the dream has been achieved...

my bathroom door is a bit loose and when you shut it, it typically bounces against the frame 4 times very quickly. this followed by the key turning goes "dom-do-do-dom - drrrrrrm" which sounds just like the beginning of legendary theme tune to the bbc's acclaimed master mind. but this morning, oh my god, if i didn't only absent-mindedly let out a little tommy squeaker immediately afterwards to give it the full "dom-do-do-dom - drrrrrrm - bah-da". it was very emotional. i didn't cum, but i did feel pretty smug during my early morning shit.

Sank 'Eavens for Valentines Day

Actually, I'm in favour of it. I need to be told when to be romantic. I need to buy overpriced roses. I need to understand the true definition of romance and not get it confused with tat. If I were a girl (which I'd like to be; and often pretend to be in the privacy of my bedroom), I'd be more flattered if my man was romantic and gave me gifts because he felt obliged to. I'd hate him to be spontaneous. Most of the spackers out there don't understand what true romance is. They need guidance. Clintons Cards is there to give it to them. We should be greatful.

Trains

OH MY GOD. I took the train this week. A cosy 8 hours in total. On the way back, every cunt under the sun was in my carriage. There were babies screaming, kids playing computer games making bleepy noises, youths listening to their headphones at death level so you could here a constant "tst-tst" (mind you, in fairness I was probably just jealous that I didn't have some of my own to drown out the hideous noises around me). God it was hurrendous. There was the ubiquitous tosser whose phone rang every 5 minutes with some god-awfull tune at maxumum volume; "HELLO, I'M ON THE TRAIN" he kept saying. There were two drunks yelling at one another at either ends of the carriage; "OI, GARY, GET US ANOTHER LAGER MATE".

But here's the killer: the cunting anouncements were never ending and at concert level. They finished just in time to start again at the next station. I'm not joking, this one bitch must have talked for 10 minutes solidly about where you could and couldn't put your baggage. Then there was the list of stops. Then there was the apology for the late arrival beacause "blah blah blah". Then she went through the stops again. Then, finally it ended. And relax. But oh no, 5 seconds later "bing bong" anounced the arrival of some cunt claiming to be the vice president of catering or something explaining, at length, about the buffet arrangements. Then, another 5 seconds on, ANOTHER CUNTING "bing bong". We were shortly to arrive at th enext station just in time TO START THE WHOLE FUCKING PROCESS over again. Honestly, I read 32 pages of my book in the whole 8 hour journey.

Chavs - The Solution

We could entice them to a venue by holding a burbury only evening ("if it's not burbury, you ain't comin in son") and put a radiation machine behind the desk where they pay and give them a dose before they go in. They then proceed to spend the evening being common, vulgar, obstreperous, badly dressed (they all seem to have bad skin too don't they? Must be diet related - too many Findus Crispy Pancakes and too much Alphabetti Spaghetti I feel), anyway, do whatever it is chavs do, completely ignorant of the fact that they are no longer able to reproduce. OK, so we'd have to hire a townie for the evening to man the desk, which would mean talking to one of them (are they're interpreters available? I certainly can't understand the garbage that dribbles out of their grubby little mouths). Cull the scum I say. God, you can even spot them from a distance, purely by how they walk. Maybe it's some kind of limp as a result of in-breeding, I just don't know. Oh well, as I recently said to a charming petrol station attendant "I fucking hate scum. 10 Marlborough Lights and a packet of blue king size rizzlas please. Thanks. Bye".

God bless my right wing mother for...

...buying the daily mail - last sunday's copy came with a free foreigner (remember the rule? i before e except when it's e before i) cd - featuring such classics as "cold as ice", "waiting for a girl like you" and "i want to know what love is".

but better than that, i just discovered that my new fangled portable telephone has a voice recorder on it - so i just played high hopes by pink floyd on my guitar, recorded it and set the fucker as my ring tone. get in. i hope dave doesn't mind, but i rearranged it slightly to make it work better on just one guitar. god i'm a smug cunt. right, i'm off for my early evening wank, just in case there's pennetration on the cards later - don't want the first time to be too quick...

Soap Plots

I got home one night and saw some of coronation street (the remote jammed, honest guvna etc.) and there were two geezers snogging. i spat my meths and orange juice all over the coffee table (it's teek and my mum and dad gave it to me, hope it doesnt stain), anyway that's not the point. The point is this: who writes the script for this utter shite? the dialogue is complete drivel. I could do a much better job. there'd be no geezers gaying off together for a start. now ladies lezzing off would be a far superior, intellectually stimulating storyline. Twins maybe. Ooh, give me half an hour, access to the internet, a pot noodle and a pen and i'll knock up a few episodes.

Don't you just hate it when...

...you're having a shit. You suspect there's a bit more to come out. In order to expedite the process you give it a little push. Which makes you go dizzy. And you begin to wonder if the last 4 double vodkas and coke were strictly necessary. And was it really such a great idea to put the entire eigth into one 3 kingsize skinned monster that could kill a horse. You're sweating, 10 minutes late for a meeting and you just want to curl up and die. Then suddenly it's and hour later and the cleaner's banging on the door.

Mobile Phones

OK, they're useful. But men are cocks and flaunt them like they're an extension of their manhood. They are the new car. They can actually take a phone into the winebar with them to discuss them with their mates and show off about them. Hmm, phone envy. I shoukld co-co. (pompous voice) "High, I've got a phone". People keep asking me if I've got the 8810 or a f6ericminge. They're are most upset when I say "I don't give a fuck. Fuck off". They are all singing all dancing. WHat's next, the Nokia Fuzzaway? The first phone to have an electic razor with 68 new micro-bladed soother modules (t.m.). Ladies, trim your bush at thew same time as sending tacky photos of your cunt to your many boyfriends. Hey you can even phone people up with it. Get a life and fuck off out my face.

And another thing, people in my office have the ring at death volume. some irritating tune. that lasts forecever. then they leave the cunting things on their desk and fuck off for an hour. They get calls, 121 keeps phoning them back (sub-rant: surely 121 phoning back once would suffice - if I'm there I answer (but I'M GENERALLY NOT - THAT'S WHY i MISSED THE CALL) - and when I get back, seeing 121 has called once is just as effective as seeing it has called 86 times, belive it or not (I know outrageous isnt it?)). Anyway, the clue's in the title guys: "Mobile" phones. Take the fucking things with you. Or turn the cunting things off. They even get the arse if the come back and find I've turned their phone off. Fucking dog-raping horse blowers. They'll come back one day and find I've done a shit on their keypad

Topless Barber's in Glasgow

"It’s really degrading for women. It caters for a certain type of immature behaviour among men who can’t see women as equal to men."

Some people really are stupid small-minded little cunt-buckets aren't they? It's women taking advantage of mens' weakness and base urges to make a few quid. Fair play to them. Plus us fellas get to have an ogle at their norks. Always good to have plently of opportunities to fill up the "bank".

Three Poems

Twilight

'Twas the end of a busy day,
The bustling crowds had gone away.
My true love and I walked through the park,
'Midst fading shadows and approaching dark.
And as we stared at the setting sun,
I whipped it out and slipped her one.


Humpty's Truncheon

Humpty Dumpty was hung like a horse,
The girls heard the rumours and came running of course,
All greased-up and begging for a jolly hard roger,
But they trembled with fear at the size of his todger.

One saucy young bint, Dolly the tart,
Took the full girth and got ripped apart,
And all the king's horses and all the kings men,
Couldn't pork Dolly ever again.


Watch Your Beak

Boating on the river
I chatted to a duck
I asked him if he had the time
And he sniggered "have I fuck"
I said "you what?"
He said "you heard"
The cheeky little drake
I said "your shoes don't match your shirt
And your sun-tan's clearly fake"
Well he called me names and spat in my face
So I poked him in the eye
I cut his hair in an Eighties style
Which really made him cry
And as he sobbed and snivelled so
He turned and looked at me
He said "OK, enough's enough
It's quarter past fucking three"