I’ve never looked at porn – never watched a bluey, never sought it out on the internet, never in a mag. It might be better to save up some money and pay for sex. I wouldn’t know about that sort of thing.
Prawns, on the other hand, I pay for prawns – love ’em!
Pawns. Those weird little things in a chess set. I used to like getting my pawns killed. Well, I didn’t, I was just crap at chess and I didn’t know what I was doing.
Tits amazing
I had an epiphany at work this afternoon and started a seemingly unprovoked attack against the Guardian and its readership.
What makes me just as sick as sponging dole-scum are the fucking Guardian-reading, middle-class, socialist, plastic working-class, up-their own arse bastard cunts!
I’ll tell you my story: I was born the third child to my parents. My dad was an Italian imigrant with not very good English skills, he worked in a poorly-paid job in a factory. Mum was a housewife, but was a nurse by training and she sometimes had a part time job as an occupational health nurse (at the factory where dad worked). They were poor. At times, my mum used to have to look for money down the side of the sofa to afford a loaf of bread or some milk. We lived in rented house until I was about 3, then moved into a Council house. We moved to another Council house in 1977 and we still live here today.
I went to the local state schools where I did OK. The schools were OK, the pupils were a fair mix of pretty poor to not too badly off kids – nobody led a particularly privileged existence. They were the sorts of schools where, if you got your head down, you could do quite well. Most schools around here are like that. I did well, went onto 6th form, where I did very well. I ended up at University where I was fucking ace and came top of my class. Did a PhD. Somehow or other, I ended up back with my folks. I now work in the NHS where I guess I’m a middle manager sort of grade.
So, I get so fucking annoyed with these privilged wankers telling me that I’ve done exceptionally well for myself considering my background. That it must’ve been an enormous struggle against hardship. A fight against class attitudes, to break away from the cycle of hopelessness that’s experienced by everybody else with my sort of upbringing.
In reality, with certain exceptions, anybody with half a brain who knuckled down could’ve made the most of the opportunities presented to them at the time that I was groing up. Generally, the only things that prevent people getting on were laziness and stupidity – not what they’re parents did for a living or what sort of house they lived in.
Fucking stuck up, ignorant, patronising cunts. They’re so blinkered and so far removed from the real world that they live with these assumptions. They pretend to empathise with the working classes, yet they wouldn’t be seen dead around here. They claim it’s only right and socially fair to have a welfare system, but they never see that the system provides an option of a way of life for some while failing those who really need it. They make assumptions about people’s political leanings based on background and upbringing.
They are complete tossers. They read the Guardian, they listen to Radio 4, they listen to Coldplay, Travis and Did, and they sneer at people who don’t vote the way they do. They are same sort of people that turn into Bono and Geldof. They need destroying.
Think! Don’t drive and drive.
Think! Don’t drive tired, take a break at the services that just happen to be a mile away and who’ll charge you a fiver for a can of pop.
Think! Don’t let somebody wank you off while you’re doing 90 in the fast lane (but it’s ok if you pull over into hard shoulder).
I’m referring to motorway information signs that we have over here. They can flash up a variety of messages that warn drivers of trouble ahead or, in other circumstances, they’ll just given general road safety messages to attack the conscience of the wayward motorist. Unfortunately, they just cause people to slam on the brakes as drivers automatically think that there’s been an accident up ahead when they see them flashing from a distance. They’re all linked up to a big computer and you can track what each one is saying on the Highways Agency website. I’m not joking – some sad fucker actually thought this was a good idea. I’m sure they’ll go far… in the NHS.
Blah….. Anyway, another useless waste of money from The Ministry for Speaking the Blindingly Fucking Obvious.
Certain things are supposed to be absolutely unacceptable whilst driving: drinking is the main one. Over recent years however, the great British public has got itself whipped up into a right old lather over people using mobile phones while driving. I’ve known of people get so angry at seeing other motorists on the phone that they’ve lost concentration and crashed their own cars.
Britain really is great.
So, and we finally get to the point of this post, we’re either supposed to use a hands-free system of some sort or not use the phone at all while in charge of the car. Fair enough.
My mobile came with a bluetooth earpiece and a little cradle that holds the phone in the car. I was thrilled. However, bluetooth headsets are fucking rubbish. Here is the procedure for using your bluetooth headset for making a call while driving:
I’ve been invited to dinner today – that’s “tea” if you’re from the north of England; as far as I’m concerned, “dinner” is either your midday meal, or an evening meal that you dress up for.
The woman who is in charge of the cooking wanted to know what sort of food that I like. Well, I don’t think I’m particularly fussy, I’ll eat most things, but I’m quite particular about the way things are prepared. I said it would easier for me to tell her what I wouldn’t eat, so I sent her the following, which is reproduced from a post that was written back in March:
There are loads of things that are supposed to be nice or good for you, or so “the mysterious they” tell us. Just who are “they”? Whoever they are, “They’re” responsibile for telling all sorts to the masses.
Anyway, enough of that. People, real people, tell us that certain things are nice and you should try them, but there are certain things that I won’t touch with a bargepole. Here are some of them, starting with foods.
Will not try under any circumstances:
Have tried, donlikit, don’t want ever again:
Things that I’m quite fussy about:
Easy, n’est pas? Anyway, she’s got the message and we’re having two veggie curries with a grilled haloumi starter. Fuckin’ delish.
Thanks to Andy, I’m now going to tell you about some books and things. This is very difficult for me since I only learnt to read when I was 29.
Here goes…
Total number of books owned, ever
Is this some sort of joke? I’ve no idea, probably around 400-500. I currently have about 200, or is it 80? I really couldn’t say.
Last book I bought
Errrm, I think it was a bulk buy of the Cirque du Freak series by Darren Shan – a young boy becomes a half vampire to save his friend’s life and goes on lots of adventures with his vampire boss.
Last book I read
I can’t remember. I’m afraid blogging has very much interefered with my reading over recent months. It could well be Morality for beautiful girls by Alexander McCall-Smith, book three of the Number 1 ladies detective agency series. Or it could’ve been one of the Darren Shan books.
Five books that mean a lot to me
Right, I’m going to go for series of books for some of these
1. Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, JK Rowling. Don’t laugh. I was a tad poorly a few years back and I found myself not doing much with my spare time. A friend recommended that I start reading to help pass the time, he said that he’d recently read this book that all the kids were going mad for and that he’d enjoyed it and had the others in the series. That book was the first in the Harry Potter series. Reluctantly, I read it and I found myself enjoying it, I realised that I actually enjoyed reading and it got me into the habit of always having a book on the go. This was very important at the time and it helped to turn things around for me a little bit.
I’ve read and re-read all the books in this series, my favourite so far is The Prisoner of Azkaban.
2. The Lion, the Witch and the wardrobe, CS Lewis. Magical. Every child who read this book believed that Aslan would save the day. It’s one of those that can be read time again without ever losing anything. Wonderful story. This is even more special because my sister used to read it to me when we were kids (we shared a bedroom).
3. The Talisman and Black House, Stephen King & Peter Straub. Brilliant stories, excellently written, full of monsters, horror and suspense. The problem with Stephen King is that he can go a bit overboard on descriptive text sometimes and it’s nice to have this broken up by Straub’s writing. These two books don’t have much in the way of sentimental value, just impact.
I was also particularly impressed with King’s Gerald’s Game and Dolores Claiborne.
4. His Dark Materials, Philip Pullman. I read these books and was totally and utterly captivated by every single thing about them: the concepts, the characters, the writing, the way they pissed of the Catholics. The WRITING is amazing, particularly in The Amber Spyglass. I was left completely stunned when I’d finished reading this trilogy.
5. Asterix the Gaul, Goscinny & Uderzo. Not just Asterix the Gaul, but all the others too. These are the reason I never read properly when I was a kid; I couldn’t cope with proper text or books because they just didn’t interest me. Every time we went to Italy for our hols, we always went armed with the latest Asterix adventures and even resorted to buying Italian editions of new books if we finished all ours while away.
I still love my comics today and I ADORE Bill Waterson’s wonderful Calvin & Hobbes. I like the way Waterson never compromised by submitting to the commercialisation of his work – there is no Calvin & Hobbes merchandise except the books themselves, although you can get a few of the limited edition lithographs.
So, those are some sniffy books. I haven’t even mentioned Lemony Snicket or Robin Jarvis, but both of these authors deserve a mention because they’ve provided me with such a huge amount of enjoyment with their work.
I’ll spare you all the trouble and I won’t pass it this on to anybody else, but it’d be interesting to learn of others’ favourite reads if anybody can be bothered.
In space, no-one can hear you scream.
The same is true of a locked bathroom when you’re sat on the pot for your night-time wee and these fuckers come flying through the window at you:
At 24 June, 2005 17:03, Tina said…
Gary the McCartney defender: just look at that picture of him, think about how he used to stand there and wobble his fucking head from side-to-side while “ooooh-ing” and “ahhhhh-ing”, think of the Frog’s chorus and all the other complete fucking shite he’s come out with, and then tell me he’s a superstar. He’s crap and he’s an embarrassment. In fact, the only one with any talent in the Beatles was George Harrison; most of Lennon’s stuff was bollocks too.As far as getting a life, maybe you’re right. But it wouldn’t be very interesting if I couldn’t express my own opinion in my own blog, would it?
You may have seen the Sniffy photo-shoot post below. This strange collection was what happened when I tried to click and drag the photo montage from Powerpoint into Photoshop.
Some call this sort of thing “art”, I call it “Photoshop fuck-up”.
When I was a kid, well admittedly even now, my favourite insults to hurl at people generally resort to likening the recipient to a person with some sort of disability. The favourites being:
You get the message.
There was an incident a few years ago when I was doing my PhD and some twat of a security guard had locked one of the lab doors so I couldn’t get access to a particular room when I was working at night. I found the woman and, after a bit of a rant in which she didn’t bother listening to my request to have the door unlocked, I stormed back the lab, and wrote a note with the wording “Do not lock this door, you spastic” to stick on the offending door.
Let’s just say I got a telling off. It was quite amusing to see a photocopy of the note attached to the security guard’s transcript of our coming together. Cunt.
Anyway, I’ve learned my lesson now and I never write down insults, and I never tell people who might get me into trouble that they’re “spastics”.
Political correctness gone mad! I hear the populus cry.
Well, I think we’ve been forced into resurrecting some fantastic Olde Englishe expletives because of this. It’s because of this that I’m now fully justified in using:
I can say any of those without the slightest bit of concern whatsoever.
Ahhhh, my blood pressure just dropped by a few millimetres of mercury for getting those out of my system. It’s just a shame that women have to degrade themselves by using foul language.
Here are the out-takes from my sniffy photo-shoot. I had to set the camera on self-timer and I also took the opportunity to act like a complete twat in front of the lens, clearly trying my best to emulate Sir Paul McCartney. Thank fuck I didn’t even try to do “sultry”.
“Twat”
BBC SPORT | Tennis | The Tim-ometer
What with BEING AT WORK until 9.30pm, I’ve only just seen this.
The Snoring Dog 