Sunday, 18 April 2010

Blog moved


If you've come here, we've all packed up, rebranded and moved to

See ya there!

Monday, 12 April 2010

I Will Always Hate You

I'm often caught in a maelstrom of indecision when I attempt to conclude what the most irritating thing in the world is.  Is it:
  • People who touch type and won't look at the keyboard no matter how many mistakes they are making and achieving 4 words per minute?
  • Atheists, because they tend to shove their smug, self-satisfied, tedious-beyond-belief opinions down your throat more than Adolf Hitler and Tomas de Torquemada combined?
  • People who insist they can sing and insist on singing 'I will always love you'.  A song written by the delightful Dolly Parton and butchered by wailing alleged-smackhead Whitney Houston?
Thanks to brilliant little Taiwanese kid, Lin Yu Chun, I have been able to erase the 3rd item from my list.

Unfortunately for the poor little blighter, and for some reason I don't understand, he is being called 'The Taiwanese Susan Boyle'

Why is that?

Susan 'are you fucking kidding me?' Boyle is the product of a cynical money-machine who managed to score on the 'we don't care how ugly she is' ripple of 'we love the underdog' meme riding the waves of popularity at the moment.

Chun is just some sweet oriental kid with a goofy haircut.

I'm a bit disappointed that he's ruined my IWALY hatred though.  

Err, no thanks

You know it's gonna be great when you see some cretinous oik get up on to the X and announce that they're going to do 'I will always love you' by Whitney Houston cos they're gonna be bigger than her one day.

You know who I mean, the slightly overweight ones, with lop-sided acne covered faces and thick glasses, who bring their entire family, who are absolutely CONVINCED that their little sunshine will make it to the top of the charts after having practised their hearts out for at least three weeks before the tryouts.

The ones who think they are awesome at karaoke and believe that drunk guy they've just met who's told them they've got a kick-ass voice and they should be on American Idol now how bout we go back to my place.

Returning to my original topic, I've decided I'm going to replace the Shitney Pooston (I'm so awesomely grown-up) irritant with:
  • People who don't understand irony and somehow think that my blog posts are news stories or serious editorialising.  

Friday, 9 April 2010

Go Back to Russia, Without Love

A Russian orphan was adopted by a woman from the USA and now she's sent him back.

That's the top and bottom of it, and of course there's more meat to the bones, but this is the story to which Russia, reportedly, has "reacted with horror".


In my experience, Russians are pretty fucking hardy.  Were I to hear a story like 'Canadian woman sends back English boy' I wouldn't react with horror, and I don't know anyone who would.  It would be mild surprise, well for me it would be utter indifference, and maybe a mention of 'tsk, those fucking Canadians, can't make up their minds' .  Russians would certainly not be horrified at all by this absolutely not-horrific story.

These Russians were too busy cooking a dog to give a shit

Oh yes, and there's "Fury" says Will Stewart.  Will, just shut the fuck up would you?  Do you even know what fury is?  That's like major anger, like punching a hole in a door anger.  Not a little bit of dismay, followed possibly by minor disgust which reaction this news actually has provoked.

Nurse Torry-Ann Hanson, who has a made-up first name, stuck little Artem, which also sounds suspiciously made-up but I can't tell, on a plane to Russia, with a note saying in broad terms that he's a violent psychopath so have him back.

Russian officials have reacted with uncontrollable violent rage and said that his only disability is that he is flat-footed.  That's a disability now?  No wonder all the handicapped parking spots are always taken at the supermarket.  If I had a disability like not-working legs, I would be seething with a homicidal hatred towards Artem at this fact. Were my story being reported by Will Stewart that is.

This is quite bad behaviour from Totty-Ann or whatever her name is, and she's missed out on one absolutely vital benefit of having a son from Russia with the surname Saveliev.  With the new ruleset in, he would be awesome at Scrabble.

What's sinister about the reporting of this story, is that everywhere I've seen it there's been mention of other Russian children being killed after being adopted to America.  I know that reporters are stupid and everything, but are they seriously trying to imply some sort of conspiracy here?

I went out with a Russian woman once who didn't know who David Hasslehoff was.  Obviously after I found this out the relationship didn't go anywhere.  

I know.  You're like, no way man, everyone knows The Hoff.

I came back from the bar and said 'Hey, there's a giant poster of The Hoff behind the bar'


The Hoff, David Hasslehoff!

Not really sure who is this The Hoff.

What the fuck man?  Knightrider, Baywatch, he's awesome and he's got big hair.

No, I'm sorry, would you like some borscht?"

She wasn't to know that offering beetroot soup to me, is like sending back an orphan to a Russian official.


Yeah, That's Great.

Sometimes it's hard being awesome.  This is why.

You don't pay attention to what's happening around you.

This is one of my worst habits.  It's as though things only occur if I am paying attention to them.

A few years ago I went into the office and there were staff there who had been working all night.  This wasn't usual, there was some sort of system migration happening and committed people had pulled out all the stops to be there for 16 hours at a time, sleeping in sleeping bags on the office floor.

I was haughtily breezing past them when one of them stopped me.  She was the sort of girl you would rate 5 out of 10.  She didn't look hideous if coated with enough make-up and in a mini-dress, although the legs were a bit chunky.  She was however, incredibly dense.  I remember vaguely that she mumbled something at me, but I paid no attention.

Nearly having reached my desk, I was again waylaid, this time by Ricky Singh and some of his crew.  These were good guys who worked hard, but fucked about a lot of the time.  Our business was selling, and those sorts of people often do well, and people like me look the other way. Rick offered me £20 if I could tell him what 5 out of 10 girl had said to me.  I had to decline to take him up on the offer.  He told me that I had stopped, not looked at her once, and in the middle of her story, which she was telling me with great animation, said 'Yeah, that's great' and walked off.  Oh, how I laughed.

While this behaviour is funny for me.  It's a nightmare for the people around me.  Apparently.  For all I know they could be taking advantage of my poor memory.

This is the 'me' of the polar bear world

It's like I'm sleepwalking.  People speak to me, I answer with credible answers that make sense, but I have no recollection of them.  My girlfriend arranges things, asks me about them, and when it's time to close on the deal I don't know what the hell she's talking about.

I've often wondered why people think I'm arrogant when they don't know me, I guess I've figured it out.  They don't think I'm paying attention to them. And I'm not.

Wednesday, 7 April 2010

One Lump or Two?

Following my previous post about the freak show that is Embarrassing Bodies, I have been forced to watch another two episodes.  It was pure torture.  Now I know what a fistula is and I wish I didn't.

This show takes itself so seriously it doesn't appreciate the sheer ridiculousness of some of its segments.

Tonight I saw a breast clinic invaded by a spotty nerd who said that he'd read that men also can get breast cancer.  Dr Pixie (I kid you not, that is her name) masked her feelings of disgust and went on to give him a lesson in how to check for lumps.

Dr Christian held a breast clinic and asked 40 women questions about their breasts. 
  • So, how many of you have given your breasts a good old feel recently, not to check for lumps, just so that you know how they feel?
3 women raised their hands.

Now, if that was 40 men and Dr C asked, how many of you have given your balls a jolly good feel in the past 30 seconds it would be unanimous.

The next time I'm at work and someone gives me a funny look for heedlessly re-arranging my junk in front of like 50 people, I'll look super serious and say, 'checking for lumps'.

Tuesday, 6 April 2010

Scrabble Rousing

In an article that made me want to push grannies off cliffs, the Guardian announced that the rules of Scrabble are changing.  Proper nouns will now be allowed.

As an attempt to sex up Scrabble this is pathetic.  People have been playing variations on the rules for years.  For example,  Scrabble in which you are only allowed to use rude words, like 'felch' or 'spank'. Or Scrabble with French words allowed.

Until the advent of Facebook I thought that Scrabble had died a death anyway.  It always seemed to be the domain of people who have just recently learned to spell or those who thought they were awesome at the English language. 

Now that you can play online against people you don't like instead of having them pollute your living space every semi-literate baboon wants to have a go.  Except, it's not quite the same with instant access to  You can be whatever you want on the internet.  You can get 84 points with the word 'quercine' but you still don't know the difference between 'there' 'they're' and 'their'.

Let's see what else gets dumbed down for mass appeal:
  • Music - We used to have Yes - Close to the Edge, now we have Justin Bieber - Close to puberty 
  • Cricket - I don't see the problem with 5 days to play a game where nobody wins.  It's meant to be complicated to keep women away.  They have their hands full making the sandwiches in the pavilion anyway. 
  • Literature - Bronte, Dickens, Cookson, we'll never see their ilk again.  Hundreds of pages of complex emotions and character building, and nothing actually happening. 
  • TV - Rockford files vs Everybody Loves Raymond.  We used to have theme tunes.  Magnum PI, the A-team, brilliant.  The only theme tune I remember now is the Big Bang Theory.  Maybe it's because I just Tivo everything and fast forward through intro's, but I don't care.  This is no place for reason, it's the internet!

Come to think of it, this whole thing is the internet's fault.  You don't even have to go anywhere to live a fulfilling social life.  Make friends on Facebook, chat all day on Twitter and score chicks on

Have you ever played squash with someone who is world-class?  It's a waste of time, it's like he's not even moving very much and every shot is perfect meaning you'll never get a point and it's not fun anyway.

Scrabble's like that.  I would class my vocabulary in the top 5% of all English speakers, actually I'd class myself much much higher than that but I'm trying to sound modest.  But you just can't win when you play a Scrabble expert.  They know all the little tricks, the words that make no sense, like  'xis' and 'qat' and 'mut', but actually are words.  They don't give a shit that they're going against the spirit of Scrabble, which is to make impressive looking words and be ever so clever.  All they care about is victory.

When you realise you're playing someone like that, there's only one thing to do.  

Spell out 'dick'.  It's only 11 points, but it sure is satisfying.

Monday, 5 April 2010

Trust me

I know what I'm doing

There's so little trust in the world.

Do you trust your spouse/partner to answer your cell phone for you?

Would you read their emails or their diary if you thought they would never know?

The problem is that when you read something that wasn't directed towards you, the original intention of the communication is lost and it can be easy to misconstrue.

A few years ago I dated a woman who had suspected that her ex-boyfriend had been unfaithful due to lots of calls on his phone from a particular woman.  She consequently discovered that this woman was his sister.  When she told me this I questioned whether she could be trusted to not poke her nose into my phone and she swore on her son's life that she would never do this.

I caught her about 6 weeks later looking through my phone and zeroing in on absolutely innocent conversations between me and a female colleague, trying to deflect blame for her dirty snooping by accusing me of being a cheating bastard.

Not actually her

When I pointed out that she had sworn on the life of her son that she wouldn't ever do such a thing she merely snorted in derision.  The conversation in question was about this colleague of mine being caught at the Christmas party performing oral sex on a junior member of staff.  I could obliquely see why she may have thought this suspect so didn't immediately dump her.  Which you should ALWAYS do if someone looks at your mobile phone uninvited.

The dumping came later when she tried to scratch my eyes out while dressed as a witch for Halloween.

I still leave my phone lying about trusting people not to do anything silly and have been burned only once since, when my friend's girlfriend updated my Facebook status with 'loves the cock'.

It's easy to lose faith in humanity when the world at large is all about style over substance.  Everything's marketing and advertising.  Scammers all over the internet, where men are men, women are men and 10 year old girls are FBI agents.  Push-up bras and Myspace angles and men wearing make-up.

The more we have, the more illusory it all becomes.

The restoration of my faith came from an unlikely source when I read about this.

Dennis and Flora Milner chose to peacefully end their lives at the end of 2009.  Both were in their 80's and were suffering from ill health and made a decision to have a positive death.  Their children supported this decision.

The absolute trust these lovely people must have had in each other touched me deeply.  The only thing that tarnished what would, in a less ludicrous world, have been a remarkable love story, is that people have criticised their actions.

Assisted suicide is illegal in the UK and carries a potential jail sentence of 14 years.  Most retarded law.  Ever.

"To force the issue beyond this point would mean for us a living death; we have therefore chosen to peacefully end our lives."

How unlikely that two octogenarians I'd never met would remind me that not everybody in the world is a selfish shitbag.

I still don't trust men who wear mascara though.

Saturday, 3 April 2010

A Rock n Roll Lifestyle: Is it for you?

What constitutes a Rock n Roll Lifestyle?

I'm sure answers would vary, but you can probably count on
  • Plenty of sex
  • Wads of cash 
  • Loads of booze
  • TV's out of hotel room windows
  • Rolls Royce in the swimming pool
being part of the answer for most people.  I would include 'drugs' on the list but this is the Rock n Roll Lifestyle I'm talking about and not the My IQ is Really Low Lifestyle.

For Liam Gallagher, hailed recently, and hilariously, as rock's greatest frontman, and more realistically a 'knobhead' by unfunny comedian Peter Kay, living a Rock n Roll Lifestyle means releasing your own range of clothing.

Bong Eyed

Asymmetrically faced Liam has struck a deal with shoe manufacturer Clarks, as they are apparently the Godfathers of shoes.  Whatever that means.

With a string of hits, containing lyrics that could have been written by a really rebellious 10 year old, Oasis were the bad boys of Britpop.  They often got drunk and swore at journalists and had a seething feud with fellow Britpop lad's band Blur who adopted a more cheeky approach in opposition to the over the top macho image that Oasis couldn't pull off if they tried. 

It's rumoured that Liam used to write the lyrics all by himself, but Noel, his twin brother, had to rewrite them to make them sound more grown-up.  For example, Liam wrote 'I'm freeee to go to bed whenever I want' which Noel changed slightly and added something about the blues to make them sound more moody and soulful.  

Entering the same arena as Jean-Paul Gaultier and other famous gay men must be intimidating for Liam who reacted violently to suggestions that he might be making handbags as well as council estate chic apparel.  

'Do I look like I make fuckin' handbags' he spat.

No Liam, you look like you should be carrying one.

Releasing a line of clothing is about the least rock n roll thing you can do.  Unless it's like edible g-strings made of Jack Daniels or something.

Now, this guy lives a rock n roll lifestyle.

Say Liam, when was the last time you:
  • Owned a strip club
  • Made a sex tape with 2 porn stars
  • Threw a prostitute against a wall
  • Threatened to beat up Axl Rose
  • Had your own brand of tequila
Oh, that's right, never.

Greatest frontman ever, my ass!

Thursday, 1 April 2010

Supersize vs Superskinny

Anyone that likes car-crash television should really watch Supersize vs Superskinny.  The name itself is insulting to skinny people and patronising to fat people.  Start as you mean to go on.

In essence, it takes a really fat person and a really skinny person and makes them swap each others diets for a week.

The skinny person eventually gains an appetite and the fat person has their obesity rubbed in their face by a 110 pound, 5'2, ever so slightly thinner than normal woman.  They both meet while dressed in nothing but underwear, the skinny one pretending not to be disgusted and the fat one pretending that 'ooo, you're 7 pounds underweight, you're really unhealthy'.

You'll do for a starter

Let's face it, the skinny one's only there to justify poking fun at the fat one. 

While the show's entertaining enough, whoever has written the script has obviously been huffing glue.

Forcing the skinny one to watch some anorexics on the TV, balding doctor Christian points at the skin and bones of some poor woman and asks

What would you say if your daughter came home looking like that?

Correct me if I'm wrong, but anorexia is just a little different to a pierced navel or a butterfly tat on the ankle.  One's daughter wouldn't just pop out and return hours later having lost 50 pounds and 90% of her muscle tissue.  Idiot.

Later on, Anna Richardson, a MILF, but not very hairy, is fretting about her droopy boobs.  She watches some breast reduction surgery and says 

I'm not sure I could go through with an operation to take away what I was born with

I'm not sure if I've ever heard of anyone being born with double D's.

My favourite part was when this anorexic guy was tasked to buy some butter and he stood in front of the butter section for like half an hour, almost in tears, saying 'Oh, I just don't need any butter'.  All he had to do was buy some butter but he had to get some 'expert' to go and give him some gentle persuasion. In my head all I could picture was grabbing him by the arms and shouting 'just buy the fucking butter you skinny cunt!'.  I have a large amount of sympathy for people with nervous conditions, but you seriously are able to buy some butter.

Where do they get these people?

They got Dr Christian Jessen, who is openly gay AND an accomplished oboist (are these things related?), from medical humiliation show Embarrassing Bodies.  Picture Supersize vs Superskinny with a greater range of freaks.  I barely have the words to express my amazement at people who hide often unbelievable maladies, for years, sometimes to the point of being hospitalised, because they are too embarrassed to discuss their problems in private with their family doctor. 

And then go on national television to show 10 million people their abnormalities without an ounce of modesty.  

One woman hadn't had sex with her husband for years as she was too shy to let him see her naked, but then dropped her pants without any hesitation the second a television camera arrived. 

On next week's show, a man whose wife gets her lady-garden out for everyone but him, has erectile dysfunction.  The poor bastard.

Wednesday, 31 March 2010

Wait...What? Ricky Martin's Gay?

The general public have a gaydar comparable to that of Queen Victoria.  The long dead Empress once proclaimed that 'women think no such thing' and refused to recognise the concept of lesbianism.  Or so the legend goes.

It's always the same.  Obviously gay celebrity starts losing popularity and he very publicly comes out of the closet.  Quelle surprise!  

Ricky Martin has sensationally emerged from the closet as a 'fortunate homosexual man'.  I think that means that his boyfriend's got a big knob.

There have been cries from all over the world along the lines of 'Ricky Martin's gay, who'd a thunk it?'.  Well, me, all of my mates, every gay man in the village and even that blind, homeless guy who cuts Gordon Brown's hair.  

I even went to a Hare Krishna temple a couple of months ago and one of the monks was tearing up a Ricky Martin poster, referring to him as a 'fucking chutney ferret'.  Awful.

Anyway, on with my list...

  • George Michael.  Yup, we all knew.  In those days of gender line-blurring we knew Georgie loved the cock.  He sang those love songs with a little too much conviction, as anyone with half a brain knows that men only say that shit to get into a bird's knickers.  

  • Rob Halford.  I was guilty of completely missing the boat on this one.  The lead singer of Judas Priest, one of the most macho and influential metal bands of all time.  The leather pants, song names like Turbo Lover and Ram It Down, and the fact that he looks like an old queen.  None of these clued me in, but then again I'm not that interested in the sex lives of musicians I like.  I understand now how he got his inspiration for all those high pitched screams. 

  • Steven Gately.  I knew this right away.  He was in a boy band.  Ergo, he is gay.  I'd be shocked if one of them was straight.

There's bound to be more gay men in the performing arts I suppose.  When I was at school I scoffed at doing drama classes or singing and the boys that did we would push to the ground and laugh scornfully.  Only when it was too late did I realise that those boys were getting loads of chicks on the back of being all sensitive and arty.  

At this juncture I would like to point out that homophobia is in fact a sure sign that you are a homosexual.  If you are concerned about where another man puts his winkie, enough to become emotional about it, you're probably only fooling yourself.

I personally have always been very glad of all the gays around the place.  Less competition.

Tuesday, 30 March 2010

Eyes Front

If you've read this blog before you may have realised that there are two important topics that I often touch upon often.  Breasts and smoking.  I'm leaving breasts alone for the meantime.  In a blogging sense.  In real life they're quite moreish.

I smoked for years and when I made the decision to finally give up I found it remarkably easy. One thing that certainly helped was our nanny-state of a government banning smoking in public places, meaning that one could no longer sit in a bar and have a peaceful cigarette with a beer and thoughts of world domination.  You had to go outside and stand in the rain with a bunch of drunk, smelly assholes.  This was when I realised that most of the people who still smoked were too stupid to have given up.  It also drove home to me that there was one benefit of smoking that nobody had though about before:

Pubs smell like piss.

You know the traditional smell of a bar that's just opened?  Stale beer and stale cigarettes.  It's not pleasant, but it's not offensive, and it brings back memories.  Memories of thinking, 'it's 11am Saturday, I can go shopping with the girlfriend and watch her hold stupidly expensive dresses against herself, or I can go and sit in a basement pub and get some peace and quiet while she wastes all my money'.

Well, you can't do that sort of thing any more, because every single bar where you could have some peace smells like a tramp's underpants.

There are several rules about when and how often, as a man, you are allowed to go for a piss when you're drinking beer.
  1. If you need a piss before you've had 3 pints you have a small cock.
  2. You must leave at least a pint between pisses.  For example if you have a piss on pint number 4, you're not allowed to piss again before pint number 6.
  3. If you're still managing to follow rules 1 and 2 by the time you've reached pint number 8 you're a better man than me.
When you do have to go for a piss, or like everyone else, you claim to be checking out the jukebox/barmaid or talking to someone you know that's over the other side of the pub, so you don't have to admit that you have a small cock because you've only had 2 pints and your bladder has been bursting for 15 minutes now, there should be only 1 rule:
  1. Don't look at my cock
I can tolerate the drunken rambling, the blokes who are super friendly and want to laugh and joke with you, the stare straight ahead and have no emotion guys and I can even tolerate the guy who spends more than 7 nano-seconds looking in the mirror (another rule that all straight men should follow) checking that his product is keeping his boy-band hairdo tippity top.

I cannot tolerate the bloke that looks at my cock.

Why would you want to watch a bloke's cock while he's pissing?

I think that a well-kept vagina is one of the most beautiful things in creation.  A vagina, no matter how well kept, with hot steaming piss gushing out of it, I'll give that one a miss.  

I'm not one to pass judgement (haha I am really) on another human being, but if you seriously have ever looked at a man's cock while you're having a piss next to him, you may wish to have a long hard think about where you want to go with that.

Monday, 29 March 2010

4 Rules of Health and Safety

One of my favourite things in the whole world is scaring the shit out of people.  You know when someone isn't expecting you to be there and you let out a blood-curdling scream and then they react really weirdly, swearing, lashing out and looking angry.  Hilarious.

My all time favourite was when I called my ex from just outside our front door and asked her to pick me up from the pub as I was too drunk to get home.  She reluctantly agreed and then when she stepped outside the door I leapt from the shadows shouting DIEEEEE; starting off really gruffly and ending in an eerie high pitched wail.  She ran up the stairs screaming her little lungs out and it took her about an hour to fully calm down.  

Now there's all sorts of stupid rules about when I'm allowed to frighten someone.  It's no longer just when someone has a heart condition, the world's gone Health and Safety crazy!

I'm not allowed to scare my girlfriend at the following times:
  1. When she's pouring something.  Sugar, salt, milk, boiling water.  The list is endless.  
  2. When she's cooking.  No problem there then.
  3. When she's holding a knife or other sharp object.    
  4. When she's applying eye make-up.
I'm sure there'll be other restrictions on my scaring activities in the future, it's like living in a police state.  

Years back, many jobs ago, I wanted to put up a pretty sweet poster that someone had lovingly drawn, of a wolf, with long hair, smoking a cigarette.  This was to demonstrate that our section was brilliant and everyone else in the office was gay.  

One of the HR busybodies said to me that I wasn't to erect this poster because smoking's a Health and Safety risk and not allowed in the office.  I said 'so wolves are allowed in the office?', and received a blank stare in return. 

It occurred to me that there are people who take Health and Safety directives seriously.  People who would never run with scissors.  Who wouldn't climb on a computer chair to change a light-bulb.  People who lift with their legs and wear goggles when they trim their toe-nails.  

Does being super careful in case we get hurt really enhance our quality of life? Probably not.  'Smoking takes 20 years off your life, but it's the shit 20 years.'   No idea who first said that, smoking's disgusting and smelly and makes you impotent, but embracing the spirit behind living for the moment would probably make us all happier and a little more carefree.

Saturday, 27 March 2010

You've Still Never Met a Nice South African

I'm a bit multi-cultural.  That doesn't mean that I think I'm Irish because my great, great grandfather ate a potato once, but my parents are from different countries and I've lived on three different continents.

There are several advantages of this -  I can understand the differences between people better, this makes me more tolerant and centred, I'm an interesting conversationalist and I can get away with calling people 'dirty foreigners' due to the fact that I too am officially a foreigner.  It also means that I have a more than averagely large vocabulary of words and phrases that mean absolutely nothing.
  • Ja well no fine - South Africans say this, it means 'Yes, well, no, fine' so absolutely nothing
  • Just like that - My Indian friend Chirag taught me this one, and I've noticed other Indian people using it.  You could use it when you don't feel like answering a question.  'Why did you spend all your tuition fees on booze?'  'Just like that' or 'I thought you were a vegetarian but you're eating a hamburger...' 'Just like that'. 
  • La - People from Liverpool in England say 'la' at the end of every sentence.  Try it out.
When people find out that I'm a dirty foreigner, most are shocked.  I look the same as a native, if a great deal more handsome and sound like many other British people, and the fact that you wouldn't know is a matter of pride to me.  Not because I'm ashamed of my birthplace, but because people often treat their status as a foreigner as a badge of stupidity.

I went to Ireland a couple of years ago and loved it, but I was totally shocked when I spoke to the very friendly and hospitable Irish people.  They didn't sound at all like the moronic 'top o the morning diddlee dee' crowd, who can't rest until everyone within a 5 mile radius knows that they're Irish,  I had met in mainland Britain. In fact their accents were quite mild and these were country folk without an ounce of pretension.  Some of them didn't even drink Guinness.  Gasp!

I would like to offer some handy hints on the proper etiquette when meeting a South African, just so you don't repeat the faux pas to which I am frequently exposed:
  • Don't tell me about every South African person you've ever met
  • I don't want to hear how you could barely understand them and yet my accent is barely noticeable
  • I'm not interested in your views of apartheid or Nelson Mandela or any other ill informed opinions you may have about decisions people made before I was born
  • Forget about trying to engage me in sports talk about how country x beat SA in rugby or cricket.  I base MY self-esteem on things I personally achieve.
  • No, I've never had a lion in my garden and tigers are from Asia you idiot.

Daily Mail Readers Disagree With Me

In a fit of jealous pique, an unattractive Daily Mail columnist has slated women with fake breasts.  Sally Brampton says that she has a lifelong hatred of her own body and now she also says that she's happy that apparently, she's heard or read somewhere, but nobody in their right mind believes it, young girls think big boobs make you look fat.

Amongst the numerous comments on her story, Scott Smith from Boulder (no pun intended eh Scott?) hates fake boobs, Ian Simms says they feel horrible and look weird and my personal hero Jack Graham says that he won't drink out of a plastic beer container so he won't touch fake boobs.

Unfortunately boys, this massively disingenuous stupidity doesn't say 

'I'm a new man who loves real women' to women.  It says

'I'm a creepy slime-bag that defines women entirely by their breasts'

Thursday, 25 March 2010

Another One About Big Breasts

A new survey has proven what I believed all along.  Men like fake breasts.  

On a woman.

1 in 4 prefer fake breasts and 40% say it doesn't matter, fake or real, I don't get to touch any anyway.

You may think I'm being stupid, as it's an obvious fact, but it's the male equivalent of 'periods don't affect my mood'. 

Ask 4 random men, do they prefer fake or real.  They will all say 'real'.  Men always lie about their sexual exploits so probably they haven't had any experience with fake knockers but they'll say 'oh, I prefer real', every single time.  I don't know exactly why this is, probably something to with - Just in case a chick with real tits hears me, she'll think I'm awesome and shag me.

We're hard wired to prefer bigger breasts, ask Desmond Morris.

As a test, look at the following pictures and see which woman you find more attractive.

If you choose the one on the left, you are wrong.  And you know who else is wrong?  The people that say that there are no right answers, that's bullshit.

Apart from very sick freaks, everyone will find the woman on the right more attractive, and that's because she's got bigger breasts.

Quod erat demonstrandum.

Wednesday, 24 March 2010

It's a Bland New Way

I'm a huge fan of Asterix the Gaul, by Goscinny and Uderzo.  It's childish and at the same time quite erudite, the characters are memorable and it's educational.  The part that often sticks in my mind is the story where Asterix, Obelix and Dogmatix venture to Rome to rescue their village bard.  They are recruited by a slimy Gladiator trainer to fight in the Coliseum and when they visit his domus he remarks

'Come along in...We'll have a light meal.'

to which Obelix responds

'Couldn't we have a heavy meal instead?'

This most often sticks in my mind whilst I'm grocery shopping.  Why is everything 'light' or 'lite'?  It's horrid.  I'm probably alone in this, but I don't want 'lightly salted' chips.  I want 'heavily salted' chips.

What's the point?

There's a diet version of everything, and it's all evil marketers playing on people's low self-esteem.  In reality, a healthy version of something is something else.  A Diet version of Coke would be 'some water'.  Low-fat mayonnaise would be 'no mayonnaise'.

Lite food is all tasteless crap and it doesn't work anyway.  You never see skinny people drinking Diet Coke, they drink Coke.  Fat people drink Diet Coke with their Big Mac and large fries.

It's not just food that is becoming bland and unremarkable.  It's our entire culture.  When I was a teenager our elders hated our music and our habits.  Now I just look at teenagers and think 'Wankers!', they're so boring.

Ooo, I've got a Myspace and I've posted hundreds of pictures on Facebook of me looking gangsta.  Jesus, that's so lame.  You even have movements of teenagers dedicated to NOT having sex.

I could go on forever about how bland shit is, so I'll just list some incredibly bland shit

  • Coldplay - How boring can you possibly get?
  • The Bounty Hunter Movie - Yes, let's get a couple of 'beautiful' movie stars and write an immensely mundane script and then put them on a massive poster with wry grins on their faces, using the absolute worst byline anyone has ever read - 'Hunt down your ex - best job ever' oh haha, how trite.  Jennifer Aniston's got a funny face by the way.  
  • Dog the Bounty Hunter - Umm, he doesn't do anything.  I'll talk these guys into giving themselves up and then have a little pray with them.  Just beat someone with a stick would you?!?!
  • Girls Aloud - They have a clause in their contract stating that they must have completely different hairstyles to each other at all times or you wouldn't be able to tell them apart.
  • The Hurt Locker - nothing happens
  • R&B - There's no tune, just some bloke talking softly, or a woman wailing away like she's giving birth.
  • Soccer - Run up the field, run back.  It's illegal to kick the ball too far.  Cheat ALL the time and when someone scores a goal it's a fucking momentous occasion.
  • X-Factor - Great, you sound the same as every other forgettable pop singer so we'll put you through.  You can do annoying vibrato and sing nasally, you're through.  Are you from Ireland, everyone loves twee little bastards from Ireland, you're through.
  • U2 - Bland, bland, bland, bland, bland
Were I a conspiracy theorist I would say that our secret masters are manipulating events to make us all utterly mindless and easier to control.

Monday, 22 March 2010

How To Find A Mate

They say 'Beer exists so fat chicks can get laid', but it goes deeper than that.

It's all down to perception.

Uma Thurman.  Apparently she's a great beauty.  What?  Her hands are huge, she's all rangy, she's got nae tits. Look...

Massive hands.

You know why you think she's a great beauty? Perception.  Television and movies tell you that she is.

It's the same with Leonardo Dicrapio.  He looks like a rat.  By growing that stupid moustache and trying to look like a big boy, he's made himself look like Master Splinter.  

Watch Jerry Springer/Jeremy Kyle.  You won't believe that those people find each other attractive and yet they manage to mate frequently.  

I've often wondered if ugly people find each other attractive or they just settle for what they can get.  

It's all perception.

Here's how to find a mate...

Men - women will allow you to mate with them if you tell them that you are the best mate currently available.  Works on about 30% of single women.  Try it, but I'm warning you now that those are the really thick 30%, but you don't care do you?

Women - If men perceive that you are easy you can get more of them.  Then just trap one by getting up the duff. 

See, perception.

Sunday, 21 March 2010

Why does Jamie Oliver Twist?

Huntington, West Virginia.  America's fattest city.

Why would someone come up with that epithet?  Just hurt everyone's feelings in Huntington why don't you?  What's that?  Calling them fat as fuck isn't enough?  They're toothless and poor too?  Charming.

To pile on the misery some TV exec thought it would be a good idea to send Jamie Oliver there to rub it in their faces.  Cos that's what I'd do.  Residents of a town fat as fuck?  Send them a chef.

One resident has totally kicked off and has said something along the lines of:

'They think we're all fat as fuck here, but it's bullshit.  We're not waddling down the road eating pizza all day long.  We have our goddamn teeth and we ALL have masters degrees'

On the other hand, their mayor isn't setting a good example as he's 5'9 and weights 233 pounds.

Change this to a man and that's how a mayor should look.  Not really fat at all.

They have more pizza parlors in Huntington than the entire state of West Virginia has fitness clubs, and the mayor has commented that he has never seen anywhere so 'hot-dog oriented' and then blamed it on their culture.  Appalachian.  What does that even mean?

'People from Glasgow are always drunk.  It's their culture.  Scottish.'

Referring briefly back to that article linked at the top, the first photograph is just weird.  Some crazily skinny chick, you can't see if she's got her teeth, is measuring some blokes waist.  But when you read the caption, it's not a bloke, it's a 9 year old boy.  Holy shit!  And his name is Noah Retcher.  What? Is this some sort of joke? Is that a name or a description?  Apparently bulimics are fat because all the purging doesn't really work and by the time they've figured it out it's 150 pounds too late.

Anyway Jamie Oliver, affectionately known to the British media as 'The Cheeky Twat' poked his nose in to try to reduce the level of morbid obesity in Huntington, West Virginia, The World's fattest city.  His welcome was not as warm as he expected.

On a radio show Jamie was told by the DJ that, in Huntington, 'we don't want to sit around eating lettuce all day'.

Now, I don't know about you, and admittedly, I am quite a tough guy, but if someone said that to me, I would probably respond with something like, 'I don't give a shit what you want you prick, I'm getting paid a fucking fortune to come to this God forsaken shithole and make a freakshow TV program about how absolutely awful you Huntington assholes are, so keep your worthless opinions to yourself and promote my show!!!!'

But Jamie Oliver, even though he has a giant head and could totally intimidate loads of people

with his 'I'm homeless and got nothin to lose, bitch' look, did something entirely different...

He started crying like a little girl.  He actually said 'they don't understand me'.  

You know, I'd like to see a serious sort of television presenter, like Ross Kemp, turn up at Oliver's house with a team of tongue-reduction specialist plastic surgeons and a troupe of elocution lesson women to fix him up and see how he likes it.

Saturday, 20 March 2010

Hairy Milf

You can get the most amazing information about your blog from Google.  I found out 20 minutes ago that someone had been directed to this website by Google after searching for 'Hairy Milf'.

Apart from the weirdness of that happening, 60 000 other people have also searched for the same thing, this month alone.

I'm amazed at the popularity of hirsute older women.  I've been beating them off with a shitty stick and now I find that they're the next big thing.

One of Life's Great Mysteries

Can anyone tell me what's wrong with this picture?

I've been asked why there's not more misogyny on this blog, and I've been resisting, but I've been forced into this one.

Why is it absolutely necessary for women to use both hands to eat a sandwich?  

Is the sandwich soo heavy it takes the combined strength of two healthy arms to lift?  A large apple is heavier than half a sandwich.  I've never seen anyone eat an apple with two hands.

This must be the fabled puniness that doesn't enable women to put down a simple toilet seat and instead run through the house ranting that it's been left up again.  The absolute best thing about the toilet seat situation is that women have told me in the past that it's no fun accidently falling down the toilet because the seat's been left up.  It may be no fun for you darling, but would be hilarious for me.

This post, like many others, was inspired by my wonderful girlfriend, who sarcastically remarked to me yesterday, ' I suppose you think you're clever eating that sandwich with one hand.'  I was, in fact, eating a sandwich with one hand.  

Thursday, 18 March 2010

Bully For You

You know when people say 'Oh, I wish I could do it all again, be young again with what I know now.' And then they've got nothing else to say on the matter?  What would they actually do?  Study harder?  Brush their teeth more? 

Not start smoking probably.  That'd be one of mine.  I've stopped now though, through sheer power of will, none of those girly patches or gum (gum!), and you don't really understand the negative impact it's having until you quit.

Now I'm determined to be as self-righteous about filthy smokers as possible.

Filthy Dirty Cigarettes

Moving on, there is one other reason I'd love to be young again, knowing what I know now (It's time to become even more unpopular).

I'd become more of a bully.

There was all the normal hazing and peer pressure at high school.  I remember flushing some kid's trousers down the toilet after rugby practice and then the next day his friends from a higher year made me buy them cigarettes as punishment.  Of course we picked on the usual suspects, the nerds, the fatties, the quadruple amputees, the girls with uni-brows (which I see are back in fashion), but everyone left the special children alone.  

You know the ones, those that squeal really loudly in the middle of a lesson for no reason.  The ones that don't really join in the team sports, but seem to be running off in random directions and then come back with a bloody nose, the ones whose parents send them to school in dirty clothing and with a yoghurt and a packet of pork scratchings for lunch because that's all they'll eat. Even the teachers were tolerant and we had some weird-ass teachers, flinging overhead projectors, coming into work drunk speaking foreign languages, accusing me of flirting with them even.  

Yeah, everybody felt a little uncomfortable around those kids.  The ones with ADHD, ASS and/or oMUSH.  Medical science tells us that bad behaviour can be due to a mental disorder.  No shit?  

Had I my time in high school again, apart from treating the girls differently, I'd definitely bully those children more.

Those are the younger incarnations of the adults that now feel entitled.  The adults that treat others with no respect and who can't learn the simplest lessons.  You probably pay for their existences (and their vile offspring) with your tax money as they can't be fucking bothered to hold down a job.  

Hazing and bullying at high school gave us a hierarchy that we didn't get at home, we started to understand a social pecking order.  Fit in or fuck off.  I learnt some harsh lessons and hopefully I can instil in my children a desire to learn those lessons earlier and better, but those special kids didn't learn any of those lessons.  

If I could go back twenty years, I'd walk up to those little bastards and give them a bloody good punching.

Just doing my bit for society.

Wednesday, 17 March 2010

Ay Caramba!

Now that I've been hailed as an international sex expert (I can't use the ridiculous word 'sexpert' as portmanteaux are banned from my blog) I would like to share with you a question asked by a very confused young lady from NYC.

Is that cool, calling it NYC? I hope so.

Which finger is best to use for the Dirty Sanchez?

When you think about it, the answer's obvious.  The one with the most shit on it.

On the same subject, I find it amusing that Dirty Sanchez the TV show has had to have its name changed for North American audiences.  Plainly the phrase Dirty Sanchez refers to an act so vile that the only synonym for it is a Stinky Hitler and by association is quite racist towards Mexican people.  The name has had to be changed to Team Sanchez because that doesn't sound like group coprophilia at all nor does it make any reference to uncalled-for negative racial stereotypes.

It's also amusing that a group of Welsh boyos would choose such a name for their televised exploits, I can't imagine where you would place a moustache on a sheep.

Tuesday, 16 March 2010

4 Sexual Positions you haven't tried yet

Subtitle - Or if you have I'm calling the police

The Spider
The female gets on all fours, legs and arms straight with butt poking out as far as possible.  The male climbs on top, at a 90 degree angle, limbs splayed, simulating the 8 legs of a gross hairy spider.  What's unique about this sexual position is that actual penetration is impossible.

The Huddled Fetus
While it has an incredibly disturbing name, this may be the most satisfying for the ladies.  The Huddled Fetus is a direct follow-up to the Angry Pirate mentioned previously in this blog. In essence gentlemen, you get kicked in the balls.

Stroke the Beaver, Smell the Witch
Well, one hand strokes the beaver and you use your nose to smell the witch.  

The Bogwash
Simply put, you do the woman from behind with her head shoved down the toilet.  At the moment of climax, you flush the toilet.  A small variation on this is when your girlfriend or wife has had one sherry too many and she's heaving her guts into the bowl and you ravish her while she's at her lowest ebb.  A word of warning, you have to hold her hair back so it might not be worth the hassle.

Monday, 15 March 2010

Thanks for the advice

Sometimes it takes a foreigner to speak English properly.

We say

Know your limitations


You can't get blood out of a stone

Polish people say

You can't jump higher than your cock

I'd like to point out that I know only one Polish person and he seems quite mad.

I used to know another one, a girl, but she didn't like me any more after finding out that I was 'boastful'.  

Normally it's because I'm a bastard or something, but whatever.

Get fat for Mothers Day

Yesterday was Mothers Day in this corner of the world.  I suppose this celebration is a chance for my Mum, or Mom as my little brother hilariously refers to her in his odd half American, half South African accent, to put her feet up and reap the rewards of having three loving sons.

Obviously that didn't happen, because my Mother and presumably Mothers all over the world, confuse Mothers Day with Make Your Children Fat Day.

Already having been given a giant trifle, and worrying about how my healthy living plan would incorporate it, I then had to face a huge bucket of KFC and chocolate cakes donated by my girlfriend's mother.

I remember a Garfield comic strip from years ago where Jon's Mother communicates her love to him by feeding him.

That's the same the world over.

Mothers don't care if you're fat.

It's comforting, slightly worrying and I wouldn't change it for the world.

I bet the gym's packed this morning.

Friday, 12 March 2010

What the hell IS the plural of Emo?

Call me old-fashioned, but I just don't get this new craze that's sweeping the nation.  According to the BBC the popularity of self-harm has risen 50% over recent years.

Is this something to do with Emos, or is it Emo's?

There's a lot of pressure on young people these days and they struggle with their body image.  So they use self-harm as a coping mechanism.

I'm not making this shit up, it's right here in black and white.

I'm sure this is no laughing matter and I'm no doctor, but this sounds a lot to me like Attention Seeking Syndrome.

The reasons I believe it to be ASS are the following...
  • How does cutting your arm help you cope with feeling shit about the way you look?  It doesn't unless someone gives you some attention
  • Why is it always something super-visible, and safe, like the arm.  You never see someone who's just cut their nose off, and you never hear of self-harmers running full tilt into a 3 foot high fence to get a bloody good body shot in.
Looking at pictures of self-harm on the internet encourages people to mutilate their own bodies?  Are these experts mad?  People who look up pictures of self-harm are massively fucking warped in the first place, they don't need any encouragement.

It's like saying that watching porn on the internet will make me pretend to be a pizza delivery boy and cut a hole in the bottom of the pizza box surprising the fetching milf, who keeps in trim by eating pizza in the middle of the day, with my rampant member when she wants to check that her delivery is correct.

Reading that article DID make me want to stick hot pokers in my eyes, so there may be some truth in it after all.