Small talk should be banned. I don’t want people to be friendly with me, especially when I have nothing in common with them. I only have time for proper conversation. Life’s too short to be embroiled in bland small talk for the rest of time.

God it’s all pointless.

I can’t be talking to anyone these days at all. I want to do is to sit about and admire the smell of my own balls. Is that too much to ask?

It’s bad enough having to watch him on GMTV in the mornings diagnose old men with cock cancer without being forced into watching him shit out his ‘Oh I’m still shit at skating but I’m getting better’ routine. Who gives a fuck?

What I’d like to see is him collapse right onto his hole, rupture his arse and for him to have to diagnose his own prolapsed rectum on Breakfast television. I would whoop with joy as Dr Hilary bends over with a magnifying glass to analyze the full extent of the injuries he’s inflicted on his sorry smug hole.

That would be real entertainment now. Especially if Andrew Castle had to knock the broken bone back into place with a tennis bat.

It’s because they suck and people are over-rated.

I’ve tried other means of socializing in the past, like going to the cinema and joining the ramblers, but both just leave me hating humans all the more. Cinemas in particular are fucking pointless. I only go there to eat popcorn for 20 minutes. Once my bowl is finished, I want to move on. The last thing I wanna do is spend 2 hours watching a bland movie whilst surrounded by all sorts of shit heads and low lives.

So if you’re looking for a way to socialize without alcohol, there isn’t one. Stay indoors and count the number of scabs on your left bollock. It’s the only way forward, my friend.

On average I start to become an asshole after about half a bottle of Whiskey. I will start waltzing about town with a traffic cone lodged on top of my head, flash my cock at the cops and steal chips from the local fish shop.

It’s not until I’ve consumed a full bottle of whiskey that the real carnage begins. During this phase my body will clink into hunter-gatherer mode and I’ll begin surveying the landscape for anything that could potentially be tasty, whether it’s a KFC, the cat next door or my own fist.

If I can not get anything to eat, then I’ll deliberately piss and shit myself out of spite. I only ever do this when I’m in another persons house. There’s nothing like smudging my ass into their sofa just to leave them fond memories of my night out at their house.

In case you don’t know who he is, Eckhart Tolle is a new age guru who believes that in order to achieve spiritual enlightenment we have to shut the fuck up for a minute. So far he’s written 3 books, all of which should be titled ‘Shut the Fuck Up’ as that’s the one and only premise that they teach. Somehow he manages to stretch out each publication to about 5,000 pages, iterating over the same point endlessly.

I’ve even watched shitloads of his videos on Youtube and most of them are unbearable. I honestly feel like I’ve been drugged after watching. It’s less exciting than watching flies fuck. The man spends about 4 hours pausing and guffawing as he realizes that the cash is rolling in whilst the gullible idiots who subscribe to his new-age mumbo jumbo are thinking they are on step away from reaching enlightenment.

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.

The law also states that women can’t masturbate at the bar in pubs but can do so anywhere else in the premises. What if you’re sitting there enjoying a nice pub lunch with your missus and this boiler comes over and starts yanking away over your soup? How would you respond? Would you call the waiter or just walk out? Or would you watch? I don’t know what I’d do to be honest. I’d probably keel over and die out of shock. Especially if she came in my dinner. That would be the final straw. I mean if you were that worried about a dirty hoe coming over to you, you could just sit at the bar and eat. But then you’d have to talk to the dirty old men, goddamnit.

I wonder what sort of ramifications this will have for tittie bars and massage parlours? Will whores openly offer up their wares in the Post Office? Surely decency must prevail! We need to make a stand against this. Every male from the UK should be presented with a cricket bat which they you can use if to dissaude a woman from performing lewd acts from his company. The government should issue old women with them too. But that could easily backfire if most old women are like Rita out of Coronation Street. It’d just encourage them to love themselves even more.

And at this point in the post I’m gonna stop. I feel violently ill.

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.

I told her I just wanted to leave BT and asked again for a code. She put me on hold for 3 minutes. Then she asked me “Are you moving to Talk Talk?” and just to stir shit I replied with a resounding YES. What followed was a barrage of questions similar in structure and in content to the following “Do you realise Talk-Talk are shite? Do you realise that they shit on their customers from a great height sir? Do you know it costs 50p a minute to ring their legal team Sir?” “Do you realise that if you leave us now we will send around the boys to knock your cunt in?”

I took such delight in responding yes to every question. I wasn’t listening at all. She could have been telling me that Talk-Talk will start sending me live uncorked alligators through the post each and every month and I would not have cared. I was feeding off her exasperation. She knew I was a lost cause and I was rubbing it in.

Cut to a few days later……..

Tonight we were sitting down for our tea and the phone rings. My mother picks up. Its BT and by the sounds of it, it’s the same woman as before, with the same list of questions. I was surprised that the old-girl kept her cool. She just told them “Look luv, I’m not interested, I’m at my fucking spuds and I’m watching Midsommer Murders re-runs. Now leave me in peace” and down went the phone.

Several minutes later the telephone starts again. It’s BT again. This time it’s a nervous sounding man with a slight country accent. It seems that BT are playing silly buggers with us as he is reading off the same list that the other girl was. I know whats gonna happen next as I can see my mothers face turn purple. She stands there, clenching both her jaw and fists waiting for her moment to pounce like a big-fucking-tiger.

And it comes “Yer girl was only on the phone 2 fucking minutes ago! What do you mean what Girl? That fucking BT girl with the same fucking questions. Aye. I’m not answering any more, ye fucking wanker”. At this point the young man stops and whispers a meek “Pardon?” and my ma retalliates with a “You fucking heard me. Bye” before slamming down the phone.

I do hope they ring again. I do fear for the next poor bastard though.

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.

The next day, I reflected back on this encounter and soon agreed that my conduct was quite shoddy. I should have in fact asked one of them where they got their overcoats and how much it would be to print a personalised message on them. But no. I had to be a smart arse.

I’ve encountered these people during the day too. Mostly in village squares. A lot of them have guitars. And a lot of them are shite at the guitar. At times I have had the overwhelming temptation to approach them to make a song request, asking them if they know any Hendrix or Beatles classics. The worrying thing is I know they would probably play a track like that and replace the original lyrics with a cheesy ode to Christ.

It seems to me that most Evangelists are just drunks who got burnt out on booze and drugs and on one Sunday morning after a particularly bad acid trip, attended a Free Presbyterian sermon and were transformed in Christ. The worst thing is in 15 years time I know I will become an Evangelist and your child will be out on the town and I’ll be out hassling them with my spiritual wares.

I will be the one throwing empty polythene cups at them ordering them to either Repent or to prepare themselves for the fiery cauldrons of hell. That said, I think I’d make a damn good preacher. I’ve got the gift of the gab. After all I’ve been bullshitting people on this website for over a year and those skills are easily transferable over to Christianity.

It would mean I would have access to those customisable overcoats too. Oh the possibilities.

“And Jesus said, fuck me raw!”

Sexy related sites on the web

Why Christians Suck
Christians Sucks Eggs
Church Marketing Sucks

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.

Nothing however will prepare you for the enormity of shite that is the chorus. The song changes gear and a haunting strings score is introduced with his demented son Matthew ranting over the top of it. Bare in mind that he was about 5 at the time. It’s far more unnerving than the Exorcist ever was thanks to the hysterically deluded refrain “A-team! A-team! I see the A-team!”.

And just as you think it is about to finish the circusy section starts again. This is followed by another verse which is identical to the first. Fialka sounds like Neil Tenant tripping on belladonna, at any moment you are expecting his voice to break into it’s natural satanic form and for him to commence throwing abuse at the Creator.

Incidentally nothing this exciting ever happens. The verse just seems to continue on with one of the most depressing drum beats since Joy Division’s ‘Decades’.

After 2 minutes of listening to this you will probably begin lapsing into unconsciousness. It is for the best that you choose a sitter who will intervene if you decide to start smashing your head off your desk in utter despair. It has happened to me before.

And still it goes and if you have been paying any attention to the song so far you’ll know whats coming next. Yes, it’s that fucking chorus again and the psychotic young hoodlum continues to list bad T.V. shows from the 80’s.

Finally the song ends with one of the most bewildering anecdotes of all time. Young Matthew informs the audience that “it’s all a game, I hope, I hope”. What Matthew is referring to is up for debate. At least it would be if it was worth debating. Personally I am more interested on why he feels he needs to repeat “I hope” twice. Why could he not have just placed emphasis on the first “I hope” and left it at that? Does he wish to extend our turmoil for as long as possible?

And the answer is yes as it’s about another minute before the cacaphony finally winds down and you can begin contemplating the sheer horror of the last 5 minutes.

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.

Usually I respond by saying “Alright then, I’ll be my fucking self, first things first I’m gonna take this suit off and maybe keep the shirt on. That’s right baby, I’m stripping right down to my boxers and I’m gonna stare at my hairy legs for a good half hour. And by the way. The only reason why I’m even here is because I’m hoping to extend my ever growing collection of assault rifles with my salary. Illegal? No. You are thinking of grenade launchers. I have several of them back home too”.

Of course this approach will usually get you no where on the career ladder unless you are from Drogheda.

The truth is that when someone starts on you with this cliche they are asking you to completely water your personality down. To appear completely inoffensive even if you use “cunt” three times a sentence. They are asking you to ignore your roots and to present yourself as a generic, bland excuse for a human being who titters at jokes about teacakes.

The worst thing you could possibly do is be true to who you suspect you might be unless you are completely bankrupt on the personality stakes.

In the end of the day all we have is suspicion about who we really are . All we have is a name that we did not choose ourselves and a vague history as clues in the quest to assemble our character and to discover who we really are.

Usually its necessary to experiment with who you aren’t to find out some definitive answers by acting out of character. People do not tend to like this. It makes people feel uncomfortable and is often the cause of a dreaded “just be yourself” request. What that means in this context is to resort to being a predictable, clumsy lampoon who has no real depth of character.

Now you are probably wondering why I have never worked a day in my life.

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 occult 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.

This is proving more of a challenge than I initally thought. I need to convey to these people that I am a loveable rogue who likes cats and cheese, it’s not easy.

Whar a taste in music!!!

Ok thats enough for now. It is time to make my introduction to the public. And where better to do so than in the Introductions section!

After having declared my arrival I decided to have a wander around the forums to observe some fascinating dialog about vampire bats, Anne Rice novels, VNV nation, mascara, torture chambers and……rotten apples.

Dear Jesus! It’s always the ones with the racquets you have to watch. Could The_Noxious_Ecstasy be any more unfortunate than to be hit by a rotten apple? What is the world coming to for fucks sake? I decided to share my sympathy for Noxious in the only way I knew how……………by saying that I was sorry.

By this time I was getting quite bored. So to stop myself from falling asleep I moved into the Music forum and found a thread on Placebo. Being such a massive fan of the Molkoster I decided to show some love.

Things were beginning to seriously crawl at Darkstarlings. No-one would respond to my cries for help. I decided to make myself useful and go back and adjust my profile to make it a little more homely. I added the following.

Whilst I was away worsening my cause for “Goff of the Year 2006″ a member finally replied to my introduction namely a fine young chap called “Hearselover666″. My curiosity got the better of me and decided to visit his profile.

Sweet fuck thats a hell of a lot of red Kev! I can tell Hearselover666 and I are going to be pals. He is a pansexual like myself and his love for ambulances built before 1976 on a car chassis is a definite fucking turn-on!

It was now a priority of mine to establish contact with Kevo, so I decided to send him a private message.

Kev was quick to respond and it is obvious that he has had trouble with the paramedics before.

Kev’s kind words have inspired me to greatness. I know in my heart that it is time to visit the poetry section of the forum and flex some literary muscle onto the DS faithful.

After responding to a thread about music videos, pedantry decided to rear its ulgy head.

I’d had enough talk of MTV, I wanted to talk about something a little more raw so in a wild fit of enthusiasm I decided to impart my endless wisdom about the punk movement.

And then something utterly fascinating happened. Something era defining. A bright young upstart called Prophet Kyo decided to level with me. He was not impressed with my work.

It was now time to go to bed. It had been quite a long night and I was looking forward to being psychically molested by a group of yoga practicing vampires angry at the irreverence of my actions.

I awoke the next day to a beautiful morning and a new private message from Carol the Forum Moderator at Darkstarlings. Was the game up?

Yes, yes it was. Carol seemed to be extremely dismayed by my show of poor form. I followed her directions and had a quick look at her profile and was shocked to find that she found pleasure in cutting up tabloid newspapers with razor blades, slashing her lip with broken beer bottles and shoplifting in thrift stores.

Were her accusations true? Had I not given Darkstarlings a proper chance? No and no. I put my heart and soul into finding romantic souls on that board. And all I found were goths.

Dismayed at knowing my brief tenure as a Dark Raven was over, I drew the curtains on the sunny day outside, curled myself up into the foetal position on my bed and wept my heart out for Carol and her crew of cyber-goth chums.

I had been a bad boy and the boards resident cat smotherer “Spooky Devil Mistress” was quick to pick up on this.

It was now time for hardened cynic Prophet Kyo to follow on from Spooky Devil Mistress and add his two cents.

Shortly after reading his response, I challenged the pedantic prophet to a spelling bee contest, and he duly accepted the offer. Over 3 hours passed before we had a winner. Pyro eventually choked and misspelt pretentious which meant I came out as the winner. I honestly do not know how he managed to misspell a word which I’m sure people remind him of everyday.

Some of the other members reactions were quite intriguing.

There we have it folks, I am now officially a freelance writer. It makes me sound like Julie Burchill doesn’t it? I may look like a spent old woman but I assure you I am not one.

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.

The next person to subject me to this monstrousity of a question will hear exactly how it is going. I will start by turning around and running after them, violently pumping my fists in the air squealing “You’re going hear about it all! You’re gonna hear about how I nearly shit myself on the train to university this morning when I saw the size of the boil on the train conductors neck!”.

“You’re gonna hear about how I sit in my room at 4am in complete darkness wailing like a banshee about the futility of my life. I might even tell you about how paranoid I feel when I start sweating after walking up a flight of stairs and thank God when it rains as at least I can disguise the sweat through it.”

Life is stressful enough as it is without people confusing me even more. I’d rather experience the reincarnated spectre of Oliver Reed running bollock naked in the street attempting to communicate by waving his arms around into letterforms whilst blabbering “Aa—-BOOUUUUUUUUUUT YEEEE BIG LAD. DO YA HAVE A LIGHTTTTTTTT – AH NEED TO CATCH THE 4:05 TO EAST KILBRIDE!”.

Take my advice, next time you want to greet someone on passing in the street or a corridor, wink at them, pat them on the shoulder, shout ALRRRIGGHTTTT MATE or even shake their hand. Just don’t ask them how’s it going unless you plan to talk to them for a little while.

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.

Next time you are walking down the street and get shit upon by a rampant seagull, bless the fucker for soon it will be shitting no more.

You could even adopt a few birds. I’d recommend that if you are going to do this that you have a house made entirely of bread with maybe a few sheets on the floor to shop the shit from getting everywhere.

Normal houses will not work as our beaked allies will be especially frantic with the thought of their ensuing death on their minds and they’d be extremely prone to flying into windows, television sets and/or people.

If your abode becomes a home for the birds I’d wholeheartedly recommend ordering in tons of Lemsip, Covonia and Paracetamol so that you can help ease the symptoms of any critter that falls ill. You might also have to buy a lot of different sized teaspoons so that you can feed each bird the required dose of medicine.

Instead of worrying about any possible ramifications of Bird Flu on humanity, take positive action and make a birds life that much brighter today.

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.

Once you’ve got the ball thing out you can start to attack the tube part of the pen. Well really you have two options, you can cease the destruction of the pen and actually make it into a peashooter. Get out an A4 page and start making yourself ammo and proceed to annoy the fuck out of the women across the room who will be completely unimpressed with your immature behaviour.

It’s best just to look back across at them, flex your pointing finger and declare “I’m not the one thats pregnant you temperamental cow. Go and jam a rattle up yer arse!”

If you are not up for the peashooter challenge then you can just continue on with the demolition job. Continue biting the top of the tube and bits of it will drop off. Plastic shards will begin to drop all over the table along with your slobber. In such situations it is best just to leave your slobber on the desk and if anyone reprimands you for leaving a mess just retaliate with a vacant loving stare before continuing on with your dissection of the biro regardless.

It will usually take you quite a while to break the tube right down so far that you must actually take out the bit with the ink in it. Once you’ve reached this stage you might want to celebrate by bending it in half. Try your best to make a cut in the tube as ink will begin leaking out. If you do get to this point you can start flicking ink at others by just bending it back and flinging it forth. The novelty will however wear off within time and you’ll have to dispose of the remnants of the pen.

Your hands will most likely be covered in ink. You can use this time to go out the toilets and run out of school and never come back. Any institution whose main currency is pens – isn’t worth the fucking kop.

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.”

The other group of people are those who have recognised this fact and start listening to everything and anything they can listen to. On one side you have people who actually listen to the music for the music rather than the image that listening to that artist or genre conveys.

On the other side you have those who want to appear open minded. Often their friends will be heartless devotees to one band. Usually Nirvana or some other piss-poor Grunge act. Anyway yeah these people will listen to as much as they can just so they can say “I have a wideranging taste in music. I am so fucking open minded! Get out of my way you closed minded fool”.

Along with Last.fm I think the “What I’m Listening To” feature brings out all that is shit about music today. It just tends to take a lot away from the sanctity of sound. “I’ve listened to My Festering Cunt’s Gobshite 15454 times this week! If I just listen to it another 454545454 times I will be My Festering Cunt’s biggest fan!”

Ultimately, it feeds into the hands of those who are completely insecure about themselves and therefore have to somehow project an image to attract others who might be similiar to them. All of this tends to raise the non-existent genre barriers that bit further making music more about security than anything else. Which isn’t in its nature. Music is by its nature ambigious.

Or at least it should be.

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.

Yet still for some reason I was addicted to the site. I setup my own little shop and decided to sell stuff to make some more neopoints. I thought that if I made enough points something good was going to happen. My Neopet might actually come out of the monitor and start making me breakfast. It might have even bring me up some headache tablets after a rough night out on the piss. Fuck it could even retrieve my slippers! But no! It was all too much to ask.

By this time I was spending about 16 hours a day on the website constantly restocking my shop using the Shop Wizard to locate cheap items. Still I did not know why I was playing this game. I started feeling a lot of shame about playing what was essentially a childrens game but I ignored my instincts and carried on. Until one day I snapped. The Pteri had went too far. It went and got itself ill and I hadn’t ate for about 56 hours.

If I could not find a way to kill the Pteri I would have to find a way to kill myself. It was either me or the dinosaur. I made a snap decision and searched all of Neopia for a shotgun but to no avail. The Pteri breathed a sign of relief. I then tried to abandon the fucker in the adoption agency thing and it tried to guilt trip me into not abandoning. I wasn’t standing for it’s bollocks so I kept clicking abandon and eventually it fucked off.

To my surprise my account was still open and by this time I did not trust myself with the computer. I had to find a way to get myself banned from the website. So I made a post on the forums informing all Pteri owners that I was going to come after all of their pets, extracting their teeth one by one before strapping a big bomb to their tail. Within 5 minutes I received an email from the Neopets team informing me that I had a warning. I told them to stick their warning and my account got deleted. I was overjoyed.

My days of computer addiction seemed to be in the past. But then came Championship Manager…………

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……

People who take part in the hunt will be obligated to wear a t-shirt with an image of a massive t-bone steak on it. This shirt must be left overnight in a barrel full of steak. The reason for which shall become evident within time.

The new premise for the run is this. Someone starts the hunt with a starting pistol and the humans are given 1 minute to run as fast as they possibly can to a place of safety. After that minute expires the dogs and foxes alike are released after the humans.

The hunt could be made all the more interesting by adopting the philosophy applied to the 3 legged race ala tie their legs together and watch them tumble. Fox Hunting would instantly become a sport of bravery, skill and gut churning hilarity. And a sport which could be introduced to school sport days as well!

If you are wheelchair bound and wish to take part in the hunt a downhill race could take place too. The rules are quite similiar only the wheelchair itself is put into a large vat of beef instead of the shirt. Although I guess it could be arranged for the shirt to be dipped in too.

Once the pistol is blown the person in the wheelchair is flung down the hill by a hunt steward and after 2 minutes the animals are let loose. As foxes and dogs are frustrating dim creatures they will attempt to devour the wheelchair instead of the person in it. That is assuming that the person has managed to stay in the wheelchair on the voyage downhill.

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.

Before I ignored it. Now I’ve resorted to screaming “Get fucked yer scraggily cunt!” at them. Even if there owners are about. People need to get the message that small dogs are not really dogs at all. Dogs are fucking great, they are friendly, they may shit everywhere granted but so do babies and I can put up with them.

Small dog = big attitude. I think people should have to apply for a licence in order to be able to legally call what they think is a dog, a dog. Jack Russell’s are not dogs for instance. They should be referred to as “cunt ferrets”, poodles will be renamed “fluffy white rats” and chiuaua’s as “the fucking disgrace”.

I’ve noticed how old people always seem to give their dogs shit names like “Shep”, “Boy” and “Laddie”. No-more no-more! There should be a regulatory body which monitors the naming of the dogs preventing such shite names slipping through the net. If you want to call your dog by any goofy names you will have to have “soppy cunt” tattooed onto your forehead.

Acceptable names for dogs include “Winston”, “Norman”, “Edgar”, “Captain Shite-muzzle”, “Gonzo”, “Alfred” or any other unfashionable male names. Womens names do not tend to generally work with dogs, unless of course you own a poodle were only a female title will suffice – even if it is a man-dog.

The next fluffy fucker to bark at me is getting kidnipped, wrapped up in some Christmas paper with the tag “Eat Me!” being affixed to the parcel before I address it and post it off to Romania.

The main reason is car horns. I am tired of fuckers beeping at me in the street. Even if its my own family. Whenever someone toots at me I instantly react by giving them the fingers and wishing that there car blows up halfway down the road.

See I like my peace and quiet. I like day-dreaming whilst walking down the street. I like talking to myself, easing my concerns about my irregular bowel movements.

Then out of nowhere some utter twat comes along and shatters that peace. They think they are being clever. They think “Fuck he’s going to like this!”. If I could sprint fast enough I’d start after the fucker, clamber onto the trunk of the car Terminator style and start “fucking their shit up”.

I think its very unfair. How the fuck are you meant to respond to a car horn? Horns do not promote dialogue. The person in the car is making a definitive statement when he/she beeps. They are saying “I am fucking king and you’d better listen to my horn as it is loud. You do not matter. You are but a pleb without a horn! Away with you!”

Instead of wasting money on drugs for bird flu I think the government should invest in a scheme that will give everyone in Britain an air-horn which they can carry around with them. This horn must be capable of producing sounds that could shatter the ear drums of an elephant.

I can not wait for the day that I can retort to a car horn. I want to be walking down the street with an ice cream on a beautiful day, admiring all of God’s creation when someone beeps at me and I get my horn out and go “Oi! Noooo!!!”. I want to see all of their windows shatter. I want to see their vehicle plunge into the back of an articulated lorry. I want to see the drivers head slumped against the steering wheel whilst blood profuses out of their mouth and nose.

But most of all I want these fuckers to know that there actions are not funny. They are not useful. Car horns should only be used for honking at women and intimidating cyclists. Nothing else.

For starters I think Cheesestrings (or however the fuck you spell them) should be re-branded. Instead of sticking with the current “Real appealable cheese” slogan they should opt for a truer description ala “Surprisingly pleasant plastic”.

Still on marketing, the adverts are pretty terrible. I mean who the fuck actually strips them nowadays? I used to for the first couple of strings and it grew very boring. I’d end up trampling bits of plastic into my carpet for the next month and a half. I now opt for the “get it in there” strategy. No fucking about. Just get it in the mouth. Fuck the commercials.

I enjoy the challenge of attempting to find a flavour within the cheese. Usually I fail. But its good fun none the less. The smokey bacon ones are a completely different story. You can kinda taste fire off them.

Eating them is like inhaling smoke from a blaze inside a fridge warehouse. It isn’t as bad as it sounds and after a couple of strings you grow rather attached to the taste.

I haven’t had them in quite a while now as I now opt for Dairylea’s Strip Cheese instead. There is an actual flavour in the Strip Cheese y’see which always always help the cause.

Above and beyond that I had a rather nasty run in once when I ate 12 Cheesestrings in one sitting. My stomach began growling at me like a schizophrenic cat locked in a fridge. I felt as though I was about to be sick at any moment.

Later on that night I felt a little better when all of a sudden I felt an unbearable pain in my ass. I ran up to the toilet and actually shat an electric blue Cheestring right out. It was quite remarkable.

We have a framed picture of it up on the living room wall too. I originally thought Cheestrings where running a competition wherein if you shat out a blue one whole you won a cash prize, so I went about frantically checking old packages to see if I was a winner to no avail.

Still it is a great picture and next time it could be you….

Subway in principle is a good idea. It’s good to have a bit of choice. However am I the only one who gets a little perplexed by the question “What bread would you like?”

Bread y’say? What type? Do you have any Hovis? Kingsmill? That wholegrainy stuff that birds turn their beaks up at? We’re from Northern Ireland fucks sake! How can you possibly expect me to know what bread I want beyond the basics?

Subway is the one restaurant where it is compulsary to have an honours degree in bread studies before placing an order. And it doesn’t stop there.

Fuck. This would make a good weapon.

Once you’ve given a half-arsed answer to the bread question the server will move you along and ask you what you want on it. Fair enough. Well at least it would be if there wasn’t about 500 different types of dressing and the person behind the counter insists on asking you whether or not you want each one or not.

I’m usually standing there thinking “Fuck this, I cannot handle the smell of baby vomit anymore. Can I not just have a 6 inch sub with steak on it and maybe some dressing. Is that too much to ask? Do we have to go through this same fucking procedure everytime I go in? Do you just do this to piss me off? I bet when everyone else walks in they ask for a sub and you give it to them straight away. You probably just slam the fucker on the table and shout “There’s yer sub, £4.09 please.”

And if that wasn’t enough you’ll be standing there in the queue and you’ll look back at the start and there will be some cunt in a suit talking on his mobile who’ll KNOW the name of the breads. He’ll know every single one of them.

He’ll probably be seperated from his wife and living outside his old house in the car and at night when he can’t sleep he’ll make a determinated effort to read a Subway menu just so he can piss me off.

Half the time I just want to scream “Cancel the fucking sub, luv, I’ve got more important matters to deal with here” and then run over to the fucker. Snatch the mobile off him. Ask who’s speaking. It’ll probably be the speaking clock but in the advent it is not I will say “My name is Gerry…..I’m about to circumcise your friend here in Subway with a fork…………..Yes…Yes….No…I’ll grab a fork off that old lady in the corner who is looking at me funny. Yeah. No. Of Course Not..I’ll take his trousers down first…Ok…..Bye”

I will then flee. And get as far as the end of the street. Before running out of breath, collapsing exhausted in tears onto a street bench. Weeping my heart out as people walk past without batting an eyelid. Swearing never ever to go back to Subway again. But I always do. I love being tortured.

For the uninitated – Irn Bru is a soft drink which is mostly obscure in nearly every part of the world bar Scotland. It’s taste is rather hard to describe, but if you were to mix cherry cola with piss and strain a volume of ginger pubic hairs in there for several days you would be along the right lines.

Travelling up from England you know you will have hit Scottish territory by the volume of empty Bru bottles and cans strewn across the countryside. You might also notice the peculiar ginger cows. They are Aberdeen Angus and the reason why they are that colour is because of Bru poisioning.

If you dislike Irn Bru up North you are as good as an illegal alien. In order to be a True Scotsman you must love ‘Irn Bru’, ‘Take The High Road’ and Kilts.

If you fail on any of these counts you will have “No Bru” branded into your forehead with a hot iron. By Scottish law it is perfectly legal to fuck an Irn Bru container at anyone who may have such a brand.

On June the 8th 2005 esteemed Scotsman Bob McBojit was cornered by a gang of young hoodlums who knew something was not right about the fellow. They started by asking him if he had any Irn Bru on him. When he replied to the negative the ruffians were appalled.

They looked around immediately for the nearest phone box in order to alert the Town Chieftain so that McBojit could be branded like so many other heretical Scotsman.

McBojit thankfully managed to escape by grasping the bottom of each of the men’s kilts and pulling it over their heads before twirling them around for an hour or two and finally fucking them into the River Clyde. Which consequently is also full of Irn Bru so no real harm came to the men.

The traditional Scottish meal is a battered Mars bar soaked in a bare minimum of 1litre of Irn Bru. Most high street stores are forced by Scottish Law to allocate a small portion of their premises to serve as a “Bru bar” stall.

Companies found to be in breach of this order incur much the same punishment as those individuals found hating Irn Bru but instead “No Bru” is graffitied onto their shop window where punters may punt the shop windows at will with Bru cans.

If you live in Northern Ireland or Scotland you might recognise the statement “I’m signing on to the bru”. The bru of course being another name for Jobseekers allowance. Well by now the origin of the word should be obvious. People who tend to call the Bru by another name will again receive the No Bru tattoo and will have their money ceased.

Why does he irk me so you ask? Well for one his music is shite and his lyrics are even worse.

He used to rabbit on in the early days of OMD about how he was so different just because he could write love songs about power stations.

Andrew darling, there are reasons why people stick to tried and tested songwriting formulas and that is to ensure that they do not write shite love songs about fucking power stations! If you are going to try to be original write a song about the Queens corgis, Jupiter or Mars Bars.

OMD are one of those bands that have dated badly. Listening to one of their records now gives one a perfect insight into why the 80’s were shite. ‘Enola Gay’ for example, gives me a mental image of sniffing crotches of sweaty spandex donning dance instructors from 80’s lifestyle TV shows.

What is worst of all about McCluskey is his fanbase. Most OMD fans run about The Wirral attempting to hug telephone boxes and get their fellow Cluskers comrades to photograph their antics.

Why? Fuck knows. I think if you listen to too many OMD records you begin to lose the will to live, the mind is then next to go and then all of a sudden you are enticed by the prospect of fucking McCluskey and/or trying to find as many phone boxes as you can within an hour. And then attempting to beat that record again.

Moreover police in 25 different states in America have warrants for his arrest after a massive wave of suicides hit America at the height of the OMD epidemic. Apparently vulnerable teenagers were trying to club themselves to death with telephone receivers in droves. Scientists have since proved without doubt that the banality of the OMD sound is directly attributable for more than 97% of the cases.

Finally McCluskey is apparently from Liverpool but there are no redeemable Scouser qualities. He does not have a moustache. He does not have a sense of humour. And moreover he has not got a comic accent. He sounds like what he is. A right pompous prick.

February 2006

“Significance of constantly seeing a white owl”

Does this person live in an owl sanctuary? Perhaps their current medication is a little two potent and it needs toned down a little? Either way someones fucked.

“I take a shit once a week”

The only thing I can recommend is that you either eat more or watch more Hollyoaks. That always seems to coax my digestive system into spraying out the brown.

“What do you do if you get a bone stuck in your throat”

I certainly would not recommend visiting Google and typing that question into it, that is for starters. It can be quite serious y’know? Get yourself to a hospital if you are not already dead.

“Goths and how they eat and survive”

There seems to be two train of thoughts about this. You have the Robert Smiths of this world and the Richey Edwards. The former eats more than their fair share and survives albeit with no remaining discernable musical talent. The latter does not. So is it better to be eat and be a mediocre goth or not eat and die mediocre?

Now that is a question!

“Wanking is getting boring”

May I suggest that you stop wanking 10 times a day and actually feed your cat?

January 2006

“How to make yourself puke while putting your fingers down your throat”

There does not seem to be an easy answer to this. Just keep trying and you’ll eventually get there. The further you get those fingers down the more pronounced the results will be. Good luck.

“People born in portrush on christmas day”

Could you possibly be any more specific?

“Have a wank in public toilets”

Hi George!

“Signs of when your drunk and barfing”

Usually this will be pretty damn obvious. Vomit will start pumping out of your mouth and nose and you may begin harassing young women who have absolutely no interest in you. You might tend to sing a little more than you usually would too.

“Buy a real goat in northern ireland”

Am I missing something here? What other types of goats are there?

“Put a finger up your bum wanking ? post”

Oh dear Jesus. I guess its best its his finger and not the telly’s remote control.

“How to know when to start wanking?”

Does anyone know the answer to this elusive question? Usually downstairs will give you a call before its time for timmy.

A more constructive question would be “How to know when to stop wanking?”.

“Goldfish constantly trying to escape”

Urmmmmm………get a tank mate. And/or stop playing so many god damn Simon and Garfunkel LP’s.

“Is ireland full of alcoholics?”

No. And neither is it full of sarcastic twats.

“Is it bad to having wank? will it affect my future??”

Well it really does depend on the circumstances of your wank. Are you wanking in public? Do you partake in danger wanks in the Australian Outback? If so it probably will effect your future and your ability to piss.

Cock bites from alligators are particularly cumbersome.

December 2005

“why hippies smell bad”

Y’know most hippies tend to be soap dodgers too……….

“ellen macarthur should be at home ironing”

I could not agree more. The same applies to all women with spirit. Crush it and get them back in the kitchen washing our dirty undies by hand!

“dress like daniel o donnell”

Words………..fail……………me.

“tips on how to wank off lads”

Unless the aforementioned lad does not have a willy………………I should not have to go into detail either way! It doesn’t take much imagination for fucks sake. Read him a chapter from robinson crusoe and tickle his knackers!

“how they say merry christmas in ireland”

I think its something like “Argghhh its that time of year again yer fucking cunt!”

“dirty old whores called brenda”

Surely there can not be that many of them? I do know many dirty old whores called brendan though.

“used my testicles as punching bags”

You really do need to meet new people………..

“a drunken doctor is a threat”

Generally they tend to be, unless you are from anywhere in the British Isles. We adore gross negligence.

November 2005

“meaning of this saying “wanking makes you go blind”"

It does exactly what it says on the urm……….tin.

“where can jim drink? he is a cunt”

Tell Jimbo to try anywhere in Larne. Cunts tend to be quite at home there.

“i m addicted to another boy s cock”

That usually only means one thing. You are a cock addict.

“goldfish feed chocolate?”

No. Unless you want to see Goldie floating within minutes.

“do goldfish really have a memory stand of 3 seconds?”

Hopefully, if you are trying to feed the poor fucker dairy produce.

“pig fucks boy”

……………………………………………….

I can only imagine that Jokke is rolling in his grave. He must be up there thinking “fuck I released the world from the grasp of that curse 15 fucking years ago and now it’s back again”.

Jokke in effect must feel like Jesus. Satan (a.k.a.) Morten Harket has been sent to test the world to see whether anyone is left down here is worth saving.

No-one pays any attention to Jokke just like no-one pays any attention to Jesus. Although it is a little different for Jokke as no-one really had a fucking clue what he was saying. At least Jesus had his thoughts down semi-coherently in writing.

Is suicide an option in this scenario?

Not at all, we must put up a resistance. Resistance against the motherland of Norway. We must burn our old Stig-Inge Bjornebye, Ronny Johnsen, Tore Andre/Jostein Flo soccer jerseys.

We must set up an embargo against sea-lions on British shores. Any seals caught bumbling around on British coastal rocks will be deported back to their Motherland with immediate effect.

Any British or Irish citizens caught in possession of ANY A-ha records will also be extradited to Oslo where they will be forced into a concentration camp, in which there job will be to produce A-ha merchandise for the world market – albeit at a reasonable working wage.

We are now going to be eternally plagued by re-runs of the tacky bucket of shite that is the “Take on Me” video. If there was any justice in the world we’d be instead rejoicing with the Jokke Alt Kan Repeteres video. These are dark, dark times.

I am now off to pig out on expired marzipan pigs and watch Steffen Iversen’s “100 Greatest Fuck-Ups” video.

I wish he would take Pamela Ballantine with him as well.

Anyhow to cut a long story short, I haven’t been around these parts much. But I am now back and I’ll see how things go.

Happy New Year to all of ye out there.