a whole world of cut-thumb

Northern Irish accents... mad or what?

2006-04-27T14:13:00.000-07:00

Look, this is obviously skating on thin ice, what with accusations of racism being so finely tuned that I can't even call myself English without getting a kicking from Rod Liddle... but come on - Northern Irish accents? Where the fuck did they come from?
If you listen hard, in the bog-standard American accent you can hear Irish as the mainstay. Aussies sound like exaggerated Cockneys, while apparently if you harken unto the cherubim and seraphim of de bwoy im dey call god an ting, why they have Geordie accents that would turn satans bad thoughts into rivers of nice honey...mmm...
Fair fuckin play, as nanna used to say, but where the FUCK did 'nor-eey' come from? As in 'You can come in nor-eey, Mr O'Smith' Or 'Hor-eey nor-eey broin cor-eey'. This, don't forget, all accompanied by things like 'The ree-an in Spee-an faaaals mee-anly orn the plee-an'... I mean to say...
Thats it, basically. I've no answers. Its just a thought.

MMM-HMMM.....

2006-04-27T14:04:00.000-07:00

Yes thats how smug I am... I have regained the dashboard! Let the nonsense commence...

How to make an Alan Shearer tribute pie...

2006-04-24T02:30:00.000-07:00

We can't all afford to get the whole of our backs tattooed with the famous December 2002 screamer against Everton (where, if you waggle your shoulder-blades all the Toffees fans look like they're crying), or even have His face tattooed over our own but what even people on the dole can afford is an Alan Shearer tribute pie...
There is a story behind the pie, but its really boring and involves failed cheese scones, but that doesn't detract from the fact that as a tribute its safe to say its totally original. In the next couple of days I may post one to myself as a DIY form of copyright if I can find a round Jiffy bag. We shall see.
Anyway, heres the recipe. Stick to the measurements if you value your life, but feel free to use any variety of sausage that takes your fancy. Unless, that is, you're a German cannibal. Ingredients are for roughly a 6-8'' pie tin.

The pastry:
200g plain flour
pinch of salt
50g lard
50g margerine
2 tbl spoons cold water
75g strongish tasting cheese, grated

The filling:
3 medium eggs (free range, you bastards, not 'barn-raised' cos thats a posh phrase for torture)
12'' of sausage (don't even bother...) - I used cumberland but individual ones will do.
freshly ground black pepper
an optional fat pinch of sage

Making the pastry:
Flour and salt into a bowl. Using your fingers (i.e. not between your palms) rub in the fat 'til it all looks the same. Add the cheese and repeat. You can now eat bits of it, unlike during your cruel childhoods, and no-one will say jack-shit. Oh, and raw pastry doesn't give you worms...
Right, now add the water, which initially won't look enough BUT IT IS! Do NOT be tempted to 'improvise' on this part of the job as it WILL FUCK UP! Ok, using a knife to cut and stir and mash, turn it all into a stiff enough mix for you now to be able to push together to make a satisfying ball of dough. Pop this in the fridge for five minuted, while you dust your work-surface with flour and rub a bit on your rolling pin. You can also use this time to crack the eggs into a bowl, add the pepper and sage and give a gentle whisk, just enough to break the yolks and swirl them around a bit. Using kitchen scissors (just cos they're easier - use a knife if you must) cut the sausage into small enough chunks that they won't stick over the rim of the pie-tin.

Making the pie:
Get the dough out of the fridge and cut roughly a third off and put to one side. Roll the remaining 2/3's into a ball, flatten it out a bit then get the rolling pin and roll out. Now, first time I did this I kept fucking it up so here's the secret - always roll away from you. Roll once, turn the dough 90 degrees, roll again. Occasionally turn the dough over so both sides stay fairly floury or it'll stick to the pin. Repeat until its like 5mm thick, or less, and big enough to cover the tin with a good 2'' over. Right, gently lift the big circle of dough up and lay it on the tin centrally. Now you need to mould it the the tins shape but don't just pat it out from the middle or the dough'll tear, you'll get pissed off, god knows where it'll end... So, lift a bit of the edge then pat out towards that, making sure to push the dough into the contours of the tin. Repeat until it looks sorted. Brilliant. Now, hold the tin like a waiter carrying a tray of drinks, and using a sharp knife trim the excess dough. You're doing well mate. Have a drink or go to the loo (not forgetting to wash your hands, unless its just you who'll be eating the pie). Now place the bits of sausage onto the base. You don't have to, but I like to be symmetrical in doing this. Next off, pour in the whisked eggs - like water it'll find its own level so dont fuck things up by getting cocky and trying to even it all up. Lastly, get the remaining third of dough and roll out. Damp the edges of the dough in the tin with milk, lay the newly rolled-out circle on top and push down with your finger-tipsall around the edge. This not only seals it all up, but ensures your pie won't look like someone with special needs has made it. Trim as before.

The tribute part:
You should have some dough left. In fact you'd better have or you're fucked, and you won't be able to look your newly-tattooed friends in the eyes ever again. Fuck off to Sunderland, Quisling. Right, roll the last bit of dough out as before. Using a sharp knife, carefully cut out an 'N', an 'O', a little circle, and a number '9'. Return to your almost finished pie and brush the top with milk. Oh, and cut three little slashes in the middle. Don't ask why. Ok, the final act is to gently place your cut-outs as in the diagram below. If you are numerically dyslexic get a sober friend to help you or your pie will end up being a celebration of fucking Boumsong. Go figure.
Brush a little milk onto your cut-outs, pop into the middle of the oven at 190C (gas mark 5) for 35-40 minutes and Voila! You can gain important street cred with your fellow Magpies AND feed them up a treat!!!

Alan Shearer - A Tribute.

2006-04-23T09:45:00.000-07:00

No need for words, I think... lets just have a quiet moment.

KEANES NEW VIDEO

2006-04-21T15:52:00.000-07:00

Right, so being fresh from having seen the breakbeat-bastards that are Coldcut I suppose its fair to say that the ruby-faced plumpers of Eastbournes finest had their work cut out to impress me and the Barbazel... Have a guess - they didn't.
Friday night, fresh from laughing our way through Beauty and the Geek; high on Carlsberg Export, life and steak and kidney pie; and feeling 'in the right place' because I was wearing cords we were clued and queued up, all ready to watch the brand new offering from Keane. Cue black and white shot of a long-haired fucker with a stuck on beard walking out of the surf at Eastbourne, complete with a 'have you got a Rizla, mate' Dennis the Menace jumper and a ketamine induced thousand-yard stare...
Oh yeah, and the music is PUMPIN'!!! Forget Phil Spector and his Wall of Sound, pretend Judas Priest had never recorded Breakin' the Law. We're talkin.... imagine being say, two, three minutes late for an interview and you find a melted mini Mars Bar in your pocket. And then you get a bit of dust in your eye, only not for long. Then your, sort of, mate phones up and says he can't come round tonight, except it doesn't really bother you cos you just, like, don't really mind... well thats what Keanes music's like... if thats ok with you... mum.
So, back to the vid, kids... This really wet (really) guy's walking along the sussex coastline and he comes across a couple stuffing a note into, like, an empty vodka bottle and throwing it into the sea... then theres a kid kicking a ball at a cliff, only the ball bounces so hard it goes into the sea! Imagine! So the kid kicks the crusty because... well does it matter? A-a-nyway, then he sees a fat old unit with a rubber ring waddling into the breakers (which, to be fair to the production team, looks fairly fucking cold... but she IS fat, mind) and then she loses here rubber ring and then she disappears and then there's a protracted long-shot of the riiiing, and stuuuff...
You get the picture. Some kind fucker with a camera and a video company has done their family a favour and let their kid brother shoot a few minutes of film because care in the community really ought to start at home...
Its genuinly fucking laughable throughout but to really put the glaze on the pope... really rub the cat-poo on the tramp... the crusty suddenly bumps into Death, sickle and all, and this fucker makes the silly bald fucker in Bill and Ted look PROPER evil, and then in one little follow-on scene it all falls into place. Death, followed by crusty (in silhouette and holding hands) followed by all the fuckers (including large unit with ring) dancing along the horizon. Ahh. I see it all now. Its a cleverly contructed allegory concerning the concept of death wherein the soul has a 'while' (or a manifestation of earthly time actually unknown and un-valuable to the undead) in which to view and perceive his or her follies in and around death. A time in which to, primarily, not recognise the illogicality and irreverence of ones own behaviour until, hey, its too fucking late. And then you're dead.
A larger portion of unmitigatedly purile,sixth form, pseudo-menopausal cock I have never witnessed.I always knew the fat, warbling, toast-stroking mewmews were a huge pocket of cunt but this takes the proverbial sweet snack. Keane, you are surrounded. Surrender your puppy fat, put your Y-fronts above your head and cry quietly...

Bloggin is hell...

2006-04-20T13:28:00.000-07:00

Dare we dream?

2006-04-16T04:07:00.001-07:00

From sniffing the pants of relegation, to staring up the trouser-leg of eighth place Bolton. Like pooing yourself, then waking up and realising it was all a dream, Newcastles season has gone from bad to good for once. Since Souness the pebble-headed twat packed his bag with all his vicious inability, pointlessness, and the collars of all the dogs that he can't stop himself from killing (fact, probably) we have seen an upturn in morale few previously thought possible. Kiddy-fiddler-faced Glen 'no I've never had a chin, actually' Roeder has worked his germaine magic and things have leapt forward in no uncertain terms. He also used one piece of information to full advantage - our defence is and was fucking atrocious. Yes Graeme, it really was that fucking obvious you fucking fuck-fuck cunt-arsed twat.

Boumsong looks like the enemy of the new, go-get-'em Action Man. Weird eyes. Oh, and he's the worst defender we've ever had. Glen saw that and acted appropriately. He realised too that Luque was going to take a long time to settle into the Eengleesh game, and time is against us so Albert can instead adapt to seetting down. Lee 'Mad-Rab Kebab, King of the Jews (he ain't got no fascist views)' Bowyer, meanwhile, has turned his back on earlier violent, rascist, team-mate slapping behaviour and come good. Well done, Lee, from all at Searchlight magazine.
Michael Chopra, who sounds like a cross between a weird vegetable and a stylish seventies kids bicycle, also seems to be coming good under Glens tutelage. Michael Owen? He's alright...

Yes, all in all tings is a-lookin' up for the Glorious Mags! Dare we dream? Yes we dare... Europe here we come!!!

(PS - PLAY UP POMPEY, POMPEY PLAY UP!)

Okay...

2006-04-07T16:35:00.000-07:00

...(adopts a 1940's BBC voice) things aren't looking too chipper, Englands at war, everyone has to cut back and rationing is a good way of spotting those damn fifth columists...
Blakey's turned in for Johnny, bless him - and what with his darn uncle having the jolly loose Egyptians to boot, what? - but never fret... we'll be chuffing off the dingoes on the Siegfried Line if its the last thing I do. Seven to six those bloody darn Paddies (Carn't say that, what? All too bloody together what Johnny Civilian says is right) are making it all wrong, and as for those small chaps - nippers I believe - with their saying things they don't signify this side o' Rourkes Drift... well give 'em 'laldy' and see 'em what for, thats all...
Time was a man could call a spade a bloody shovel but what so, mem'sa'ib came home calling it all to roster with Bertie a-spiffing like a Fusillier, no Sepoys within hitting distance and ne're a Pashtun to voice. Rahrah- rah...

A schoolfriend of mine...

2006-04-05T01:33:00.000-07:00

...who was good at sciencey stuff but rubbish at English once said that metaphores are just posh lies. In response, I wittily reposted that physics was bollocks and chemistry was a pile of shite ("touche" thunk I).
I can kinda see where he was coming from, mind.
'Peter Shilton is a lion in goal'
'No he's not. That lion over there, on the Serengeti, thats a lion on an African plain but I think you'll find that Pete Shilts is a bloke in a goal...'
Anyway, I won't labour the point. The only reason I thought of my mates comment, all those years ago, is that I was considering Gangsta Rap (their capitals) this morning having listened to an Ice Cube track on the radio. Its blatantly full of porkies, I mean REALLY so maybe I'm missing the point and when 'Cube says 'I didn't even have to use my A.K., yes today was a good day (MY italics) its just him being metaphorical. I googled AK and you'll never guess what I got... not very metaphorical though. AK is also the abbreviation for Alaska so I'm thinking 'baked alaska'? Maybe on the day in question it was hot (he lives in L.A., which almost rhymes with...) but not so hot that he'd need a big portion of baked alaska to cool down? But then he'd have said 'didn't even have to eat my B.A., wouldn't he?
So now I'm thinking that its not the abbreviation thats the metaphor, its the actual concept of 'gun'. What can it mean? Well as some of you know I do a spot of painting and decorating upon occasion so I reckon it could mean 'mastic gun'. Its a possible peaen to sealant. Perhaps he hates sealing around windows so much, and don't we all because however careful you are you get oversplodge and it goes fucking EVERywhere..., anyway and he was due to do his mums porch window but she called him and said don't bother, Dereks done it, and he's so fucking made up he writes a whole fucking song about it.....
Maybe not, though. Maybe he just really does use an AK47 on a daily basis to cap punks, and there were no punks to be seen on that particular day?
My FINAL thought is that its a sort of L.A. rhyming slang, in homage to Chas and Dave. What springs to mind is that he's allergic to Pledge (the furniture polish) and normally, because he smokes so much Chronic (their capitals) he forgets to leave the side gate to Cube Mansions open and has to go in through the front door. I'm guessing he takes his shoes off, and he's too cool to wear socks and considering his (possible, admittedly) allergy ' today I didn't even have to touch my parquet... yes today was a good day' Mo'fo!

TOOOOOOOOONNNN!!!!!

2006-04-01T19:37:00.001-08:00

Yes, its true - we totally turned over the Spuds! Best footie of the season, loveliest goals, and the best striker the Premiership has ever seen!
Its funny, but all the time he played for us, I never realised than Jenas rhymed with 'penis', aha-ha-hahaha-aha...
Martin Jol looks like Goerring, and yes, Glen Roeder has a dismal lack of chin (hinting at kiddy-fiddling tendencies) but its not all about looks is it? I mean, look how good Beardsley was...
And may I just say that Villa are PATHETIC!!! 5-0? See above - i.e. aha hahaha ha ahaha hahaha!

Words...

2006-03-30T14:29:00.000-08:00

Ok, so there's the prefix 'quasi' which sort of means sort of, so its either quasi-sort of, or sort of quasi... then theres the prefix 'para' which should, as all boys will know, mean really hard army fuckers with special helmets (!) and guns that no-one else has, but in fact means lots of things - 'resembling' (para military), 'beyond' (para psychology) and 'auxiliary' (para medic). I'm guessing it also means 'twatted' (para letic) and 'raspberry*' (para lympics). So prefixs kinda normally make sense... I mean, you can work them out from their contexts... So, that said, will someone PLEASE explain what 'cod-psychology' is?

*(cockney rhyming slang)

Well fuck me...

2006-03-29T14:18:00.000-08:00

... they're coming thick and fast at the moment, eh? I went through a bit of a barren patch over Christmas but the sap is rising! Actually the reason I'm posting twice in two days is that I've been told that if I 'enable anonymous comments' (seriously, if a real person said that to your face you'd shit blood) I might get comments from more than just Monkey-boy and the Blond Bomber (Hiroshima Posse)... Thats all it took, apparently, how very remiss of me...
Sooo - If you're NOT Monkey-boy or the BB (HP) can you just post something? Anything, seriously. I've got a wife to impress, and the only reason she lets me spend hours getting screen-rash on the end of my nose is that I pretend to tell it like it is to a few more than two people...

Right, speaking of telling it like it is - thats the post-amputation thumb of some mug in Taiwan who got all fucked up on a kind of cyber-cargo cult thing (see Anthony Giddens et al, or any other pony philosophy textbook) . Erm, so telling it like it is... don't take things too far, kids.

OK - age. I've been offered tickets to a really good party on saturday - Dirtycowshed - which would involve the girl from Lambs' new band, someone from the Dubpistols, the bloke from The Grid DJing, dressing up like a cowboy, poledancers, cheap speed (only to be sourced in Kings' Lynn, according to a man with a hefty beard called Tim) and a strict 'doors-lock-at-twelve-and-don't-open-til-six' policy. Fucking Brilliant! I haven't been out since New Years, haven't had anything stronger than a cheeky German dessert wine (Rommel, anyone?) and happen to have a fortnights growth that could be shaved into a passable 'gay cow-poke' feature in less time than it takes to grease a mongoose... Thing is , I'm scared. Scared of the time it'll all finish on sunday, scared of the gloom carved deep into the roots of monday, scared of the 'will I hug him - will I punch him' ordeal of confronting old men on tuesday afternoon... Come-downs used to be easy - they start now and go on for a day or two (Tuesdays, man, pure evil) but now I'm nearer forty than thirty five the fuckers start a fucking week before. I would seriously love to go to this party but somethings holding me back... I NEED to decide by tomorrow cos the tickets are gold-dust but I've got a nasty feeling I may go with plan B instead... Plan B is going out with my missus' mates to (fucking) Audio (Argh!) which will be shit because some cunt designed it so the bogs are via the dance floor, it's eighteen pound fifty a pint and every single person in there should be sold to Bosnian snuff-movie casters. The other thing about plan B is that I'll get nutted anyway, stay half-lucid all the way through saturday and then decide that the party's a wicked plan ANYWAY, get to it anywy and do loads of stupid chemicals anyway...
So, as far as age goes, I reckon that yes, you're more thoughtful about things that occur but no, you're still not going to filter out all the good shit that's really quite probably the most stupid shit on the menu... Stupid is as stupid does.

Get your ears round this...

2006-03-28T11:03:00.000-08:00

For those of you fed up with tunes that go Boom (For those of you? I've only had comments from two people... I almost consider this a posh letter) can I suggest having a listen to Warren Malone?
Many years ago, in a freshly refurbished Pressure Point, I asked the bearded, twinkly-eyed barman what part of Ireland he was from. He replied 'Manchester'. Story of my life...
Anyway, turns out he was a singer/songwriter who was 'kinda country'. After I'd chucked all the shite Dolly Parton jokes at him I went away and listened to one of his albums and was hooked.
I might like pointing at the floor a lot to Supersharpshooter, I may want to loot the Post Office
every time I hear the Dead Kennedies, and I might drink a unicorns horn of Parfait D'amour and slip into something purple and gossamer whenever I hear the Cocteau Twins but WHENEVER I want to recreate the feeling of asking a bloody Manc what part of Ireland he comes from, its Warren bloody Malone every bleedin' time!

The obvious one...

2006-03-26T14:19:00.000-08:00

2: Waking up and thinking 'Oh shit, its Monday!' when actually its saturday and you have two whole days to waste...mmm... except...
Except I'm fucking 37 and to be honest I've had enough of THOSE days to fill a sock...
So, you need to give them a bit of an edge. Wouldn't it be a whole lot better to wake up and see the Tooth fairy? It WOULD be! Defo! Why? Because in my head the Tooth fairy is fit as fuck, with one of those pump-action sprayer-things you use for killing weeds FULL of san Miguel! And you know, you know those people who climb cliffs with no ropes? You know they have those pouches that have chalk in them, to stop their fear-gripped sweaty hands from slipping? Well the Tooth fairy's one is full of Peruvian flake! And she's kind of fucked up in that 'sunday morning' way, so she's well suggestable, but she doesn't SMELL like she's been up all night! Brilliant or what? Oh, and she sorts your poxy horrible speed-ravaged teeth out for you, you fucking loser...
Did I mention she's really fit?
Oh, OK.

Look, I realise that...

2006-03-20T13:09:00.000-08:00

I've been a bit negative of late, yada-yada-yada but what do you expect... January to March is always a load of old munch, The Mighty Toon are as frustrating as ever, and don't even get me started on the state of global detante...
So, I thought I'd try to be positive for once and list a few things that really snap my biscuit, really... sign my treaty... really, ... REALLY comb my tramp. Shall we? Coming up first (in no particular order)

1 - Finding money! An obvious one! What's better though? Finding your own or someone elses? Hmmm, I can't decide either... Finding your own is wicked but it does kinda mean you lost it in the first place and that does kinda make you a bit of a money-losing twat... sorry but thats how it goes. Finding other peoples money can be a hollow victory, depending on your state of mind at the time. You may become worried that it belongs to a pensioner who can now no longer afford to eat... or a Charlie Potts-type pauper kid who was on their way to buy their yearly bar of Galaxy when they dropped the money... (see, now you need to spend that money on booze or drugs to make you forget the terrible social plight of these possible people!) On the other hand it may have been dropped by some arse-welding, graphic-designing neo-fascist as he goose-stepped to Bathrooms.Com to order fifty of the latest Phillipe Starke 'Belsen' mixer taps for his other penthouse, the fucker... in which case you finding it and spunking it on (beer, eye-liner, pies, smack, crack or Fleetwood Mac) is a moral obligation, a genetic necessity, a higher calling...mmmmm.
For the real connoisseurs, though, the tip-top-toppedest scenario in which to happen upon some free cash involves a degree of spite... imagine, for example, a party - you've spent all night watching some cock with a pocketful of gash E's giving it extreme portions to all and sundry. He's 'powder powered' you in front of your mates, he's repeatedly taken the saucey girl you fancy into the bog for a line of posh and she, the silly naiive fool, is impressed... he's nonced and ponced and postured his arse off for four fucking hours... and then you spot a twenty fall effortlessly from his pocket. Bend down to tie your shoelaces, slide the note into your pocket. Fuck his pills, fuck the bird, fuck YOU mate - I've got your fucking CASH!!!

over-rated stuff beginning...

2006-03-14T04:08:00.000-08:00

With the letter 's'...
Shakespeare - Well, he's okay I suppose but it's a bit telling that the only time he's really enjoyed (by people too lazy to pretend to 'get it', tsch...) is when a modern approach is taken setting, for example, MacBeth in a disoteque or a lap-dancing club.

Spinal Tap - Bit contraversial this one... Look, I've tried to get into it, godknows how many times I've sat up long after the beers ran out determined to really like it and memorise a few lines but... its shit, isn't it? A sketch stretched into a film, and not a great one at that. And they're fucking American!

Sesame Street - I stopped eating toy soldiers when I grew up, and I haven't thought it was ok to show my knob to a total (non-consenting) stranger since I was about seven so I don't see why I have to think a bunch of fuzzy felt and sticks is cool. 'Yeah but its, like, so trippy...' Its not, its aimed at toddlers and thats what people act like on hallucenogenics... right kids?

Skiing - Prince Charles does it, it involves bobble-hats and going to places that openly supported the Nazis. Oh, and you don't get to wear huge trousers like 'boarders do...

Siamese twins - Old hat. Fuck off to Channel 5 and while you're at it, fetch me some proper freaks.

Scalectrix - Another of those things that gets mentioned with the same hallowed reverence as Aztec bars and smoking on buses. Lets have it right, they were pretty indicative of the sort of society a little tyke in the 70's and 80's was being propelled into. Wasting your money on something expensive and ulimately pointless, then spending any spare time watching plastic go round in convoluted circles... and thats if you could afford it. If you couldn't, you were immediately deignated as a 'spaz' who 'smelled of wee' and therefore could only get a partner in country-dancing if you let them wear gloves and promised not to look at them. And yes, I AM bitter...

Sleep - Its sooooo last night...

Sentience - Oh we're so fucking clever, aren't we? Ever seen a miserable fence? Exactly. All the poor animals are pootling around scared shitless of being categorised as 'sentient' 'cos as soon as that happens they'll have to start worrying about their fur, setting up toll-booths in the Marianas Trench, and lobbying the arachnids to cut their fly-quotas ( I have it on good authority that they only use them for scientific purposes). I quite fancy being a stone. Stones have got it made.

Sexual health - Look, I'm married so to be honest I couldn't give a runny shit if the rest of the world wants to shag its crotches into purple shreds... Anyway, Rasputin wasn't exactly up on sexual health and he had a WHALE of a time. I can't picture Genghis Kahn handing out dental dams to the newly-conquered birds, either, and it didn't slow him up, did it?

Samson - The baccy, not the bloke in the bible who had a simply rotten time after getting that flicked wedge (he only popped in for some rubber johhnies - see above). So, Drums bad enough but Samson is the pits. LOOK AT IT FER FUCKSAKES!!! Does it not scream 'the shit they couldn't put into Rothmans' at you? I know men who've made models of sailing ships out of the timber salvaged from just one small pack... And it makes you look a German seaman on leave. I'd rather smoke the pubes of the drunk who plays mouth-organ in the Laines. In August.

FAO - Steve Lawrence

2006-03-05T03:35:00.000-08:00

Mate, if you got this address from the 606 fulham message board - its Jamie from Coldingly here! Leave your email in the comments box and I'll get in touch... Happy days!

IT AIN'T OVER 'TIL THE FAT LADY...

2006-03-02T01:28:00.000-08:00

...Gets her wobbling great head out of the trough. There, start as you mean to go on. Let people know exactly where you're heading... Fatties. I don't like them. Most people don't but won't admit it in public. Bit like jazz. Or The Gorrilaz. I do like The Gorrilaz but I imagine it'd be quite hard to front-up to your mates down the pub and say you thought the last album was shit. Bad analogy, because the last album was so obviously not shit, whereas fatties are blatantly...well...

As ever I've been a bit ahead of the pack - my dislike of the obese goes back to when I myself was a nigh-on 17 stone kebab strorage facility. I saw the light, thank god, lost the bulk and became a better person for it. So, where were YOU, Gillian McKeith? Too busy torturing kids and shnuffling around other peoples turds no doubt. Oh, its all very fucking fashionable now, isn't it, to glare balefully at a disappearing size twenty or to petition MacDonalds to have width gauges fitted on the front doors. Back in the day you risked your reputation with crazy stunts like that. Or by asking fat men what they'd done with Princess Leia. Or petrol-bombing High and Mighty branches. Yeah.

The thing is, yes, the criminally large cost the NHS billions a year, but if you watch a lot of black and white films, so do kids with saucepans on their heads (or cut-off sections of school railings, my personal favourite). And, yes, there are other knock-on effects of having herds of wobble-bottomed heifers stomping round our streets - cracked pavements, a lack of air as they do their annoying short, gulpy breathing, the ever-spiralling cost of black jogging bottoms... the list is endless but to the time-served fatty-baiter these are new and unnecessary rationales when the simple point is that fat people are WRONG. They look wrong, with their aspic-like androgynous faces. They smell wrong (like warm milk). And who the fuck do they think thye're kidding when you see them wheezing their lard-germs over some poor shop assistant who's struggling under a couple of cases of Pepsi Max, five cartons of lowtar Superkings and a box or eighteen of Trackers?

I've noticed that women seem to take on chubber mates as a bit of a challenge, a project almost. There you are, sat down the pub (yes ladies, my gender stereotypes are on FIRE) when in comes a girl you know with a tectonic plate of a bird who proceeds to balance precariously on three stools (fuck OFF McKeith! Back in your box!) while hiding a pint of Diet Coke in her huge, soft, sausage-fingered paw. When said landmass wobbles off to 'get her hair done', (or as I like to put it 'belly-flop into the skip behind M & S and lie there gorging herself on out-of-date jam') your mate always turns around and asks what you thought of _____? Stuck in one of those inescapable moments of man-truth you reply 'well, she was alright... bet she gets through a fuckload of showergel a month though...' and what happens next always goes one of two ways.
1 - You get abused. You're 'shallow', you're 'nasty', or 'you're not exactly an oil painting yourself' (well no, I'm not but even if I was I wouldn't be responsible for Tony Heart taking an early retirement due to a shortage of materials, like SOME I could mention)
OR
2 - They deny it. 'She's NOT big!' (Err, she fuckin' is...)

Genius. Or denial. I don't know which. I don't even know what the project is... nor do they I don't think, maybe its genetic? Practice for motherhood maybe, in case you have a really ugly sprog - 'No darling, he's BEAUtiful!' ... 'but he's cross-EYED, hon.' ... 'no he's NOT!' ...

Before I wrap it up and go and have a bacon and egg sarnie, heres a little test I've compiled. Spot the odd one out:
Nicholas Soames
Clair Rainer
Big Daddy
Felicity Kendall
The fat bird off Russ Abbotts Madhouse
Jabba the Hut

Cheers all...

oh I forgot!

2006-01-25T13:51:00.000-08:00

I forgot I forgot I forgot! Ignore the second Souness appearance in the below list of hatred... I just remembered - James mother-bitchin Blunt! Its Littlehampton rhyming-slang, baby... do the maths. Wittering, warbling, soulful-jawed, middle-class lipped bitch of the soppy-bollocks ballad. An inch more offensive than a ticket conductor with a hard-on, he looks like he rapes happiness in his spare time. I'm having a whip-round to bring a Brazilian death-squad out of retirement, please give disingenuously....

Bit of hate to keep you warm...

2006-01-25T04:22:00.000-08:00

Goldfinger was, obviously, the Man with the Golden Gun. Whitefinger is what I get occasionally in the winter, and the doctor tells me its bad circulation due to smoking. Apparently it could lead to amputation if I can't finish with the silly bloody habit. While I used to think people with missing fingers were cool in my youth - Yakuza, John Mac etc - I've kind of grown out of it now, plus I can't help worrying about how it would affect my day to day life. I'm thinking X -Box, I'm thinking prodding oiks, and somewhat ridiculously I'm thinking rolling fags (although not in the New York sense, because I dont think digit-dexterity is vital when it comes to coshing people in tight tops and nicking their wallets...) Anyway, I'm really starting to get pissed off with smoking, in fact I hate it and that got me thinking. I hate quite a lot of things in life, as you may know. I mean, I probably don't hate stuff... hate's pretty harsh, but thats how I flag my discontent. Things really piss me off - queue jumping, people who walk three abreast down busy paths, people who womble along at 1mph, but stuff like that pisses most people off, yes ironically even people who do these things themselves. Hating actual people, now there's defining! We may hate some of the same people but we generally have individual hates. Hey, its part of our characters!
Here, then, is my current top ten of hateful fools... Feel free to send me yours - I'll post 'em up.

1: Jo fucking Wiley. Smarmy barefoot self-appointed queen of indie (and techno, snow-boarding, Evisu - in fact whatever's 'in' that week), permanantly attached by the mouth to Dave Grohls sweaty member, convinced she's a close personal friend of anyone slightly better-known than the spotty chimp who packs her organic muck into poncey brown paper bags at Waitrose, and basically a complete cunt. So there.

2: H from Steps. Looks like an evangelical Downsie with a dildo covered in jesus-juice rammed up his sinners fundement. Should be pulled in two by wild horses, that one.

3. Eddy Price. This ones for the nerds. 'Dings hit! Say again - lead is down!' A programmers in-joke, he's shit. A stone fool, with all the jocular annoyance of Dick van Dyke in a pie and liquor shop. Two man missions are always hampered by this gor blimey bastard. You know, you just KNOW that he's got a silver SOS pendant with an emergency fiver in it under his Millets vest.

4. Graeme Souness. I've only got one thing to say to this man - die, cunt.

5.Gillian McKeith. Where to start... Her Hallo'ween, ironed-flat face. She hasn't had a face-lift, she's had a face-stretch, you can tell because its made her horsey teeth ping out like a dogs cock in a butchers. Her voice - its almost like she's an alien who watched Miss Jean Brodie eighteen times on the journey here, as a bit of background research. She could peel bananas at ten yards. And what about her copraphagic obsession? Checking out fat fuckers' chogs is bad enough but putting them in Tupperware? God only knows what happened to this sad harridan in her childhood... AND she moans about the smell! Shit = stink. Yes, its that fucking simple...

6.Sienna Miller. You know sometimes when you've done too much speed, and you bump into your mum in Woolies and you try to crowbar your dribbling rictus into something slightly less disturbing, and you think maybe you've pulled it off (because you're so twatted you can't see your mate stood behind her frantically miming 'CUT' by feverishly waving their flattened hand under their chin) except that had you seen yourself from your mums perspective you'd have seen the facial equivilant 0f a flock of parrots trying to get out of a Monster Munch packet... Anyway, she looks like that. All the time. And rich people don't do speed.

7. Graeme Souness. I need to emphasise this...

8. Any clown. Even Fred West was scared of clowns, probably. How else do you explain the lack of clowns clothes in his house? They're like a whelk shaped like a banana - just not fucking right. The devil takes care of his own and I can prove it - how many clowns have YOU seen in a wheelchair? 'nuff said.

9. Bruce Parker. Apparently sheep are so shite that if they hurt themselves, they sit down and wait to die. Bruce Parker has the air of a man who knows he'll never progress in his chosen field, and as someone who remembers his jaunty heyday in the swingin' seventies I know he's right. And he knows I know, he knows we ALL know, and he knows we pity him. Yet still he slogs on in his selection of Fosters Menswear suits and penny-loafers, endlessly reporting trivial bilge before no doubt getting a bus home to sink Somerfields own-label whiskey as his dried-out husk of a wife mewls scathing insults at him out of her cats'-arse mouth and the children tell him to shut up.... get a life, Bruce.

10. Jonathan Ross. Yes its easy to mock a man with a lisp, but thats not why Jonathan takes his place at number ten. I can't watch him. I think he's a bully, he's a lot less funny than he thinks he is, he has a horrible keen look in his eye,in fact he's probably a clown. I'm not the only one who hates him - someone who shall remain anonymous' father was working as a security guard for an American airline at Heathrow and one day the entire Ross family came a-queueing to board a plane. Said father calls 'Wossy' into a side room and says 'strip'... 'Do you know who I am?' comes the imperious response. ' Oh, I know EXACTLY who you are, sonny Jim... now STRIP!'
Give the man a cigar, he's what makes this country great!

In the interest of fairness and balance I may do a top ten of things I love soon... maybe.

Arthur Spell

2006-01-19T11:04:00.000-08:00

Is it me, or does Ruth Kellyappear to be the bastard daughter of Arthur Fowler and a Speak-and-Spell?
Answers to the usual address, winner gets a 10p Lucky Dip...

Personally I'd rather have a drink with Fred West...

2006-01-14T13:27:00.000-08:00

->*

... than with Graeme fucking Souness. What he's doing to Newcastle not withstanding, the mans a no-no. In the same way that trannies ironically miss the mark when it comes to looking like a woman, the pebble-headed twat that is our Graeme seems to have lost touch with the concept of 'human' in his eternal quest to fit in with mankind (sorry girls, but thats what the books call it, Dworkin* or no Dworkin... more 'no Dworkin', as it goes because Miss Moustache 1977 is no more... gone to the big heifer-yard in the sky...bless...). When I ponder the fabric of people, I muse about such things as sympathy, humour, consciousness, honesty, truth... you know - all that jam in the middle of the cake. When I think about, well, shall we just call him Twat and get it over with? When I think about Twat-boy, all I get are words like betrayal, ignorance, cowardice, stupidity and CUNT. Sometimes words join up, a bit like silly men and the army... and sometimes they look like this : cock-bauble, nonce-face, metal-breath, spew-child, or just occasionally when I'm feeling a bit in my cups - cuntingfucknobSohampisshairednaziarseboy...

On top of all that he's a shite manager. I dont mean he organises faeces, gets involved with poo-logistics or tells stools off... I mean he takes what could be a powerful twenty-first century team of potentially great footie players and jiggles them around until they become longball-punting, out of position googly-minded fucks that string passes together worse than Rio Ferdinand strings sentences...

We lost one-nil to Fulham today, thats why I'm in a strop. That, and a long-life hangover from Andy and Sams leaving dont... One nil to a bunch of men who play at Craven Cottage. Is it just me or does that sound like a scaredy wimp hanging out for a blowy in a public toilet? Answers on a postcard, bumchums... yassah!

A new post

2006-01-13T17:03:00.000-08:00

Thats the sort of thing said by Pa Walton... Obviously the fucker had never seen CBB... Jodie Marsh - what can you say? Picture a buffalo that actively wants to get scoffed, a calf who bastes itself in ketchup... 'I'm lovely, please ram me into your throat'. Essex? For fucks sake, this is twat-sploitation... You may as well call a badger a cunt for having a white stripe, a bull a pervert for having big bollocks... Waddyawant? Yes, she's a fucker, but no, we oughtn't watch her being pulled into pieces by her fellow plastic 'rehab' conspiritors...
Tell you what, this programme is so out of order that I for one can't even bothered to wank over it!! 'Nuff!

Happy New Bloody Year!!!

2006-01-03T07:09:00.000-08:00

Made it to France in the end, sod the sun - its for losers...
Mmm, still not sure about the French. Nice line in cake and wine but a little lacking in manners, what? Lots of Gallic lip-wobbling, pitying looks and an abundance of bad tailoring. Give me Littlehampton anyday... Aww, maybe not. The hotel was top-draw. The room (see above) was a proper boudoir, suitable for all manner of decadent behaviour, although I'm guessing the novel choice of a wallpapered ceiling would make any form of hallucinogenics a no-no...

On the last day we found a huge art gallery with ker-razy decor in the public ways (left).
Yes, the goose-torturing surrender-monkeys sure know how to jazz-up a stairwell...

Anyway, lovely time had but very happy to be back in Blighty for New Years'... Bust the Box was choice, as usual, and equally as usual I feel rougher than Sharon Watts on poppers, folowing the carnage that was Jan 1st...
Nuff big up new year crew, yesyes, brrruuup!!!

2005-12-27T14:41:00.000-08:00

And people ask why she married me...
Anyway, things never go as planned, eh, especially at Christmas. W e were meant to be somewhere warm at the mo', maybe the Canaries or Morrocco. Tried to book a last-minute package but, oh the irony, left it too late! Ho ho ho... Never mind, we thought, lets get the train up to Gatwick and try to cash in on some poor buggers misfortune by bagging a brace of cancellations instead. It was now 1pm, Xmas Eve. Got the bus to the station and... gumbo here had left his passport at home...
We bounced back though! Tomorrow sees us heading off for a couple of days in Rouen, couple of nights in a very bon hotel avec snails, hopefully, and if possible a go on some frogs legs - slooo! Will be back on the 30th, so til then... d'accord, mes amis...
Oh, and here's my gift to you all (both) - go and download the track from this site, its one of the best wobble-yer-arse-and-stamp-yer-little-feet tunes I know!
backtotheoldskool.co.uk/super_sharp_shooter.htm

Like I know what good wine is...

2005-12-11T11:31:00.000-08:00

Years ago I used to think that good wine was anything over £2.99 a bottle. I thought that good wine was the stuff I didn't drink, stuff that you didn't need three swigs before going 'hmmm, it's alright, as it goes'. Then the market went all generic, the big companies got involved and suddenly good wine was, for those of us who think bad grapes can still be treated with Preparation H, two steps up from Sunny Delight - fruity, palatable, and easy to throw down your neck in the most objectionable of circumstances. Pop, in other words.
I've got the hang of it now. I buy bottles that don't have instantly recognisable names; no Hardys, or Jacobs' Creek, or anything that else that smacks of an updating of Piat D'or (The French adore... well, anything apart from Piat bloody D'or, up to and including retreating at speed while forcing their abused children to eat small birds, discard their toiletries and hurl abuse at anyone less than pristine white...). That said, god only knows what I'm currently drinking - the bottle's on the other side of the room but I'd hazard a guess at a Cote du Rhone or a Sauvignon of some description. What I DO know is that it's passed the test - hold the first sip (swig?) in the mouth and if the initial burn of alcohol and tannine takes you back to licking batteries in a neighbours' shed in direct response to Derek Butler having licked the underbelly of a snail, then you're halfway there mate. Yes, I've gone up in the world, I'm an adult, I APPRECIATE FINE WINE.
Yes, so I got it as part of a three-for-a-tenner deal but it WAS a fiver a bottle if you only had, erm, a fiver.
Years ago, while wooing a lass, I inadvertently picked up a ten quid bottle of red in an Off-licence. Had I not been at the head of a rather large queue I would have mumbled something about it being the wrong vintage, scurried off and returned to the till with a bottle of watered-down surgical spirits with added tannine and cochineal but no, I was forced by my not wanting to make a scene into spending an arse-twitching ten pounds sterling. On opening the bottle in front of the very-impressed lady in question, I have to say I felt a certain sense of insouciance, a devil-may-care David niven air... then I had a sip. Mmmm, tannine. Ahhh, batteries. God, I hope she isn't going to lick a snail now...

just for Andy...

2005-12-01T14:47:00.000-08:00

Why do they all have the same face, eh? What would happen if two of them bred? Smaller eyes? Imagine 'The Blue Lagoon' with two Downsies instead of Brooke Shields and whatsisname... YEW! Yes, its Andys fave mong, Sonia from 'Enders... She of the passionate lesbian snog. They got UPS Cargo Division to haul her and her slightly smaller co-star within spitting distance of each other, rubbed some burger on their wobbling jowels, and filmed the resulting yam-fest in a cynical attempt to pull viewers away from Corrie and all its tales of madness, incest and underage pregnancies. Yes, lady-hog-love is the way forward according to the retards who spend our licence money... Thing is, the end result was so foul that whilst it was shown on pre-watershed terrestrial tv, you cant find photographic evidence of on the internet at all! I've tried! Now how wrong does that make it? Yup...

2005-11-22T12:37:00.000-08:00

Well, well, well... the whole world's got ants in its pants. Lots of plans I can understand, but in November?
Nicky there is currently bobbing along on the Atlantic en route to Antigua, on her blokes' folks yacht. Rice 'an' peas for festive pud, and a Lee Scratch Perry-Christmas wit' ALL the trimmings...

Our good mates Chandy ' Chandy' Chandler (above right (spot my wicked 'puter skills...)) and his Doris, Vicky 'Vix' Vixter are off to Vietnam - same deal; miss the shit weather and swerve buying their mates pressies. Yes, it'll be a Ho Ho Ho Chi Minh affair where ten dorrar will buy our festive chums a whole bunch of Viet Minh-ge.

At home, we were made to feel even more useless by the Mighty Lynch and Melly-Mel who both completed a bizarre 10km run on sunday morning. Bizarre because they didn't have to do it, bizarre because they weren't paid, and bizarre because we were supposed to leave our flat to watch them run the last twenty yards. Yes, in the 21st century... go figure.

Us? We're eating a lot of casseroles. And personally, I'm ridding the world of zombies and terrorists. We're quite comfortable with that. ONe thing, though... before the rest of you bugger off to exotic locations, can you tell an old spod like me the way to get the photos where you want them? Ta

NEVER EVER GO TO BED EARLY!!!

2005-11-18T22:56:00.000-08:00

You think by 37 I'd know myself a bit better... nope. Had a few beers after another day on the scaff, then some wine at home with a nice movie about paedophiles (Cheers Haze), along with a curry (mmm)... Started feeling drowsy, then a bit sicky, then sicky and drowsy... what could it be? I'll tell you what it was - getting up at SIX every morning working for THE MAN so he can buy more JEWELS for his LADY thus perpetuating a state of CAPITALIST disharmony for the working CLASSES!!! ANYway... Marxism aside, it was that coupled with a possibly dodgy ruby murray and a little too much booze that led me to stagger to bed at ten o'clock, which then led on to a night of wierd dreams (watching medieval villeins arguing in a prison? Anybody?) and being hot and bothered and waking up at 5 oclock with the shirt I'd left on twisted round my neck and having to get up for a piss (the beer and wine) then being too awake to go back to bed.... god it grips my shit...
So - NEVER EVER GO TO BED TOO EARLY!!! Or you'll end up ranting to your PC...

radio for masochists...

2005-11-16T11:41:00.000-08:00

Stuck on a scaffold all day with gloss-covered hands clutching gloss-covered roll-ups, freezing cold with the boss on my arse, knees pressed into sharp bits of grit, and a newly-chipped front tooth nipping at my lip and listening to... fucking Jo Whiley. I arsks ya... Bit of a Prometheus tip, I do it to myself, she's the realisation of a thousand scrags of skin next to fingernails, waiting to be chewed. Holes in teeth waiting for a probing tongue to push the pulpy nerve end. A twat. A big twat. A big twat without shoes. And a 'Glasto veteran' (her title). Like she's ever gone there in anything other than a Winnebago, with serving staff, Egyptian cotton, and an underpaid serf to do all the dirty stuff like listening to the Levellers and trying ketamine so that, once back in the studio, her and her fat celeb-obsessed mate Briggy can continue to bewitch post-pubescent mooks with their tales of alt life, hedonism and self importance. Twat. What rocks? Jo Whileys head when interviewing Dave Grohl.
What sucks? Hahaha... do the maths.