably wouldn't have a TV licence now if they didn't keep sending me one every year and extracting money by direct debit every month from my bank.

So it's no wonder then that I don't keep this page of random rantings up to date. I really would love to, but I guess at the age of 33 I have come to realise that I am just, well, too lazy.

It's a shame really, cause I started this blog as a material generation tool for my stand-up comedy. Which, of course I have been too lazy to keep up, both the comedy and the blog.

The last time I updated this was 01st Oct 2009. Now I'm sure lots of very funny things and more importantly infuriating things, have happened to me since then. So why don't I just spend 5 mins writing them down????

I don't know the answer to that and maybe I never will. However having read over some of my previous posts, I really enjoyed them and had forgotten how much I enjoyed writing. I guess it's about being disciplined. I should be more disciplined, however I won't hold my breath for that to kick in!

Disco Stick

I would never let Lady GaGa "take a ride on my Disco Stick" cause she's a minger!

Selfish mums

I have long held the very unpopular belief that women who have children are of a great detriment to our beautiful society.

When a woman has a child something disappears from her. For a long time medical professionals have believed that Placenta is merely a by-product of birth, a means of sustaining an unborn child. I dispute this. I believe that Placenta contains a woman's common sense, reasoning skills and sense of self-worth. When she has her first little baby, the whole lot is shat out with it rendering her unable to interact with the real world at large.

Don't believe me? Go to a supermarket car park and watch any of them try to park a car/get out of the car/shop/pack shopping/pay/keep control of their brats/push a trolley/open a car door/unload a trolley/get the brats into a car/reverse a car/drive a car forwards/put petrol in a car.

A perfectly good and useful woman can be ruined by having children.

Today I went to the local shopping centre and parked in the multi storey car park attached. To my utter dismay and unbridled disappointment, when I returned to my car, someone had parked so close to my car, I was unable to open the driver's side door more than 20cm. Now I admit I'm not the slimmest of chaps, however, I had no hope of getting into my car, no matter how much I breathed in. The only route to the driver's seat was through the passenger side door.

I briefly considered waiting until the offender arrived back at their vehicle and giving them the benefit of my wisdom (abusing them severely). However I thought this a waste of my valuable time to hang around just to make a mother cry. Unable to leave the scene without some means of retribution I thought a polite note should cover all the points I'd liked to have put to them in person. The note read thus:

Thanks you selfish Fuckwit. You parked so close I couldn't get in my car. You are obviously a complete retard

That made me feel slightly better. I hope it ruined someone else's day though. You may be wondering how I knew this person was a brain dead school-run-mum. Because they were driving a (badly parked) Citroen Picasso, that's why.

Well hello blog, how have you been?

Wow,

it been a long time since I blogged. One post was accidental, I done a group reply from my old email address about a virus. It didn't make good reading to be honest.

I just read some of my old posts. I liked them , even if no one else did.

Perhaps blogging is a way to get rid of the perpetual frustrations of life that I face day to day. I'll give it another go.

my email account was hijacked and sent you a virus - sorry

Hi all,

 

this email account, which I never really use now, was hi-jacked by a cyber-nerd lowlife type. Subsequently, they sent out a load of viruses and spyware to everyone in my address book. One of these viruses even made it onto another of my computers, which it totally corrupted (latest anti-virus, firewall and spyware installed, all of which missed it!).

 

Anyway, I have now reagined access over this account. Please delete any previous emails from this account, don't open them whatever you do.

 

sorry if any of you were affected.

Browny has the baby

I feel sorry for Gordon Brown. It would appear that before Gordon was handed the Labour baby, the baby had a severe case of diarrhoea, and now it's just shit itself in Gordon's arms, all over his best suit!

Since he has taken over, scandal after scandal has emerged and pressure is growing for his resignation. Firstly after apparently bottling it to call a general election, Northern Rock almost collapsed and the government gave them £24 Billion of the taxpayers money. As if that wasn't bad enough a few weeks ago some idiot at the Department for Work and Pensions sent two discs in unrecorded, insecure post containing the details (including the bank accounts) of up to 25 million people.

Now this week Harriet Harlot, sorry, Harman has been accused of accepting unlawful donations for her deputy leader campaign. These donations were made by an influential Labour donor, hidden behind apparent donations of several other Labour supporters and finally through a woman who had no knowledge of them. Subsequently Labour face repaying £600,000 of donations to clear their name!

Oh Gordon Gordon, what are you going to do to keep your party in order. As I said at the start I feel sorry for him, but he's going to have to get his house in order very quickly to maintain any credibility.

Today I watched Prime Minister's Question time. Usually a humdrum affair, today it was explosive! The leader of the Conservatives David Cameron, a laughable and socially impotent man, savaged Brown at the dispatch box. Savaged no less!! Gordon needs something big to come back form this. If a laughable nerd like Cameron savages anyone, it's getting close to their final curtain I'm sure. Unfortunately what Brown needs now is a national disaster, to bring everyone behind him.

The debate, if you could call it that, did have it's comedic moments. Quote of the day has to go to Lib Dem MP Vince Cable with this gem:

"The house has noticed the prime minister's remarkable transformation in the last few weeks from Stalin to Mr Bean"

There's nothing much more to say!

Heather Mills McCartney can do more for the world than recycling her leg!

Crackpot divorcee Heather Mills McCartney has come out today in support of Vegan organisation Viva. Viva support vegetarianism, veganism and animal rights. They have recently launched a new campaign entitled HOT!. This campaign purports to save the environment by highlighting the contribution us meat eaters make to the ever popular bandwagon topic of climate change.

She was interviewed on London talk radio station LBC today and crumbled under the pressure of questioning by presenter Nick Ferrari, finally hanging up after being asked some searching questions about her involvement.

I have, or should I say had, no particular problem with or interest in the wooden legged bint. However she has now become just another environment zealot.

What the fuck are these people trying to achieve, demonising the consumption of meat products by trying to link their production to global warming? Everything thing we do these days is somehow being linked to environment change, whether it's driving our cars, going on holiday, using the lights in our houses, keeping ourselves warm and now apparently, having a nice piece of steak for your tea.

Well I've got news for these greasy haired, sap sucking, bleeding heart self righteous cunts: The good normal people of the world will not stop eating meat for you or for any other fucking idiot who come up with some wild figure about how many tons of CO2 meat processing produces.

This is just another pathetic attempt to use the fallacy of climate change in a tenuous link to their own ends. I'm sick of being told when to turn my lights on and off, to turn my thermostat down and to drive a car made out of sustainable balsa powered by bird droppings. It feels like I can't do anything any longer without the threat of the environment zealots looking over my shoulder and telling me that I'm singularly responsible for the downfall of the planet and the melting of the polar ice caps.

I have an idea for Viva and Heather. Before you tell me to stop eating meat, something that I not only enjoy, but something that I feel is exercising my choice, a basic human right. Why don't you firstly get the USA to sign up to the Kyoto agreement and then discuss with China their use of fossil fuels and consumption of the Earth's natural mineral commodities. Yes that's it, why don't you stop targeting the normal people who are going about their normal, everyday lives enjoying a bacon sandwich or a chateau briand of an evening? Escalate these campaigns to the real culprits of 'supposed' climate change .

No actually, that would be too difficult, nay, impossible. On second thoughts, just keep trying to make the weak minded and impressionable citizens of the world scared to have a bit of lunch. That'll be easier for foodophobes and do-gooders.

A closing thought, much like Jerry Springer but without the patronising undertone:

If God didn't want us to eat animals, he wouldn't have made them out of meat.



See the fucking loonies cry here and make up your own mind : http://www.viva.org.uk/

Sean Kingston

You can't sing and they only put you on TV so all the fat teenagers think there's someone out there, even for them.

Give it up Sean, while you still have some dignity left, you fat tosser.

Facebook

I've got one of them Facebook things now. It's not a book, but my face is on it.

I tried to resist the temptation of this for ages, as I love to go against the popular flow. However I thought it a good way to keep even less in touch with people by replacing them with a link to a small photo on a website that I'll never look at. Also I get to know fascinating things about them like: What book I'm reading just now, What mood I'm in (portrayed by a little smiley thing) and When was the last time I had a pooh. Ok I made the last one up, but I might introduce it to my Facebook page.... just.... well just because I can.

All of this intimate and completely superfluous information about people I hardly ever see means that when I do see them, we'll have even less to talk about. Unless of course, it's about what's on their Facebook page.

Progress.

Wow it's dusty in here.

It is indeed dusty in here as I haven't been in for over a year. This blog has been stored in my garden shed, under the decorating stuff in a damp cardboard box. I only came across it again the other day when putting the barbecue away for the winter. Unfortunatley it's discoloured slightly as I think the mice have been weeing on it.

Now that I've found it again I might dust off the cobwebs and start using it. A bit of Mr Sheen and WD40 and it'll be good to go.

I'm sorry for neglecting you, Blog. A whole year's worth of ranting and potentially funny stuff has passed and you've missed it all. I'll try and keep you filled in, in future.