Search This Blog


We few, we happy few...

It's been just over a month since the smoking ban came into force here in Scotland.

Pubs no longer smell of smoke and ash. Instead the only things you can smell in the pubs in this fair city are those of cheap perfume, body odour and the occasional dog shit that someone has inadvertently stepped in.

I never thought I'd say this but there is a good side to the smoking ban... The camaraderie of the determined few that are refusing to bow to their overlords and are still smoking. As you wander out of whatever pub you're in to set fire to another five minutes of your life you know that there are friends waiting for you. Sure, they're unknown friends but they're friends none the less.

(I've taken to shouting into the air "The cancer sticks are on me!" in a rallying cry for those who don't want to stand out in the cold on their own as I wander out of wherever I am to light up. I've also started relentlessly cajoling non-smokers with shouts of "Come on you lilly livered fuckers, get out here and live a little!" and other fun-filled phrases.)

I was wondering how many friendships will be created by this law. And I came to the conclusion that everyone that's standing outside a pub smoking a cigarette is a friend already. We're the ones who took a stand against oppression, we're the free thinkers of this society, we're the last bastions of cool, we're the heroes and heroines who know smoking is cool.

We few, we happy few, we band of smokers.

It's not often I'm early...

But today I was an hour early to meet my parents for lunch.

So while I waited I took a walk up to the Starbucks on the corner of Lothian Road. I'm sure I'm still barred from starbucks, after losing my mind at a customer a couple of years back, but I know the manager of the Starbucks in question and therefore can safely enter.

I was greeted with a smile by Andy, an old friend from back in my youth that I used to get terribly drunk with and asked him for a large latte. "Do you want an extra shot in there mate?" He asked.
"No way man, I want an extra three shots in it." I said.
"It's already got two shots in it. So do you want an extra shot to make it three?" He questioned.
"Nope, I want an extra three shots in it to make five. I just got out my bed an hour ago. My heart needs a jump-start." I said.

The assistant, a rather pleasant looking girl with a nice smile, commented that I'd never sleep again and I smiled and said I'd sleep more than enough when I'm dead. I was handed my coffee within a minute and I turned around and went to the little counter where they keep the sugar and other accoutrements.

(When I say accoutrements I mean those things that aren't really necessary, but due to clever marketing we think that they are an essential part of coffee drinking. The only thing that's essential when you're having a coffee is something to put it in. Like a mug. Pouring hot coffee directly into your hands isn't an option, unless you're the kind that likes hospital food as much as you like Starbucks coffee.)

I shouted a goodbye to Andy and got the hell out before I asked for a copy of Celebrity Shit magazine and settled into a large sofa. (As the rest of the idiots in the Starbucks seemed to be doing.) I wandered down to where I was supposed to be meeting my folks and settled down on the steps of the Lyceum Theatre to drink my coffee, smoke a cigarette and have a read at my book. (Humboldt's Gift by Saul Bellow if you're interested.)

I sat for a few minutes listening to my MP3 player blasting out the likes of the Black Eyed Peas, The Arctic Monkeys and various other bands I currently think are worthy of stopping the voices in my head.

As I lit my third cigarette, in almost as many minutes, a woman who was sitting on the steps tapped me on the shoulder. I yelped, as she had inadvertently tapped me directly on the most painful part of my shoulder and I pulled my earphone out so I could hear whatever it was she wanted to tell me. "What?" I asked.
"Would you mind putting your cigarette out? The smoke is blowing right into my face." She said.

I looked over the top of my sunglasses and said, "Would you mind sitting somewhere else?"
"I beg your pardon?" She said.
"Well, if my smoke bothers you so much why don't you go and sit somewhere else. That seems to me to be the most logical answer, don't you think?" I said, purposely taking another large drag on my cigarette and blowing the smoke into her face.

"Allow me to put it another way sweetheart..." I continued, "I'll give you a choice. You can either go and sit somewhere else or you can suffer a cigarette burn when I put this out on your forehead. Take your time with your decision, just don't take too long as this cigarette will only last about another drag or two."

She mumbled something about me being a bastard but I ignored it and popped my headphone back into my ear. As she turned and walked away I said "Oh, by the way... Your arse looks fat in those trousers."

Like Frankensteins Monster...

I'm having to turn my whole body to look to either side due to my neck being totally fucked.

(Please note; Totally fucked is a recognized medical term. Honest, I once overheard heard a psychoanalyst say one of their patients was "Totally fucked.")

It's not the sharp stabs of pain that bother me the most, it's the fact that I keep forgetting my neck is screwed and I move my head or arm. I'm then gently reminded by my brain and I utter a curse word such as "Fuck" or "Shit" or "Buggeration." Which I'm sure isn't even a word, never mind a curse word. But, when you're in pain, you never bother about these kinds of things.

(I've came up with some brilliant curse words in the past whenever I've been in pain. The best one being a bastardisation of the, also made-up, word supercalifragalisticexpialidocious, which was "Super-cali-fuck-me-backwards-that-was-fucking-painful.")

What also bothers me is the fact that I can't have a satisfying wank. Sure, I can wank off using my left hand (Does that make me ambiwankerous?) but the effect isn't quite the same. My dick and my right hand live in a symbiotic world... They're perfect for each other.

I also can't clear my throat without pain shooting down my arm and up my neck. Which, as a smoker, is a fairly regular occurrence. For three days now my lungs have been gathering the mother of all phlegm-gems but I've not been able to shift the stubborn bastard from the top of my chest into an area where I can hack, hawk and howf it into the back of my throat and let it out to make its own way in the world.

And that's part of the fun of being a smoker. Sure there's the satisfaction garnered from being one of the chosen few who smoke but losing the ability to cough up part of your lungs and firing it into the nearest gutter at the least appropriate moment makes a smoker seem almost impotent. I want to remain a member of the last-bastions-of-cool club. I don't want to look like I'm not a heavy smoker. It's like wearing an Armani suit with a tie that has a picture of Donald Duck on it. It just ain't cool.

Of course, I could take the opportunity to stop smoking but why should I? And don't even begin to think "Because it'll kill you." I'm not gonna die because I chose to smoke. I'm gonna die because that's what always happens, and always will happen, to mortal beings. The body is only a shell anyway. But, lets not get all philosophical about that just now. I've got bigger things to think about.

Like... Where can I buy a large sized watermelon at this time of year so I can hollow a part out of it and wank with something more realistic than my left hand.


Funniest thing I heard all week.

So, there I am standing in Oswalds garden watching him creosote his new fence.

Playing in the back garden are his son Cameron and one of the neighbor's kids, Mason, playing tennis with those plastic racquet sets you got when you were a kid. In an attempt to goad an adult (Not me you understand...) into some kind of action Mason said... "I'm going to put the ball through a window."

Oswald, having heard Mason make the remark, chimes in... "I'll put your head through the window in a minute."

I thought for a second and gave my opinion... "Both of which will pretty much have the same effect. So who's wrong here?"

Funeral Porn...

Is there such a thing?

Before you all simultaneously hit the home button on your browser and run away from your PC as if you had accidentally downloaded a movie clip of your parents in a full-on BDSM orgy, don't worry. I'm not about to introduce you to the world of the Necrophile.

(I may be a fan of porn in most of its forms but I'm pretty sure that even in one of my lust enraged moments I couldn't blow a load while watching some cum-slut play hide the salami with a corpse. However, should I, at any point become so degenerated that I give it a try I'll let you know the results.)

So, Anyhoo... I was wondering, during a particularly quiet moment, if there are many niche sites dedicated, or should I say Deadicated, to people who would like to jack off to pictures and/or movies of people getting hot and heavy while they are attending a funeral.

(I'm not so curious that I'm about to search for Funeral Porn on google but if you feel like it please use the link I've kindly provided.)

Stiffer than an iron bar.

I'm pretty sure I've trapped a nerve as during the last three days my neck has been giving me small stabs of pain.

This morning I woke up and attempted to sit up by getting my right arm underneath myself and using it to lever myself up. A bolt of pain shot along my arm and up my neck. I let out a scream and dropped back onto the mattress. Cue; More pain.

After spending a few minutes lying still so as not to cause anymore of the painful feelings I tried again. Once more; Cue pain. "Something isn't right here." I thought to myself.

I gently rolled over onto my left-hand-side and sat up. I lifted my left arm above my head and quickly received a flash of pain shooting down my spinal chord for trying to do so. I attempted to raise my right arm and got a shock of pain along my arm, up my neck and down my spine. I let out a yell which probably sounded like a wounded dog to anyone who heard it and slowly put my arm at my side.

I realised that I had somehow injured my shoulder/neck and moved my head from side to side. Or at least I would have, had it not been for the fact that moving my head in any direction was sending pain signals from my brain to my balls and visiting all stops in-between. So tomorrow morning I'll be getting on the phone to the quacks office to make an appointment to see the medicine man.

Can you still get Morphine on prescription?


I know...

That power is an aphrodisiac but, come on now, is it really this powerful?

That's right folks, John Prescott, has admitted that he's been screwing his secretary.

Mr Prescott, known as "Two Jags" as he once made a speech telling the country to use less fuel and then used two gas guzzling Jaguars to travel less distance than the buffet table at the average Labour Party Conference and "Two Jabs" after he whipped out a straight left to the jaw of someone who threw eggs at him during a shake-hands-and-smile walkabout, has stated that he deeply regrets the affair.

Now, I'm no genius when it comes to many things but one thing I do know is... If you're a 67 year old lardy-bag who has more chins than a Chinese phone directory you don't ever regret having a 45 year old woman suck your dick and ride you like you were Desert Orchid.

But, hey, I could be wrong. Perhaps while Miss Tracy Temple was sucking on Mr Prescott's purple passion pole he was thinking to himself... "By 'eck I'm not enjoying this, I wonder where I can get me hands on a decent fry-up."


Scratch an itchy foot with a pair of scissors.

Unless you fancy a nice big slash across the sole of your foot. Which is what I currently have, thanks to... Yup, you guessed it, my being stupid enough to scratch my foot with a pair of scissors.

This life lesson was brought to you by the word Scissors, and the colour Red.


I often wonder...

If this blog will be the only thing of significance that I leave behind when my time comes to shuffle off this mortal coil. Sure, I'll leave behind material possessions but I can't see a large stack of porn mags, the first Valentines card I ever received and some odds and ends becoming a great addition to humanity.

Unless, of course, I'm one of those genius types that's only truly appreciated after death and crowds of people want to see what kind of fuckmag I was partial to during my lifetime. For the record; Mostly girl-on-girl action. (The sight of a well hung stud schlonging the shit out of a pornstars cornhole tends to put me off my stroke...)

In fact, I'm not even sure that this blog has any significance. I mean, it's not like I'm one of the great political thinkers of this generation and as sure as shit smells I ain't a great writer. But what's to say that being either of those things qualifies you for geniushood. Perhaps future generations will value honesty, integrity and large stacks of porn more than the ability to see through the political machinations of the day or the capacity to create wonderful prose.

This blog is more of a place where I can vent my spleen than a wonderfully worded and insightful look at today's society. Sure there are times when, by pure chance, I write a sentence that sounds like a genius wrote it but these are few and far between. But, that's cool, I've learned to live with the fact that I'm no Mark Twain. I may occasionally be Hunter S Thompson-like but I'd ascribe that to my rather unhealthy affinity to drugs and chaos more than I'd ascribe it to some kind of shared genius when it comes to writing. That would, without doubt, be far too big a leap for anyone to make.

My blog also serves as a cathartic tool for me as I can sit here and write something that attempts to make people laugh. And I enjoy doing that. Laughter is, after all, about the only thing that humans can do that seems like a noble cause. Or maybe that's just me. But I don't think so...
"At least one way of measuring the freedom of any society is the amount of comedy that is permitted, and clearly a healthy society permits more satirical comment than a repressive, so that if comedy is to function in some way as a safety release then it must obviously deal with these taboo areas. This is part of the responsibility we accord our licensed jesters, that nothing be excused the searching light of comedy. If anything can survive the probe of humour it is clearly of value, and conversely all groups who claim immunity from laughter are claiming special privileges which should not be granted." [Eric Idle.]

"I believe that imagination is stronger than knowledge. That myth is more potent than history. That dreams are more powerful than facts. That hope always triumphs over experience. That laughter is the only cure for grief And I believe that love is stronger than death." [Robert Fulghum.]

"If you wish to glimpse inside a human soul and get to know a man, don't bother analyzing his ways of being silent, of talking, of weeping, of seeing how much he is moved by noble ideas; you will get better results if you just watch him laugh. If he laughs well, he's a good man." [Feodor Mikhailovich Dostoyevsky.]

"Laughter is the sun that drives winter from the human face." [Victor Hugo.]

"Laughter is the closest thing to the grace of God." [Karl Barth.]

"Perhaps the mission of those who love mankind is to make people laugh at the truth, to make truth laugh, because the only truth lies in learning to free ourselves from insane passion for the truth." [Umberto Eco.]
And, one day, who knows...
"Laugh you stupid Motherfucker!" [Ross Douglas.]



It was the Queens 80th birthday yesterday.

It was completely impossible not to know this if you were a resident of the UK, as every newspaper and TV station did it's best to gently remind you of the fact. Well, I say gently, it was more like every newspaper and TV station had become fiercely pro-royalty and had taken it upon themselves to make you feel guilty for not sending her a card or a gift of some sort.

I even fell for it for a few nanoseconds. Which was exactly how long it took for my rational mind to kick in. For a brief moment I thought "Isn't that nice that she's managed to stay alive so long." Then sanity returned and I thought, "She didn't get me anything when it was my birthday so why should I give two shits if it's hers."

Pictures of Queenie and Prince "looks like it was built by Paki's" Phillip having a walk around Windsor Castle were beamed onto the Satanic Squawk Box. Newsreaders up and down the country smiled and added to the asskissing by informing us that they remember when they met Her Royal Unnecessaryness, and how she came across as being so warm and caring that
you barely realised that she was really a lizard-human hybrid who would suck your mind out your ear with a straw if it wasn't for the fact that there were too many witnesses for her to risk being exposed.

(Ok, so the bit about the lizard-human hybrid didn't happen and probably isn't true but, hey, this isn't CNN you're reading so please, try to see the jokes.)

Crowds of flag waving morons gathered in the streets around Windsor Castle to wave, cheer and hand the doddering old swine highly original gifts such as flowers and Hallmark cards with "Happy Birthday Ma'am." scrawled on the inside in handwriting that would, no doubt about it, make a colobus monkey think... "This species is top of the food chain how?"

occasionally a small child, with a look of awe upon its cherubim-like face, would hand a homemade birthday card to El Queenie... (You could practically see the longing look in the Queens eye that signaled she was thinking, "How sweet the brains of this snackpack would be with a nice bottle of Bollinger.") ...And the newsreaders would comment on how healthy and radiant the queen looked for a woman of her years.

Fused into the newsloop were pictures of the Queen through the years. They seemed to me to have a somewhat recurring theme. In almost all of them she was smiling and shaking someone's hand or sitting looking regal while people handed her gifts. "Hang on..." I thought. "If all I ever did for 80 years was smile, shake hands and get presents I'd look pretty fucking good too."


Finals week.

It's a gripping week at the BBC.

The bowling club that is, not the British Broadcasting Corporation. Though to be fair the first episode of the new Dr Who series did air on Saturday. (And Lo, Whovians around the world did rejoice.)

The scene really is maddening for a rational person (See; Non Bowler) such as myself. On the green is a phalanx of loons in grey trousers/skirts and white shirts/blouses playing what is essentially marbles. With the exception of the Juniors who are all dressed in black. Presumably to mourn the loss of their youth and innocence and to herald the approach of the inevitable social death that they will suffer whenever they inform someone that they like to play lawn bowls.

Crowded around the surrounds of the green are so many octogenarians that if you added their ages together you would, by pure chance alone, have PI to the one millionth digit. Umpires stand looking as somber and bored as attendants at the funeral of an acquaintances family pet. When called upon to measure the distance of the contenders bowls they spring into action with the speed of a giant Sequoia and the grace of a Canadian Elk attempting to juggle hedgehogs.

Behind the bar, but light years ahead in the evolutionary scale, stand I attempting to make sense of the scene before me. And I'm fucked if I can.


My life is now complete...

I've just discovered that I no longer need to bother with phoning my local take-away to have something delivered thanks to the Grub2u website.

Simply put in your postcode and the site lets you know who in your area takes orders over the net, select what you want and whoosh, away you go. Having placed my order two minutes ago I'm awaiting delivery.

Should this work I'll be using the site again. Should it fail I'll hunt down whoever is responsible and gut them like a fish.

Into the pit.

I descend...

I think I'm becoming a shopper. And that's not a good thing.

This morning I went into the town and bought myself a DVD and a book. The DVD is Bill Hicks' Sane Man and the book is The Life and Death of Peter Sellers by Roger Lewis.

If it wasn't for the looks of derision I was getting as I chain smoked my way along Princes Street I think I may have enjoyed the experience.

I may seem like a bit of a swine...

But in actuality I'm quite a nice bloke.

For an example I'll tell you what happened at my work on Sunday night...

I'm standing behind the bar, minding my own business and thinking to myself just what is it that seemingly rational people see in the game of bowls when I spot movement out of the corner of my eye. I look down and I see a small mouse sniffling around the rubbish bins.

I watched as the mouse made its way behind the bins. Picking up a pint glass I lift the front two bins out of the way so I can capture the furry little fucker. As the pint glass descends over the mouse it leaps in shock and I slip a beermat under the glass so that it can't make a break for freedom.

Then I carefully walked out the back door and set the mouse free.

So, the next time I seem like a complete bastard just remember that I'm not always as I seem.


Another small poetic break.

She. [Part II]


Visits my dreams to torment me,
comes into my reality to beseech me,
pleads for knowledge and wisdom that I cannot speak.


Demands insights into this mortal coil,
begs for respite from suffering and toil,
infuriates my being,
without ever seeing,
that real life is beyond words.


Is Aphrodite untethered from the heavens,
Diana released from paradise,

A temptress and my torment.

Bring me the head of the Easter Bunny...

My dear Mother is in some kind of mood with me.

It's mostly to do with the fact that I'm not going to go with the family to roll eggs on Sunday. Which, as you may or may not know, is Easter Sunday.

Apparently, traipsing to the top of Corstorphine Hill and wasting a dozen perfectly good eggs is supposed to be some kind of reminder that Jesus' resurrection is alleged to have happened a couple of thousand years ago.

My side of the argument goes like this. I'm not a Christian. I aint spending a perfectly good Sunday morning going up and down a hill chasing Class A eggs. If it was a case of chasing after Class A drugs maybe this story would be different... But, I digress.

If you think about the whole Easter gig itself you begin to realize that it's existence is based upon a whole load of supposition. Take the "Death" of Jesus... Two thousand, and some, years ago Doctors didn't have access to all the technical gadgetry that the medical profession has nowadays. It's not as if the Romans could have taken Jesus off the cross and hooked him up to a cardiograph to see if his heart was still functioning.

So why do we automatically assume that whoever took Jesus' body off the cross made the right call as to whether or not Jesus was actually dead, as opposed to being very nearly dead. Perhaps being baked in the hot sun had caused some kind of deep catatonic state where the body shut down all non essential functions and Jesus merely seemed to have shuffled off this mortal coil. Remember... Piss poor Doctors make piss poor judgments.

What's to say that this isn't how events panned out?

Then there's the whole Rolling Away the Stone gig.

So, there's Jesus lying in a semicatatonic state. His death has been reported to his followers and they have came to see his body. None of them are any better at making judgments and they think that Jesus has died and is now with his father up in heaven. They file slowly out of the tomb and go about the next few days in a state of shock at the death of their "Chosen one."

Roman soldiers heave a large stone over the front of the tomb and then wander off to the nearest orgy. Failing to notice that one of the followers accidentally left a long walking stick...

As time passes Jesus begins to regain consciousness...

He becomes fully alert and a shock of adrenaline courses through his body. He bursts out of his shroud and takes in his surroundings. He's in a tomb... More adrenaline hits him. His mind reels and his inner voice tells him he has to get out or this will be where he dies having, by chance, survived being crucified. He rushes to the exit of the tomb and heaves at the rock. There is no movement. He tries again. Still no movement.

His eyes look around the room and he spots the walking stick that had been left behind when the tomb was sealed. He picks it up and has an idea... Using the walking stick as a fulcrum he manages to pry the stone that covers the exit from the tomb past its point of balance and sends it rolling down the hill.

...And so it came to pass that two thousand years later a bunch of loons get out of bed on a cold morning and roll eggs down a hill.

So you see, I just can't figure why it is that I should celebrate something I can't consider to be proven beyond a shadow of a doubt. And that's not even mentioning the fact that more people have been killed in the name of religious faith than AIDS, the bubonic plague, earthquakes and ice ages all put together.

There's no doubt in my mind that my mum will try the standard argument for having me take part in this bogus festival... And there even less doubt in my mind that she'll listen to the rationality of my argument and concede that I have a point in saying that religion is something that kids shouldn't be subjected to.

"It's for the kids." She'll say.

"It's harmless fun." She'll argue.

Cool... Harmless fun. Sure no-one will be nailed to a cross and there shouldn't be any egg related injuries, but there will be several dozen eggs shattered and strewn across Corstorphine Hill and those could be put to better use. Perhaps by giving them to a person who is hungry. Or maybe all the money that is spent on chocolate eggs could be given to people who have less than a pot to piss in.

But that may be something that Jesus would do.

*Editors note.*

I'll no doubt be lambasted by my mother for this post and some of my regular readers will probably join in.

Let the argument begin!

*Editors note ends.*

Have a nice day.


An open letter to God.

Oh lord, why do you test me so? Why do you give joy and hope with one hand and yet take it away with the other?

While I was happily staring at your hand holding the recently rent asunder contract of Gareth Gates, I failed to notice that crappy 70's and 80's stars have been making marks on the pop charts. What the fuck is the deal with that? Can you answer that God? Please? I'll be a good boy, honest. Just let me know what's going on.

Leo Sayer, Tom Jones, Stevie Nicks and Elvis have all recently been in the pop charts. This is 2006? Isn't it? Please let me know I'm not losing my marbles completely and I'm not having some kind of real life Life on Mars mental breakdown. The thought, that I'm about to wake up on an abandoned patch of land somewhere in Wester Hailes wearing flares, scares the shit out of me.

And not just because of the flares, I genuinely fear the people of Wester Hailes now I've not been a resident of that place for a longer space of time than I was.

There is a God and He loves us all.

How do I know? Because Gareth Gates has been dropped by his record company.

Isn't that great?

Perhaps this is the begining of the end for all those like him. Souless, spiritless, suckers of Satans cock that they are. We can only pray...


And so...

Bird Flu has arrived in the UK.

They just don't make diseases like they used to...

Good old fashioned diseases that really got you panicked, diseases that made you shower daily in Dettol, diseases that turned your internal organs into something resembling a strawberry smoothie, caused your eyeballs to swell to the size of Galia melons and generally make you wish that you had lived during the Plague.

Whatever happened to the good old days of Mad Cow, Foot in Mouth and SARS?

Kids, aint they just grand?

If you have kids, and they're young enough to be at the still-stupid-stage, have some fun with them. Fuck with their perceptions, mess with their minds...

Whenever you see a particularly rough looking hobo point to the tramp and say to your child, "That's the tooth fairy."


There's something disturbing about...

Finding out that your front door can be opened without a key.

As I left the house to go to work I pulled the door closed behind me. There was a strange clicking sound and I looked to see that the door wasn't properly closed. I pulled it shut again with slightly more force and lo and behold, it closed and locked.

I gave the door a small push. The door swung open.

"What the fuck?" I said, (quite loudly for someone who is alone and standing outside their own house.) I pulled the door closed and made sure that I pulled firmly enough to engage the lock. Once again I gave the door a small push. Open Sesame!

I pondered just how long my front door has been openable by the smallest amount of force.

"Maybe it's been like that since I moved in here... Maybe it's due to the door shrinking due to differences in temperature... Maybe the house across the road from me is being used by CIA undercover operatives to spy on me and they've rigged it so they can gain entry to my home without damaging the door or it's surrounds... OH MY GOD! They're onto me! My plan to take over the world is useless now, I need to call Heinrich in Havana and let him know... We have to get out!" I thought.

Then it occurred to me that I didn't know anyone named Heinrich who lives in Havana.

The mystery deepens...

Hey Whovians!

Geek your PC or Mac up to the max with TV Creams Dalek sounds.



There are certain things that need to be shared.

Love comes first. Comedy comes second. All other things aren't worth the bother.


Remind me never...

To allow a taxi driver listen to my MP3s while he drives me to an airport. I'm not so sure I wouldn't be detained by the police under anti-terrorism laws as happened to Harraj Mann last week.

If Led Zeppelin and The Clash are seen to be terroristic in their composition I can only guess at what the Police would think of some of my current MP3 list.

I Predict a Riot. Kaiser Chiefs.
Bill Hicks (From just after the Letterman show where Hicks was censored out of the show due to "Standards and practices")
The Womb. I Disown My Country.
Fuck The Police. Public Enemy.
Bombing the L. Fun Lovin Criminals.
Blow Shit Up. Doug Stanhope.

At 11 O'clock this morning,

I took the bold decision not to sleep until 3pm.

Instead I wandered into town to peruse the bookshop and grab a small snatch of what would normally be termed "real" life. You no doubt know the kind of thing I'm talking about... Wandering through shops staring with envious eyes at things that you can't afford, and don't really need, while shop assistants regard you with suspicion and have one hand resting on the panic button under the counter.

Or maybe that's just me.

The first place on my list of browsing was Bargain Books. After much deliberation, just to annoy the security guard, I chose the following four books.
I sauntered along Princes Street chain smoking like a madman and trying to avoid walking into the back of idiots who stopped suddenly for no reason, people trying to use their mobiles while they walked or teenage mums and their scabby spawn, and walked into HMV.

As the security guards started to talk into their sleeves I browsed the comedy DVD section. My eyes scanned the shelves and I saw a familiar face. Bill Hicks stared at me with his arm extended. Relentless said the cover.

I whipped out a hand, picked up the DVD and walked straight towards the payment counter. As the assistant took the DVD from my hand he pointed to a rack and asked if I would be interested in any of the titles. I looked at the rack he was pointing too. Immediately I questioned him.

"What makes you think I'd be interested in buying Little Britain?" I asked. "Do I look retarded? I've laughed more at a family funeral than I ever will from watching that rubbish. The next thing you know you'll be asking me if I like Ricky Gervais."
"To be fair, Ricky Gervais is a comedy legend." He replied.
"Try leg-end. Or better still, bell-end. Ricky Gervais is comedy for five year olds. And, having seen his Flanimals book I'm not so sure about that either."
"I just thought that you'd like him, it says this is a comedy DVD." He said, holding up the Bill Hicks DVD.
"It's way more than comedy mate. It's poetry, philosophy and truth." I said.

The assistants eyes faded back to their previous state. I saw the mindless glare of someone who wished he'd never bothered engaging someone in conversation and gave up. "Some people just aren't ready for the awakening." A voice said in my head. I smiled at the assistant, took the bag with the DVD in it and made my way towards the exit. As I walked out I smiled at the security guard. "You can relax now." I said.

"Huh?" Said the guard.


All done and dusted.

I've finally finished watching all seven series of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all the series of Angel that my brother kindly loaned me. Maybe now I'll be able to get back to doing something more productive, like watching porn and spanking my monkey. Ho ho.


Never work for fuckwits.

Especially ones who pay you by cheque.

I've just been over to my bank to cash my wages cheque. Or I would have if it wasn't for the fact that my work likes to fuck me around by paying me with a cheque that isn't cashable.

Now I have to wait five days until the cheque clears. Until then it's beans on toast for yours truly.


There's only so much...

Anyone can take before the red mist descends and you lose it.

Which is ok. Losing it is a part of being human. Just as long as you don't lose it and start whipping out fists. Personally I'm the kind that loses it and lets loose with the tongue. Just ask the poor swine that I happened to lose it at when I was stuck on a train for four hours a few years back...

He was one of those people who are cursed with a winey voice. And, he was a train buff. A combination that was always destined to be on the receiving end of an aural ass kicking. For two and a half hours I listened to him bleat on about rolling stock, locomotives and their differing types, railway gauges used in countries around the world and the joys of trainspotting in general. Then I lost my head.

"Hey Casey Jones, will you please shut the fuck up. I've had all I can take of your annoying voice and your encyclopedic knowledge of trains... I'm stuck on the train to hell and you're driving me out of my mind with your incessant drivel and you're winey, nasal chattering. If you don't fucking shut up I'm going to go to the buffet car, get a sandwich and then I'm gonna drive it into your fucking eyeball and I'm sure you of all people know how dangerous a British Rail egg and watercress sandwich can be in the wrong hands." I snapped.

When I stopped talking I heard a voice say "Well said that man." Which kinda made me feel justified in going off at the winey fucker who was driving me up the wall.

So, the next time you feel the rage descend and the voices in your head tell you to let loose just go with it. Just remember not to whip out the fists.


Almost there...

I've very nearly dredged my way through all seven series of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

If it wasn't for the fact that I have to go to work I would have finished them earlier. Aint work a drag? All that getting out of bed at 2pm, showering, shaving and getting dressed eats away at my precious time. Time that could be spent doing the more important things in life, like watching Buffy and wondering if it's immoral to lust after a fictional character.

But lets not get into that right now. My sordid fantasies involving Buffy, a double ended dildo and enough Viagra tablets to make an elephants trunk harder than a giant sequoia branch, should be kept to a minimum to prevent you all from having nightmares.

Why do...

Newspapers always assume that The Devil has a viscous dog?

Everytime a Rottweiler or a Pit Bull attacks something and tears it a new arsehole the newspapers all run headlines claiming that a "Devil Dog" is responsible.

For all we know The Devil has a Shih Tzu or a Bichon Frise. It could be that Old Nick has a penchant for small fluffy dogs. Perhaps he likes nothing more after a hard days torturing souls than slipping on a pair of Garfield slippers, curling up in front of the TV with a cup of cocoa and rubbing the tummy of his pooch.

To assume that Satan sits on a throne of skulls and bones and pats the head of his foaming mouthed helldog is not only narrowminded but it's also libelous. And lets be honest, who wants to get sued by Satan? Apart from Rupert Murdoch, obviously.

A small poetic break.


She thinks it's all drama
This life through which she travels
She doesn't realize with time
It all unwinds, unravels

Life is suffering on a loop
From advanced beings to primordial soup

But It's nothing personal
It's merely inconsequential.