There isn’t really any real trick to having emo hair it seems, other than growing a fringe and neglecting to care for it. Here are some of my current ‘favorite’ emo hairstyles.
Here’s an example of someone who has taken color and the fringe to the extreme. Fuck knows how she navigates around the place, I’m guessing through sonar like a dolphin.
This isn’t you typical emo hairdo, although he does remind me somewhat of Morrissey. It’s far too well kept to be Emo actually. You just can’t wash your hair more than 3 times a year if you want to be taken seriously by the emo crowd.
This is the perfect example of emo hair gone wrong. She looks like she’s graying for fucks sake. Even my granny wouldn’t dig this do (if she was still alive). I suppose this would be cool if you were deliberately trying to portray yourself as world weary and 65.
Christ on a fucking bike! This guy looks like the bastard child of an emu and Malcolm McDowell. Is it just me or is his hair eating him!?! It seems to be alive! Freaky shit!
Here’s another emo haircut that went awry. Again it seems as though the hair is possessed by the spirit of an 18th century conquistador hellbent on invading anything, whether it’s Poland or an innocent girls face.
Fuck since when was Edward Scissorhands emo? Actually now that I think about it he always was. Sure didn’t he live in that castle all in his own for most of his life? And then when he came down to see Ms Ryder he fucked everything up by being seriously clumsy with those hands of his. He was truly creative though, unlike most real emos who are just art school rejects.
Persecuting emo kids is incredible fun for all the family and there are rumors that it’ll be commissioned into an Olympic Sport in time for the 2012 London Olympics. Here are some of my favorite ways to keep emos miserable! Why don’t you give it a try too?
- Remind them continually about the inevitability of their own death. Make up stories about recent deaths in your family. Tell them about how every one of your pets died since childhood.
- If they smell, tell them about it! This will normally be the case since they are forbidden by emo law to actually take showers. It’s a well known fact that Gerald Way hasn’t scrubbed his cock clean since 1986.
- Persecute them at every opportunity…..and I don’t mind round them up into death camps. Instead flick peas at them at dinner, fart in their general direction and exclude them from nights out in the town.
- Create false evidence that proves your emo friend is adopted. Merit will be rewarded if you manage to convince them that their natural parents aren’t interested in knowing them. You might want to mention that they were abandoned on their current guardians doorstep on a wet and windy December night with only a soiled newspaper sheet as cover.
- Ask to read their poetry and scrutinize it excessively. Be sure to place emphasis on grammar and spelling mistakes. And laugh everytime the phrase ‘I want to die’ surfaces, which will naturally make for a lot of laughter.
- When you’re visiting an emo at home, sneak onto his/her computer and alter their Bebo profile to make them look like a Neo Nazi. Their PC-chums will break off all contact leaving Mr/Miss Emo yet more alienated.
- Whilst you are on their computer, erase all of their Mp3’s. You might want to physically remove the hard drive from the PC case and stamp on it a few times to make sure it’s fucked. If their iPod is in sight, ensure it suffers a similar fate.
- Tell him/her that you slept with their partner last night and that you’re now together forever.
- Alternatively if they’re single, tell them that everyone in town thinks that they’re a freak without genitals who passes the hours by sobbing to Elton John and Abba records.
- Why not use the old classic and ask them ‘why they look so happy’ every 5 minutes?
- If they have a goldfish, kill it by dropping their soiled bandages into the bowl. You might want to stir the water with a teaspoon to make it look a bit more dramatic. They’ll think poor Goldie has exploded.
- If they have a guitar, snip all of the strings with pliers whilst they are out of the room. When they restring and start playing it, inform them that you’ve never heard a more terrible guitar player in your life.
Emos, ever find it difficult to say exactly what you want to in life? Well here is a list of some popular sayings that you might want to adopt into your everyday speech!”
General Severe Depression
“God seriously shit on my soul when I came out of the womb. I wish He’d just stuck pins in fucking eyes and had me killed right there and then.”.
“Life will never get any better. I will always be stabbing away at my arms hopelessly with an olive fork.”
“What’s the point in ever changing your pants when you’ll just shit them the next time you have another panic attack?”
“I think I have cancer. I think this time it’s terminal.”
“I hate myself and I want to die.”
“Fuck it all, fuck everything.”
“There is no hope. Hope is washed away at the bottom of a vodka bottle”.
“Life is fucking pointless. I wish I could drown myself in a vat of my own urine”.
“I’m useless and my balls smell. And what makes it worse is more cock’s abnormally short”.
“I don’t even know why I get up in the morning. Even my kitty gives off an aura of hopeless despair.”
“I’m tired of feeling alienated from everyone. Only the razor understands me. It knows how I feel. It wants to become a part of me and make me leak blood so red”.
“Last night I dreamt I committed suicide by gorging on Big Macs for a week. It’s a pity it takes so fucking long. Mom would know something was up. ”
“I’d end it all right now but I need to get revenge on that bitch. I could always try to hang myself with my underwear and get my parents to send them after I’m dead. Then she could really catch a whiff of the despair”
“Life is like a cock wound that will never stop seeping. Suicide is like trying to cut your cock off. It can always go wrong. Jay Leno will testify about this.”
“I feel like peeling myself to pieces with a knife. I want to hunt deep inside my body for the last remnants of hope that she’s about to cruelly snatch away from me.”
“I’m already dead inside. You might as well finish me off by chopping off my balls.”
“I hate God. He fucking ruined it all for me. Why did I have to be part of His stupid fucking plan? Why couldn’t He have made me into a seagull? What did I do to deserve this hideous body?”
(Read on me pretty!)
I’m sick of this shit. I’m sick of seeing emo’s tongue each other every-fucking-where I go. I’ll be walking out of Subway and they’ll be literally fucking on the seats outside. And you can’t say anything without sounding like a homophobe.
And you can tell these fuck-wits aren’t gay. They’ll only ever tonguekiss when an equally skanky emo-girl is in close proximity. These bastards play gay in order to win women. I wouldn’t mind it so much if there were actually gay but that’s obviously not the case.
Next time I see them kissing I’ll whip out my dick and scream “Kiss this, Mother!”. If they come within a foot of my purple throbber I’ll rinse them down with my blood red piss and call the police. That’s right. I’m reporting these fuckers to the cops from now on.
By the way if you’re a girl and you think Emo Boys kissing other Emo Boys is cute then you’re wrong and obviously a dyke and you should be reported to the coastguard immediately. I’d pay anything to see you strung up in a net by your feet at the docks.
And another thing…..if you try to approach me for a tongue kiss in order to impress a girl I’ll bite your tongue off and spit it back down your throat. I’m far too virile for these pussy emo boys y’see.
So you really want to be an emo then? You should seriously check yourself into a mental asylum. I mean if you’re really that desperate to get laid turn gay. It’s more profitable in the long run and a lot quicker. Besides emo always leads to bum sex of one variety or another. It’s inevitable.
Argh I can see you are a persistent little bastard (or bitch, I don’t want to discriminate on the basis of gender)! Ok follow the steps in each of these sections and you’ll be emo in no time.
Cutting
- Self mutilation is extremely popular amongst young emo’s. In order to get started you must have something sharp in your hands. I recommend starting with a toothbrush. Now in order to cut yourself you must have already drank a quart of vodka and be on the verge of mental collapse. If you aren’t already, I’d recommend watching 2 new episodes of the Simpsons back to back.
- Once you are sufficiently pissed, drag the toothbrush across your arm as hard as possible. Whilst you’re doing this it might help to think of all of the shit things you’ve done to other people in your life. Continue digging the brush into your skin until it’s red as hell.
- Now once you’re finished with your first gouge, run into your bathroom to examine the damage. With any luck you’ll have left a big red mark across your arm. Now run around your house screaming until someone acknowledges your wound. If no one is awake jump on top of them and thrust your arm into their face. You must make your first cut known to everyone who’ll listen.
- Your parents will inevitably be distraught that you’ve injured yourself. Be sure to blame your behavior on their bad parenting. You might want to take this opportunity to blackmail them into buying you presents. Promise that you’ll stop hurting yourself if they buy you the entire My Chemical Romance back catalog.
- Now that you’ve made your first cut you’re ready to move onto bigger and better things. Why not try using a black ballpoint pen this time and aim to make your wound even redder? Continue on to ensure your parents keep buying you loads of neat stuff.
Sex
- In order to be emo you must be at the very least bisexual (and preferably pansexual). Sexuality is integral to your status as a misunderstood emo. You must make it your job to keep people guessing about your sexual preferences. Tell your father that you want to get married within the year and then bring an emo boy home the next night and rid him on the coffee table in the lounge just before your Dad gets home.
- Only ever kiss people of the same sex in public. Kissing privately is a waste of time.
- As I outlined earlier, it’s best to declare yourself pansexual. Pansexual’s are basically allowed to fuck everything that moves (and some things that don’t). Pansexuality is a growing trend throughout the emo world and it’s set to outgrow bisexuality by 2010.
Emo Clothing and Fashion
- Black is the order of the day here. We recommend shoplifting from thrift stores as it means you’ll be able to save all of your money for developing your alcoholism. Besides the guilt from stealing from the poor will make self-harm all the more entertaining at a later stage!
- Apply as much eye makeup as you can and in any shape possible. It doesn’t really matter, they aren’t any set rules here. Try to look like Ziggy Stardust after he’s been fucked by an elephant.
- If you’re a lazy mofo who’s short on creativity then you might want to go for the band hoodie and t-shirt options. You can make a half-assed stab at masking your laziness by tie-dying the bottom of your jeans. Or by coloring your hair blue, green or read.
Personality
- Remember as an emo you should not have a personality. It’s completely forbidden. If you are found uttering something halfway witty you’ll be immediately be carted off by Gerard Way’s droogs and placed under house arrest until you admit that you’ve been a bad boy/girl.
- Public panic attacks are in vogue and throwing them regularly in crowded places will win you respect of your peers. If you can’t summon a panic attack, try smashing your head repeatedly off of the sidewalk. If anyone tries to stop you, drop your pants and take a big steaming shit right there and then and roll about in it shamelessly.
- As an emo it’s extremely unfashionable to harbor any pipe-dreams of getting married. Or ever being happy for that matter. If you’re smiling too much then you are probably too happy and should rectify this immediately by either burning down a room in your house or converting to Zen Buddhism (the religion of the miserable bastard).
- The unwritten rule of emo is to treat your parents like shit. Remember they were the ones that created you! They are responsible for absolutely everything that’s gone wrong in your life so far and it was all for a quick fuck in the dark that was seriously inadequate anyway. You should spend at least 34 hours a month berating your parents face-to-face.. Leave suicide notes around the house and bloodied shirts. Tell them that once you’ve raised enough money from being a whore that you’ll leave the house and work full time in a titty bar.
- Why not form an emo band called ‘Bleeders Digest’?
Remember Jesus doesn’t love you and you’re going to die!
I didn’t actually know what Emos were until the other day but apparently they are a bunch of teenagers who roam around graveyards by night on the hunt for equally tormented souls and Subway sandwiches. Essentially they are exactly the same as Goths only they listen to ‘My Chemical Romance’ very whose name would imply that they are a bad My Bloody Valentine cover band.
But yeah I don’t really understand the point in the whole Emo thing. Grown men have been crying in public for generations. Just look at Morrissey for Christ’s sake. He’s been weeping ever since Johnny Marr walked out for refusing to suck him off after a show. Why invent another useless label?
Emo kids come in all different shapes and sizes. Most of them have truly shit hair as standard though.
Anyway over the next few weeks I’m gonna take more time to investigate the emo subculture to see how it differs from goth (if at all). If I’m lucky I might ever bag myself an Emo Kid to run some tests on, although whether or not this is desirable is up for debate. After all they’d probably end up moving in with me, contributing nothing to house keeping, smearing their own blood all over my bathroom walls and sleeping to mid afternoon.
According to an article printed in the Sun today, it is now legal for women to pleasure themselves in public throughout the UK. This wouldn’t be so bad in itself if men weren’t prohibited from the exact same act. It’s not something I really want to see either way when I’m sitting there munching on my chips at the beach. The last thing you want is some fat bastard walking past you pounding his parson whilst you’re trying to keep your food in your stomach. But still, this law should apply to both sexes or none at all. I blame those goddamn commie feminists, they won’t stop until they have us all in chains with electric pegs attached to our nipples.
Sure enough I might be tempted to pleasure myself in a field at night providing there were no cows around. I mean Jesus, I’d be terrified that one would come up behind me and try to jag me up the arse or something! I wouldn’t be able to run away either because my bags would be around my ankles.
(Read on me pretty!)
So it seems as if my family have been reeled in by all of this free broadband malarkey offered by Carphone Warehouse through their Talk-Talk service. I’d be indifferent about it if it weren’t for the fact that I had the opportunity to ring BT to request a MAC code. How I fucking love ringing BT. I’ve inherited this all from my mother who loves hollering down the phone to the bastards!
Anywhooo, I gave them a call and I’m was put through to this eager sounding woman. I could tell she was fat. I think it was the shallowness of her breath. Anyway I asked for a MAC code. And she responded with a “Why?”. A good start. I knew fun and games were ahead. I had to restrain myself from screaming “Because yer fucking shite luv! ” down the phone at her but I wasn’t prepared to lower myself to such levels. I leave such tomfoolery to my mother.
(Read on me pretty!)
Who would have thunk it? Ever since Quizmania made the transition from ITV1 to ITV2, I have been unable to fill the massive void left by the show. Why not watch it on ITV2 I hear ye ask? Well, being a technophobe I refuse to acquire one of those fancy set-top boxes. I am happy with terrestial television. You don’t need more than 5 channels on TV otherwise you start channel-hopping restlessly in fear of missing the ultimate T.V. program which just doesn’t exist. Yet you fear it might.
I’ve just been watching The Mint and I must say it’s shit. If Quizmania was your standard tarty hoe, then The Mint is a 30 stone Haitan prostitute strutting the kerbs with only a worn brown windbreaker to shield her massive frame from the world. Not that The Mint is in anyway massive. Apart from being massively shite of course. It lacks the magnetism that pure desperation can only bring.
Y’see the producers of The Mint seem to have pumped more resources into the project. For part of the show they hire a Z-list celebrity to sit in the studio to talk with the host. Well it’s usually a Z-list celeb but tonight it was Jim fucking Bowen. It nearly broke my heart to see him on there partaking in such filth.
Kilroy Silk must make an appearance on The Mint. Kilroy Silk must die on the Mint.
(Read on me pretty!)
Thats right. You can do it here. You know you’ve always wanted to.
There are times where puking is a necessary evil. Just ask Karen Carpenter and Lady Diana for the cold hard facts.
On many occasions I’ve been out on the piss and came home thinking “I feel alright, let’s go to bed” only to be awoken at quarter to 4 with a violent stream of vomit guldering out of my mouth and nostils.
Let’s face it, vomiting isn’t pleasant. It’s one of the most painful and embarassing functions your body has at it’s disposal. In saying that there are times where it is necessary to get it out of you.
“Better out than in” is a philosophy that all successful barfers have adopted at one time or another. Anyway enough of the waffling, below are a few guidelines on how to make yourself vomit. And fast.
1) Buy some Andrews Liver Salts. Follow the instructions on the side and barf your way to bliss. Make sure that no-one is around, particularly if you want to be discreet about this. You will be roaring like a lion and the last thing you want is your father to walk in to the bathroom in his boxers whilst your head is half buried in the sink.
2) Spin around in circles. This method is a classic and it’s one that often alludes the eager young barfer. Spin really fast for about 3 minutes and when you stop, think about the time you walked in on your elderly grandmother having a shit. Picture her sitting there, bemused by your unannounced entry. Recall the smell, that weird twang of decaying vegetable matter and 10 year old rotten meat.
(Read on me pretty!)
Recently it seems as though chavs have become the scapegoats in modern society. Every head on car accident, smashed window or knife attack is attributed to the baseball cap donning masses. Some would say that this is persecution. And they may have a point. I however couldn’t possibly give less of a fuck. Most of them deserve it.
If you are a chav and you are contemplating suicide please read this checklist and ensure that you have completed all of the tasks before topping yourself with a blue WKD and your mothers sleeping pills. Otherwise your peers will look down upon you in Valhalla.
1) Have you stole a shopping trolley from Tesco’s, fucking it up and down footpaths, terrorising both the elderly and young children before finally pushing it onto the road/into the nearest river?
2) Have you went 3 weeks without washing? Have you sat around all day on a Sunday watching the Match of the Day highlights whilst admiring your own body odour?
3) Have you ever considering selling pirate CD’s through an advertisment in your local newspapers free advertisements section? Have you sent away the application form only to receive the threat of legal action from the publishers of the paper?
The existential despair experienced by chavs can sometimes be too great to handle. Just hold on.
(Read on me pretty!)
There is a long documented history surrounding the relations of the chav and the common sheep. Over the past few centuries many of our wooly comrades have suffered vicious sexual assaults at the hands of the British underclass. This behaviour is simply not acceptable and by investigating the possible motives for such seemingly unproked attacks we’ll hopefully be able to reduce the rate at which these unfortunate events occur.
The Blow Up Sheep Will Often Result In The Blown Sheep
Sex shops have a lot to answer for. The Blow Up Sheep has made an institution of sheep fuckery amongst chavs. Stocking these things is basically like saying “Aye well Mate we don’t have any real sheep on the premises, so here’s a plastic one which should do you until the next time you are up in the country. And by the way, the next time you are sitting on top of a real one, give it a dick slap for me. *wink wink*”
In this modern age such conduct is completely unacceptable. Our ancestors are to blame for this sickeningly glib attitude to animal harassment. Charles Dickens, for one, used to spend much of his time in the Penines sprinting after farm yard animals with a big black dildo. Maybe this helps explain why his books were so shite.
(Read on me pretty!)
I hate homemade advertisements for a number of reasons. Firstly, they are tacky as fuck. Secondly, they are annoying as fuck. And last and by no means least, they are shite. The new Junction One commerical is no different. Well……..it would be different if it wasn’t for one section of the advertisement in which a Ginger Kid exclaims “Ahoy shipmates!” for absolutely no reason.
I have nothing against children. I was one once. Free of cynicism and bile. Oh, how that’s changed over the years. Anyway, yeah. I just don’t understand why they had to select a child who was so bloody well annoying.
First and foremost he’s ginger. Secondly, he looks like an elf. Thirdly, he has a godawful English accent. Fourthly, who the fuck shouts “Ahoy Shipmates!” these days? I mean to the best of my knowledge it isn’t International Talk like a Pirate Day. There is no call for it. Fifthly, he probably smells. Sixthly, he made me stab myself in the forehead with a plastic chippy fork, I was that irked by his performance.
Hucknall…….he was once a Ginger kid too. Fuckers the lot of them.
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Sometimes it is necessary to take the life of another human being. Its an unfortunate symptom of the human condition. Wars are a testimony to that. Regardless of any moral issues, it can be beneficial to society to actually take chavs out. In the following article I’ll explore several well-versed methods on chavocide.
Walk up to a Chav and tongue kiss him in front of his mates.
This will surely ensure a suicide. His peers will mock him continually for failing to resist your approach. It comes at a cost though. After all you will be kissing the daft bastard and fuck knows what diseases you’ll catch off him. Possibly chlorea or the whooping cough.
In order to pull this one off successfully you must be able to brush off a chav attack with either CS gas or a crate of Buckfast. If you whip out the crate you can either use the bottles as a weapon or simply offer them as a gift to the gang. Be aware that if you take the latter approach they may try to fuck you over the head with a bottle. This however is unlikely as it would be a waste of precious alcohol and to the chav massive such an event must be avoided at all costs.
In saying that they could down the buckfast on the spot and use the empty bottles against you. Either way you must be on your guard if you want to live. You must also be secure within your sexuality. If you are seriously offended when people call you gay this approach may not be for you.
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I remember as an impressionable young boy being quite partial to Sally Webster out of Coronation Street. I had quite bad eyesight at the time, some even speculated that I had tunnel vision which is probably not too far from the truth. But yeah, looking back on it, it’s quite embarassing particularly with her recent storylines in Corrie. Not forgetting the fact that she is a munt-munt of the highest order.
I’ve no idea how the hell she’s remained in that soap for so long. She can’t even act. And not in a redeemably camp kinda way. She’s just shite. It’s hard to tell at times who’s actually worse, her or her mongoloid gorilla-man husband Kevin. They are both as bad as each other I guess. That was a cop out I know, but just thinking about them is enough to make me want to claw my own eyes out.
Webster’s recent nervous breakdown has to be one of the greatest farces of all time. She wasn’t actually acting any differently than normal. She put in the same, drab stock Northern girl performance with the only difference being her voice. She spoke at maybe an octave higher than usual and that was about it.
Last year I received a letter from Granada Television threatening legal action if I did not desist in sending hate letters to Mrs Webster. There was nothing particularly threatening in the content of my own correspondence, it was just that I insisted on using the phrase “get the daft blonde cunt out” at regular intervals. Still it seems that my protests have fallen upon deaf ears.
Sally Webster. She’s like a less shaggable David Batty.
Thankfully she hasn’t been in Coronation Street at late but it won’t be too long until another half arsed storyline revolving around her idiotic goth daughter and the man-slag from across the street arrives on our screens.
(Read on me pretty!)
He’s been in the news seemingly non-stop for the last couple of months and I’m beginning to become quite repulsed by his “I’m a lurverley tealady!” act. I’m far from an expert at football but I do know this, Steve McClaren is a pussy who would destroy England’s chance of ever winning a game again.
He doesn’t seem to have much spirit. He seems to be more interested in eating chocolate digestive biscuits and organising the crumbs into sketches of dead Lithuanian footballers.
The truth is, Middlesbrough have played woefully bad at times this season and after the matches he just doesn’t seem to give a shit. Which is an admirable quality if you are an unemployed layabout like me but not if you are a manager of a struggling Premiership side.
If England are to win anything they need someone completely unstable at the helm. And who fits that description better than Psycho Stuart Pearce? He is a man with balls. I mean, he stages his own pitch invasions for fucks sake! You can’t get anymore passionate than that.
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I’ve been told by a few people I am the antichrist, which might explain why I am constantly flanked by Christian Evangelists whilst out on the piss at late night. What is it in particular that makes me afraid of them? Well how long do you have, oh patient visitor?
One of the most intimidating characteristics of the Christian Evangelist is their sheer determination. They will do almost anything to win your soul. Anything. Sometimes this may involve a cup of tea or a hotdog. Sometimes a wagon wheel and a cup of orange squash. Usually they will just shout at you for a while whilst furrowing their brows. Either way its aggro and it is not necessary.
It is becoming increasingly common to encounter these people at night, doling out phamplets to anyone with hands. I encountered some of them a few months ago on the way to a pub. I saw 6 sillouhettes in the distance and thought “Oh fuck, my life is over!”. Then I saw that the people in front of me were in fact overcoats and then I knew immediately who I was contending with. It was the God Squad.
I knew what was coming next. “Have you accepted Jesus Christ as your saviour?” the tall one whispered. Being a smartarse I eagerly replied “Aye, he’s my ma” And as you might expect that left them in the lurch for long enough to escape in haste.
(Read on me pretty!)
I don’t know what it is with Monty but I cannot handle the sight of him. So much so that whenever he is on television hari-kari becomes a feasible option. It is that bad. He is just the epitome of staleness. He reminds me of a trapped cabbage fart in an airing cupboard. He’s everything that is wrong with Britain. He isn’t remotely entertaining. He wears horrible jumpers. His face resembles a possums cunt.
I do love it when he loses. Everytime he’s on I pray that he makes a double bogey at every fucking hole. It really makes me chuckle when his temper flares and he starts chucking his clubs about like a right tosser. I would love to be on the green of the 18th hole when hes 2 shots ahead of all of the competition in a major tournament and fire one of my shoes at him or something. His reaction would be priceless.
He’d probably start by firing his club down to the ground. He would then pick it up and run over to me and I would be like “Montgomerie, do not come any closer or else you will be moving permanently to Enuchville.” Terrified by my empty threat he would turn his back and begin swinging his clubs around, trying to break them over his knee. Only failing badly and injuring his rickety old peg.
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In this new section, Cocteau Twins guitarist Robin Guthrie reviews cheeses from across the globe in his usual curiously grim manner.
Edam
I’ve always found the Wax to be a complete burden. You’d be sitting there cutting bits off it and all of a sudden you’d come to the red part and you’d be a bit lost for words. Usually I end up with a slice which contains half wax and half cheese and in that situation I just eat it. It’s the easiest way really. I’m just worried about the prospect of one day shitting a major wax ball. That could cause some serious anal complaints at some point in the future. It won’t stop me from eating them though.
Cheddar
It’s the old favourite isn’t it? Frankly I’m quite bored of it. It’s something your ma would always buy for the sandwiches and it just become too commonplace for it be exciting. I do still have the odd bit of it now and again just for nostalgia’s sake, nothing more. There are other cheeses out there that seriously kick its ass though. Most of them do in fact.
Danish Blue
Everytime I eat Danish blue I can hear my arteries close over just a little bit more. It’s terrifying. You bite into it and you know your chlorestrol score is going to go up by about 100 points. Regardless, it’s fucking tasty. I wouldn’t buy a whole block of it though. Instead I prefer to buy the little squares you can get in pic n mixes. Usually I’d just go down to the Co-op and buy some of it from the Cheese Pic N Mix section. You can get about 5 cubes for £1 which is incredible value.
Gouda
I could never really tell the difference between this and Edam. I think Gouda is Edam’s pailer less pronounced cousin. That said, I can have no complaints as it is a tasty little number. Goes well with a glass of chardonnay after spending a hard day moping around the house.
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If there is one event in the year that really makes my blood boil, it is the Grand National. I am fed up of being harassed by my family to place bets on something that I don’t even remotely care about. There are more important things in life than 50 long legged shitheads belting their way round a furlong long course. Really, where is the fun in that?
It’s kinda like Formula One in that the only entertainment comes with a pile up. Or when one of the horses tosses off the jockey and runs the wrong way around the track smashing into all of the other horseys.
It would be more entertaining if they held the Grand National in a city centre. That way the horses would actually face a challenge in the form of roadside protestors, articulated lorries and banana peels. What is the big deal with running around a field for 5 minutes hopping over what are essentially park benches? The horses fucking love it.
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Yer’ve Got Fucking Great Teeth is the new album from Robin Guthrie, a follow-up to his rock-de-force ‘Imperial’ and ‘Vimto Has It’s Merits But It’s Still Shite’. We were lucky enough to interview the man himself, asking him about his new album and how life in general has been treating him.
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Unless you’ve been stranded in a cupboard for the last 500 years you will have encountered a Goth. Most consider Goths to be harmless, soulless creatures who masturbate over Anne Rice novels and Jesus and Mary Chain LP’s. This is far from the complete picture.
The purpose of this page is to inform the ignorant of the threat that goths pose to society and the various tactics that they will employ to try to get you to join their ranks. In due course we will also outline the real hierarchy of goths.
Goths? Organised?
That’s right, many insiders consider the goths to be the new Fourth Reich, a highly efficient unit of posers, loners and whingers who are ready to enslave the world with their horrificly bad make-up, poetry and clothes.
The True Hierarchy of Gothdom
This song is a definite contender for the worst song ever recorded and it’s freaky as fuck to boot. Why was it ever even published? I don’t think my ears have experienced anything as brainrottingly futile (and that is saying something, boy have I subjected them to some shite over the years!)
The theme of the composition seems to be about safeguarding the future for our children by restricting their access to television. And this was in the 80’s when the most offensive program on television was ‘Murder She Wrote’.
It all starts with an innocent enough circus ditty which is repeated at random points throughout the score. This is followed by a bizarre social commentary by Karel directed towards his son which includes a perplexing question in the form of “Do you see the cat, do you see the mouse?”. Well use your imagination Karel, if your son is watching Tom+Jerry there is a good chance that one of the two characters will make an appearance at some stage in the show y’know?
For once I think I will refrain from commenting as this picture well and truly speaks for itself.
It goes on. And as it all progresses it becomes ever more pretentious.
(Read on me pretty!)
There are countless meaningless cliches present in the English language. Just check out the average day time talk show for evidence.
None grate me as much as the abomination that is “Be Yourself”. People have forced this phrase upon me countless times, usually before job interviews. Let me ask you, who else am I meant to be bar myself? It is very unlikely that I can be Sven Goran Eriksson no matter how hard I try. Even If I did put a lot of effort into it, it would be nothing more than a pale imitation.
And the same applies when someone asks you to be yourself, only this time you are imitating who others think you are.
Job interviews are by their nature absurd and are rendered even more so when one of the interviewers attempts to settle your nerves by telling you to be yourself.
At my next job interview appearance I am going to go dressed like the fellow on the left.
(Read on me pretty!)
The latest news update on Pete from the BBC.
Listen to a snippet of an interview I had with Pete earlier this week
Get yer own one!!
The Pete Doherty Crime Spree!
Went to Austria and released a cult hit single called ‘The Holocaust? What the fuck was that?’. The police found a loaded syringe sticking out of your dick during a routine cavity search. You enjoy spaying other peoples pets at home without the owners permission. Your own brand of moonshine has killed at least 50 people in Durham. Convicted of harassing Chancellor Gordon Brown with 5,000 nuisance calls over a period of 10 days.
Your Sentence?
Are you related to these judges or something Pete? You are free to go home.
Pete’s’ message to the public!
‘I’m going clean this time definitely. What? Why are you sniggering?’
(Read on me pretty!)
Contrary to its title Darkstarlings is not the website of a charity for depressed birds, it is in fact a portal for goths and metalheads to join hands and moan about how shit life is.
I decided that I wanted a piece of the action. So I signed up. What follows is a transcript of my terrifying journey into gothdom.
My first task was to choose a username that would not raise suspicion. So I choose something that most goff types would find easy to digest.
Notice the little star logo in the top left hand corner? That indicates that we’ve entered into the scary-goth-lair. When shite symbolism is about, you know the goths cannot be too far away.
After filling out a short form and responding to a verification mail, I am in.
It will be soon time to introduce myself to the community, but before that I must fill in a little more information about me in my profile.
It’s an intriguing start. One of the very first questions concerns my sexual orientation. Being a new psuedo-goth my sexual orientation must be scene friendly. Straight is not an answer here. So I decided to choose “pansexual” just for kicks. Does that mean that I fuck woks? Time will only tell.
(Read on me pretty!)
I am a raving insomniac and have been since I can remember. I would therefore classify myself as an expert at judging the quality of late night television. I have seen it all from prison dramas based around Aussie farm girls to documentaries about illicit sex.
I came home from Dublin late one night exhausted. It had been a great day, much beer had been consumed and I was feeling rather merry. I decided to chance my arm with the television in the hope that something passable would be on. I changed the channel to ITV. And there it was in all of its tacky glory.
Quizmania is like nothing you have ever seen before. It is a “quiz show” where viewers get to play by phoning up a premium rate number in an attempt to get through live on air to have a chance at winning a cash prize.
The games are brain meltingly simple. The most common form is a quiz where you have to give the name of a famous person with the first name they present you with. The other night it was “David”. Of course none of the really famous David’s were on the list, so even if you got through to the studio you still have about a 500000/1 chance of winning.
(Read on me pretty!)
Whatever happened to a good old fashioned “hello” or “right mate”? These days I am confronted by people continually asking me “How’s it going” without them actually stopping to hear my response.
Since when has “How’s it going?” been a valid salutation between two acquiantances who have different places to go to? Am I the only one who becomes completely bewildered when this question is posed?
What the fuck are you meant to say in response if you are not planning on sticking about? You can hardly say hello as that will make you sound retarded. If you simply say “fine” it’s going to sound far too abrupt and you’ll come across as an ignorant twod.
It doesn’t help either if you like the person who asks it. You are completely cornered. Unless of course you take a direct course of action.
(Read on me pretty!)
Des and Mel is a weekday British talkshow enjoyed by the unemployed and students. It is presented by legendary swinger Des O’Connor and well known dimwit Melanie Sykes. The presenters pride the show on being joyous with both protagonists laughing hysterically throughout the program to the detriment of any actual content.
Alright I’ll concede, it’s good to have an optimistic show to counterbalance the gloom and doom of the news and soap operas. In saying that it you can go too far and that’s certainly the case with The Des and Mel Show.
Sometimes I find myself running over to the T.V. in hysterics shaking the television to and fro screaming “Stop fucking laughing!!! Just stop it!! Its highly offputting! It can’t be that funny can it? Does Mel have a weasel in her twod or something? Stop it!!”
It does not help matters that Desmond acts like a complete slut throughout the program demanding that viewers tell their friends about it. How desperate is Des? Does he get paid by the viewer? Is he trying to reel in as many people as possible so that he can later bed the more desperate ladies who may be watching at home?
(Read on me pretty!)
It’s been all over the news recently like a demented hungry rash. We’re constantly being told about how about 555,000,000 of us are going to die because of Avian flu even if they make a vaccine in time.
This is fair enough, we don’t have a right to this earth at all and a good few deaths will inevitably lighten the load on the world and perhaps it will all make people think a little bit more about what exactly their lives mean.
However it has occured to me that no one really cares about the Birds. Have the flapping bastards got one inch of column space from a sympathetic journalist attempting to reassure them that everything will be ok?
No. Its all about us. Fuck the ducks and the pidgeons and the chickens. The only reason why we might be concerned about the latter is that they are a culinary favourite of ours.
We should endeavour to comfort our beaked friends in their hour of need. Next time you have an hour or two go around to the local duck pond with a 12 inch sub and feed the birds. You might not hear a quack in a long time.
(Read on me pretty!)
Pens to me are just absolutely useless. I went through a stage of losing about 50 of them a week in school and I’d always end up having to shyly ask some fucker I despised for the loan of one during a lesson. There was nothing more confidence-sapping than having to plead with someone for a writing implement. You would feel like absolute shite. As time went by I learnt that my dignity was too important for any of that bullshit.
Towards the end of my academic tenure I used to pretend that I was writing with a pen. Yes! I would hold my hand in such a way and actually deceive others into believing I had a pen in there. It is amazing how something that seems so trivial becomes such a big thing when you do not have one and you are being ordered to write down notes on the physics behind the common vibrator.
I think its truly disgraceful that as students we have to use pens to write out our exam script. By 30 minutes into the exam I can barely move my hand at all. It usually spasms like a dog with an live electric current running through its collar. I mean this is the age of keyboards. Why can’t we use laptops to do exams or sommat?
Yummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Aye to fuck mate.
It’s confession time good fellows. I’m a boy who eats pens. It started off with just nibbling the cap. I’d chew it up good and proper. Make sure that the straight bit was completely bent and maybe use it as a whistle. When this stopped being entertaining I would move onto the main part of the pen. I’d hoke out the ball thing at the top with my teeth and chew it up. This would usually end up being a teeth breaker but ultimately tremendous fun.
(Read on me pretty!)
I hate the “What I’m Listening To” feature on Msn Messenger. And whats more I hate myself all the more when I use it. Instead of simply listening to music that I want to I have to cater for my target audience. Who is online on msn? What do I want to be seen to be listening to in front of these people?
This is shallow I know but I see it all the time with people on my list. There are 2 different groups of people. You have those who will deliberately listen to all of the most obscure music they can find so that they can appear to be all mysterious and cool.
These are the same type of people who will continually complain about bands selling out. Whining nonstop about how mainstream music is shit and such.
I was once like this. I listened to obscure music because I felt very mediocre in comparison to other fans of the band. I was not as intelligent as a lot of the bands fanbase or as goodlooking so I decided to start listening to obscure bands so that I had something of my own. I wanted something to show for my mediocrity. I wanted to say to the public “Look I listen to these bands, you’ve never heard of them so therefore I rock and you do not.”
(Read on me pretty!)
Miss McKeith should rightly be dubbed the bastard chipmunk royale of all television surpassing even Gail Platt of Coronation Street fame.
Her program “You Are What You Eat” is utterly tired bollocks. In case you haven’t seen it she visits a new fatties house each week and starts stalking them everywhere, hoking through their bins to find out just what they eat in a week. Usually fatty rightly plays down her claims that they are sending themselves to an early grave.
McKeith being the ultimately bitch-hound from hell will not give up until she wears this weeks victim down by showing them pictures of what they’ll look like in 30 minutes if they keep eating 50,000 calories an hour. Her aim is to destroy the persons mind so that they will cave into and absorb her lettuce munching propaganda.
Hi Satan!
McKeith seems to hate any foods that are not lettuce. I mean have you actually seen her? She does fit the role of a chipmunk very well with her abdomen resembling that of a squirrel. An ugly rat-bag squirrel. Who is she to talk to others about lifestyle changes? She probably sits on a tree stump trying to crack open a nut with her razor sharp teeth. To no avail.
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As you might have read before in the “Taking A Shit” article I am fond of relieving myself. It helps me to relate to my cultural heritage. It makes me feel like a man.
However I cannot understand how people can shit in public toilets. Or even school toilets for that matter. I remember in school having to use the toilets after some constipated shit-guaze of a man who would spend more time than is necessary trying to coach one out.
You’d enter the cubicle after he had finished and you’d try the fuck not to look down into the bowl. You’d make a pact with your brain. Brain! Do! Not! Look! Into! The! Fucking! Bowl! You would then undo your zipper and what with your brain being a complete twod and all it would look down into the murky depths of the can and you’d see this one perfectly round doughy ball of shit.
Bewilderment would ensue in the form of “What the fuck? Should my shits be like this? My shits are usually shaped like lobsters rather than mini cheese footballs. What am I doing wrong? Am I not eating enough fibre? Am I eating too much? Oh the alienation!”
(Read on me pretty!)
Anyone remember the Tamagotchi craze? Jesus Christ how I was addicted to those infernal bleeping bastards! I used to own about 30 of them at a time as a young ripper. Owning a virtual pet was such fun and moreover it took attention away from my actual pet which was a whiney skinny fucker.
So 5 years after Tamagotchi’s disappeared off the radar I discovered the Neopets site thinking “Yes, another chance to own a virtual pet. This time it doesn’t bleep and you can buy it all sorts of shit.” I gladly signed up completely unaware of the hell that would unsue over the following couple of months.
I started up by adopting a Pteri which is a dinosaur of sorts. I took an instant dislike to my new pet. Everytime I fed the fucker it told me I was the best. I was not willing to stand for such unashamed wankery so I cut myself completely off from the critter and decided to go and to try to make some money so I could buy……….fuck knows what really.
It is enough to send shivers down my spine. I am personally praying for the extinction of the Pteri.
And that was the beautiful thing about it all. You could have 6,000,000,000 Neopoints and you’d have absolutely nothing worthwhile buying. Sure you could go about reading your pet books and sure enough it would get smarter but to no actual avail.
There was no point. As the pets intelligence grew nothing happened to its intellect. It still came out with the same shit everytime I fed it (which by now was extremely rare). It still greeted you every morning with the same moronic grin even if it hadn’t ate since the Battle of Hastings.
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If there is one thing that bores me it is the great fox hunting debate. To me it is completely irrelevant as there are no hunts that that have been held in Northern Ireland to the best of my knowledge. Which is a pity as like the bull run it has great potential for entertainment.
From what I’ve seen from television I do not believe that it should be the foxes being persued. Foxes are great, sure they may have a reputation for massacring farm animals but that gives them something in common with humans.
There is a reasonable to good chance that this man is a cunt.
Now, to concentrate on the humans for a moment. First things first, the outfits need to go. Who ever thought up the hunt costumes should be brought in front of the court of law and royally shat upon. By a great big dove of justice. They are absoutely horrendous looking. Are they really trying to look ike English soldiers going to battle with Napoleon? Anyway……
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Everytime I go out a walk I encounter old people walking their nasty little hounds around the block. The bastards always stare at moi and on occasion make a half arsed effort at a mauling but always pull away inches from my shoes. They must realise that I have quite a sizeable stomp.
I could accept this nonsense if I understood why old people own small dogs. Wouldn’t it make more sense if old people owned the massive fuckers that people in their 20’s walk? If you saw a 70 year old man walking a Great Dane with blood around its lips you would seriously think twice about trying to mug him.
Ok, bigger dogs might require a bit more maintenance but it pays for itself in the long run. Large dogs can carry larger things. You could even use something like a Great Dane as a dinner tray.
This is all part of my vendetta against small dogs. I seriously hate the fuckers. I’ll be walking down the alleyway towards work and some fucker behind a gate will jump out and start barking at me.
Less of this shit already please.
(Read on me pretty!)
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