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The Kraken Wakes... The Kraken Wakes...: November 2011

Tuesday, 29 November 2011

Yo, Silence!
You said it, mate
There are many ways in which child rearing is abso-frigging-lutely crucifying. You know, the mess, the chaos, the heavy bolt that keeps them locked in the attic. But what's killing this particular kraken at the moment is the endless fucking conversation broken only by Kraken Junior's sleep. 
To think, we spent the first two years of her life encouraging her to talk and now all we want her to do is shut the fuck up. You want to know the topics of conversation that she and I covered in the ten minute car ride home from school today? No, quite, but too bad 'cos here they are:
Pooey knickers
Crimbo concert practice
Lunchtime fruit
Crimbo trees
Driving up hills
Tooting car horns
Library books
Chicken nuggets vs fish fingers
The shape of the moon
Oranges with toothpicks sticking out of them
Alien shaped sweets
Yellow cars
The dark
Eating crayons
Microwave popcorn
Chatting to a nearly-four year old is like being violently assaulted with the Oxford English Dictionary and left for dead amongst the shattered remains of the English language. Apart from being exhausting it's about as bewildering as you can get without your brain spilling out of your nasal cavities. 
Half the time I haven't got a fucking clue what's going on. By the time 7pm bedtime comes I'm all but weeping from the endless verbal carnage. Seriously, the goings on in Abu-Ghraib were a piece of piss compared to this. Waterboarding? Ha. Listen to the endless non-sequiturs from a child and you'd admit to wanting to shag your own grandmother if only that would make it stop.
Hopefully all of her imaginative chat will turn Kraken Junior into an erudite and garrulous adult. Problem is I'll be dead by then because I'd have stabbed myself in the ears with a sharpened toffee hammer and fed myself to a hearing dog for the deaf. So good luck to the rest of you when you meet her. You'll fucking well need it.


Monday, 28 November 2011

In the Dark 2
Just one word
I would apologise for blogging more thoughts about Gary Speed's death but you should know me better than that by now. I'll blog whatever the frig I like, ta very much. 
Today the former Wales player Dean Saunders said, amongst other things, "I just wish I could have spoken to him before...maybe I could've just said something". He won't be the only one of Speed's friends n family who are thinking exactly the same thing today.
That's one of the cruel ironies of depression and suicide. The person who is depressed feels so worthless, trapped and desolate that to them it is unimaginable that anyone could care about them. Meanwhile they can be surrounded by those very carers, who love them and want, more than anything, for them to be well again. And the line between a depressive succumbing or surviving can be marked by just a few words.
When I've suffered from depression the one subject that everyone has studiously avoided is suicide, as if the mere mention of the word will have me jumping off the nearest cliff. Yet I'd have thought of that particular way out long before anyone else has dared to mention it. Problem is that whenever the subject of suicide has been avoided it has simply added to my loneliness and isolation and general feeling of freakery. Believe me, I've felt utterly fucking bananas as it is without feeling as if I'm the single person on the planet who is harbouring such a thought. 
In fact when I was referred to the local psych unit last year it was a revelation. It was like living in a parallel universe where suicide was as openly discussed as Katie Price's latest tit job. My counsellor would ask me if I was feeling suicidal, I would say yay or nay and then we would just, well, chat about it. No raised eyebrows, no judgement, nothing. And no it didn't push me over the edge or give me ideas about ending it all. In fact all it did was help. Just telling someone that I was suicidal was enough to help lift the terrible weight that I carried alone.
So now I wander about the place like the grim reaper, openly bantering about death and suicide. My honesty has led to a few people telling me about their own depressive feelings and the first thing I ask them is: are you suicidal? They either stumble backward in horror and say "Christ, I'm not that bad!" or they grasp at me with the relief that they aren't the freaks they thought they were.
Course, the first step in helping someone is even realising that they are depressed and that's why Gary Speed's suicide is such a shock to those who knew him. They simply had no idea that he even felt that way. What, in that case, could they have done? 
If there's one cruel lesson from this event it is that Speed's friends and family will be more likely to spot depression in someone, and more likely to talk about it, than ever before. That lesson has come too late for Gary Speed but perhaps it is just in time for the many other depressives who walk among us feeling lonely and unloved. 
Dean Saunders is right. Maybe you could just say something and save someone's life while you're at it.

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Choc Full of Bollocks
You don't say!
Oh, for fuck's sake. For fuck's, fuck's sake. Last night I was very kindly offered a chocolate from a festive tin of Roses. I was, of course, chuffed to shit until I went to unwrap said Hazel Whirl. That's because the wrapping delivered the following message: Contains: milk and nuts.
Excuse me? Ex-fucking-cuse me? You're warning me - for a warning is what this bollocks must be - that my chocolate enrobed hazelnut contains the ingredients milk and nuts?
Well thanks, Cadburys, for treating me like a complete and utter retard. And there I was thinking that my little treat solely contained streaky bacon and that I would therefore be safe from any raging lactose allergies that I'd festively decided to ignore. 
What the fuck is wrong with Cadburys (for I lay the utter wankishness of this firmly at their door)? Why did they feel the need to stamp this warning upon every single chocolate in the tin? Some chocs announced Contains: soya while other's hollered warnings about variations of soya, nuts and milk. 
Why not just place a warning on the tin (although even this pandering nonsense makes me froth) before letting evolution take its course? If anyone with a burning allergy to Brazil nuts tucks in after that then it's purely a Darwinian way of eradicating idiots from the human race.
Apart from which, this cobblers sucks the fun out of the very simple pleasure that is eating chocolate. At every bite you're faced with unimaginable dangers, imagining rapidly swelling nut allergists (if that's not a word it should be) and the lactose intolerant shitting out their own kidneys.
So where does Cadburys intend to go from here? What messages will their strawberry cremes display this time next year? Put down the choc, you fat fuck! Or how about You're 30 seconds closer to heart failure, you glutunous prick! Or perhaps a simple Death whore! will suffice?
I know exactly where they can stick their toffee fingers. Fucking fun goblins.


Sunday, 27 November 2011

In The Dark
What is there to say?
Hard to believe, I know, but this won't be a rant for once. Gary Speed, the Wales footy manager, died today as a result of suicide - hanging (allegedly) if you want the specifics. Now I know fuck all about football or, for that matter, Gary Speed, but I do know a little bit about suicide or at the very least what pushes you to it.
Read the reports about Speed's death and they're choc full of quotes from people who are shocked and saddened. He had been harbouring feelings that he felt could only be resolved by suicide although this was clearly completely unknown to those around him. He'd even been a guest on BBC's Football Focus just hours before taking his life. Can you imagine how lonely and desperate it is to feel such misery and desperation while pretending that everything is alright? To banter on a TV show about football when you feel about as worthless as it's possible to feel?
Well I can (except for the footy bit), thanks to a fuck load of depression and my recent breakdown. And that's the problem with suicidal feelings isn't it? No one knows about them. You don't bounce through Tesco with a knife to your wrist even though every step feels like the last one you ever want to take. You don't neck fistfuls of paracetamol at dinner parties even though you would give anything for the chance. And you don't answer the daily water-cooler "How are you?" by weeping, "Fucking terrible actually. My family would be better off without me and I just want to end it all by stepping in front of a bus".
That's one of the awful tragedies of Speed's death. That he must have felt and thought of those things over and over again before deciding upon his final heartbreaking act. And the shock of those around him is testimony to how well he kept those feelings hidden when they must have been eating at his every waking moment. Ironically, that takes enormous strength at the very point when you feel you have none left.
I've been suicidal and at crisis point and feel desperately for Gary Speed. I don't know why he did what he did but we probably shared the same thoughts, just as many suicidal people do. The loneliness, the isolation, the desperation, the darkness and the overwhelming feeling that the world would be a better place if only you weren't in it. 
Luckily my family and professionals got to me in time. I've been given the chance to grow old with Conjugal Kraken, kiss Kraken Junior goodnight and blog complete and utter bollocks. It's desperately sad that Gary Speed hasn't had that chance. All I can hope is that wherever he is now, he's free of the darkness that led him there.

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Friday, 25 November 2011

Money Worries
Aye, it's driving me to drink too
Jesus, I'm coming over all bah humbug but, then again, what the frig did you expect? I am a kraken with a love of Christmas but a spiralling disgust of the consumerism that has draped itself all over it, like a balding string of tinsel that's been pissed on by a tramp.
I mean, did you read today about the bell-ends who fought - yes, fought - over the tat being flogged in the post-Thanksgiving sales in LA? In an act of 'competitive shopping' some lunatic used pepper spray to beat her fellow shoppers to whatever shit she thought she couldn't live without. How delightfully festive.
Problem is that this grasping spirit of shit is abso-frigging-lutely everywhere. Christmas has turned into some marathon spending session punctuated only by telling other shoppers to go fuck themselves when they make a grab for the last Yardley bath cubes on the shelf. 
This vileness doesn't end at 5pm on Crimbo Eve either. My kraken cave looks out over a valley which includes a small retail park. Blissfully empty on the big day itself - I picture families frolicking together under a festive tree - by 9am on Boxing Day it's fucking rammed with people who want to force their New Year debt to new heights. Oh, how I long to run through them with a gun.
Thing is, as I froth over this it's still November. Which means said frothing hasn't even gotten started yet thanks to there being a full 24 days of December for me to despair of the grasping bastards that surround me. So if there's one thing I wish for this Christmas it's a sackful of patience, grace and goodwill. But if Santa fucks that up, as he does most years, I'll make do with something lethal and sawn-off, OK?

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Thursday, 24 November 2011

All Fur Coat and No Knickers
Astronauts, my arse
Shit on a shovel. Conjugal Kraken has the American version of the X Factor on the telly at the mo and I'm bring forced to blog thanks to the vile sight of a kid called Astro (What? The? Fuck?) arsing about on the stage. The first word that came to mind when I saw him was wanker. Then wanker became the second, third and fourth words that I thought of. Oh, and then twat.
OK, perhaps it's an evil, troll-like thing to lay into a kid but, well, the tit is indeed tough. The fact that he's 12 is outweighed by the fact that he swaggers about under the guise of some self-proclaimed brand, calls his fans his Astronauts, bangs on about Team Astronaut and has thrown a fucking enormous wobbly on stage because he was in the bottom two (or whatever meaningless twist the US version of the show foists upon unwitting wannabes). 
What a grim little shit. He's got all of the swagger before he's even got the pubes. Watching him makes me want to punch myself in the head repeatedly until I've lost the use of my frontal lobes.
I mean, if the kid's like this now what the fuck is he going to be like when he's old enough to buy his own pants? He's already labelled his fan base which, in reality, probably consists of his mother, father, sister and an imaginary friend who is this close to telling him to go fuck himself. 
Look, when you're Kanye, you can act like Kanye. When you're Jay-Z you can act like you're fucking Beyonce. When you're a prepubescent arsehole with the talent of a bad karaoke act you're acting like a bell-end. Just stop it, OK? Now go brush your teeth and get into bed.


Wednesday, 23 November 2011

Store Wars
Fodder and fuck-ups
Christ, I hate going to Tesco. It's like the seventh circle of hell furnished with extortionately priced bread rolls. Our local store is undergoing some sort of metamorphosis from hell hole to Satan's arsehole thanks to wild expansion plans, all of which means there's even more Tesco to hate. Not only is it frigging enormous but it's stocked like a communist Russia Harrods outlet with builders flashing their bums like slot machines. 
Worse, one of the new ranges on offer is a staggering level of illiteracy. If I see one more sign which reads Thanks for your patience while we temporary improve the store I'll go straight to what's left of the stationery aisle, grab a marker and write corrections on the forehead of every cashier I can hunt down. I mean, does anyone read this bollocks before they decorate the walls with it? 
And yesterday, in a desperate search for pitta bread (I know, I know) I was idiotic enough to head for the newly named Naan and Pitta aisle. "Fuck me," I thought. "The middle class has come to town!" Until I arrived at said shelving and found that it actually contained a negative number of pittas. In fact it was a black hole for bread products which I circumnavigated for ten minutes before my goodwill and remaining faculties got sucked into it. 
Joyously this carnage is going to continue until June 2012. June. 2012. Just to rearrange the fucking egg aisle and throw in a few more badly made t-shirts. It makes me want to poke out my own eyes with a three-week old corn cob. Only problem is that I'd have to go into the fucking store to buy one first. 

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Saturday, 19 November 2011

Come back Gramps, for fuck's sake
I'll be buggered if I haven't thought hard about this and you know what? I still don't have a fucking clue about what the world sees in these Twilight films. Not a single fucking clue. Sullen faced vampires = box office gold? It makes me want to eat my own ovaries with a maggoty chip fork. Problem is that Twi-Shite is everywhere so even if you have no interest in the po-faced blood suckers you know about them anyway. That's my excuse for the following summary of all things vampiric. Which is, er, not much...

Robert Pattinson: Between the pink-eye and the pallid gib, young Bob is as much of a sex symbol as Russell Grant wrapped in clingfilm. What the nation's teens find in him to toss over is beyond me. And no, no, no, it just cannot be this brooding glare he's got going on because that just makes him look like he's struggling with a particularly girthy shit.
Kristen Stewart: Exactly what is this aversion you have to smiling? Or looking vaguely interested? Or just looking joyous about being abso-fucking-lutely minted thanks to appearing in the dullest series of filums this side of a documentary about carpets? Just how fucking mardy would you look if you had to pluck chickens for a living? Or empty colostomy bags? Jesus.
Taylor Lautner: Look, what's with this allergy you have to clothing? And the face like a squinty turnip. Oh, and did I mention how deeply unattractive a man becomes when he starts plucking his eyebrows and sucking in his arse cheeks? No? Well, is this a good time?

Someone, please stick a stake in the fuckers. Now. 


Thursday, 17 November 2011

Talking Balls
Victoria 'Bollocks' Beckham
Whoaaa! I've just read this quote from the oboe-faced Victoria Beckham and have therefore exploded my eyes into my own palms. Read, if you will, this load of cock:
"There are quite a few video conferences at 5 a.m. with me in my dressing gown, holding baby. For me it's no different than it is for a lot of women out there. It's like juggling glass balls. I love it." 
Indeed, that last line is where said cock lurks. Who in the fuck enjoys, nay, loves video conferencing at 5am while a newborn shits into their lap? Who, pray? I fucking well didn't enjoy it when I did it and I'm as sure as fuck that no other mother enjoys it either. In fact I didn't enjoy it to the extent that I now feed from a nosebag of anti-psychotics. 
I've written columns twenty minutes from deadline with one finger while a three month old KJ screeched in my left arm. I've done interviews while wiping up the sick that's just puddled over the carpet. I've called editors while shoving a bottle into KJ's gob to keep her quiet for five minutes. And no, I didn't love any of it. In fact, I fucking hated every second of it. I hated the chaos, the noise, the panic and the persistent feeling that I was failing every poor fucker who dared to come into contact with me.
The thing is with Beckham is that she is, well, Beckham. She doesn't get arsy clients shouting at her, doesn't get threatened with her job when she misses work for another jabs visit, doesn't have to troop on until bedtime 14 hours later because there's probably a queue of nanny's desperate to pick up her fucking slack.
I love it. Bollocks, Beckham, bollocks.


Then stamp on it
Christ on a bike if my heavily medicated spirit has just taken another small, yet everlasting, kicking. Why? Read the conversation I've just had with Kraken Junior. And weep:
Me: "Look! Your Tinkerbell comic has a fairy mobile that we can make!"
KJ: "A mobile? Can we play with it?"
Me: "Course. Want me to put it together for you?"
KJ: "Yeah. Can we call someone after that?"
Me: "Eh?"
KJ: "Call someone. On the mobile phone you're making."
As sure as shit slides off a shovel, this has to be the most disheartening fucking conversation I've had in something like 30 years. KJ is three years of age and she thought I was talking about a mobile phone. How the fuck did that happen? We read her books about bears and pirates! We spend hour after fucking hour spilling glitter across the floor! She thinks thunder and lightening is caused by Santa taking a dump! 
When the fuck did technology overtake all that's good and innocent about dangling fairies off her ceiling by making KJ think I was fashioning a mobile communication device from the pages of a bloody magazine? 
Start praying for the safety of the next gimp who tries to flog me a mobile phone, will you? Or it'll be them that KJ finds dandling from the frigging ceiling.

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Wednesday, 16 November 2011

Howard Hughes Lives!
The European shit mountain
See, it's the mess that drives me utterly fucking nuts. The mess. It's the legacy of any three year old but Christ, it makes you want to beat kittens to death with a can of Pledge. My kraken cave has never been that tidy but the walking, talking landfill site that is Kraken Junior takes filth and clutter to another level entirely. It doesn't help that she has a compulsion to collect every scrap of shit she finds. Her body's been inhabited by Howard Hughes. Seriously, she's this far from decanting her piss into bottles and lining them up on her bedroom windowsill.
There are hair clips shoved into plant pots, crayons wedged into DVD players and discarded socks blooming from the skirtingboards like fucking mushrooms. Toys and books are forming Himalayan ranges across the living room bloody floor and for some fucking reason I keep treading on globs of playdough/ Coco Pops. Where we're going to put the Christmas tree in four weeks' time is beyond me. P'raps we can sprinkle pine needles and squirrel shit over the carpet thus cutting out the middle spruce and leaving enough room for Santa's plunder, you know, the gifts that I'll want to kick to death by Boxing Day because there's no fucking room for them either.
I keep banging on about shoving the lot of it into the back of the car and donating it to the needy but I'll be fucked if they'd want it either. Snapped, gaudy Tinkerbell bracelet anyone? Perhaps a single, yellow Duplo brick? Or could I interest you in three random pieces from a Peppa Pig jigsaw? No I thought not. Even the needy wouldn't want to root through the piles of shit that landscape our living room. 
Mind you, they'd be welcome to prise the can of Pledge out of my hand. What's that? You think I'm going to start cleaning? Ha, I'll be fucked. Just start lining up the frigging kittens.


Sunday, 13 November 2011

Too Many Cooks...
Skewer this
Dear God, have you any idea how sickened and shaken I am by today's realisation that there are four - yes, four - versions of Masterchef on TV? Now, there aren't enough f-words in the world to describe how much I hate telly chefs. I really fucking hate them. Oh, and programmes about cooking. For a kraken of my girth it is astounding, I know, that I'm not glued to shows about gravy and cake.
But four Masterchefs? Masterchef, Junior Masterchef, Masterchef: The Professionals and Celebrity Masterchef? What. The. Fuck? Exactly how much pompous jus-ing, skewering and pan-frying (by the way, where the fuck else would you fry something? On an Etch-a-Sketch?) does the BBC need? If even one scrag end of my licence fee gets spent on that show - say on a jumped up fennel or ponced up ham - I hope to fuck that it chokes some producer or other.
Why, for shit's sake, does this show need four versions? So that the wheelbarrow-faced presenters can do even more moronic fucking yelling at plates of mash? Cooking doesn't get much tougher than this? No, watching you over-catered bell-ends doesn't get much tougher although the BBC is clearly willing to shove our levels of endurance to the point at which our cranial neurons shatter and we start stabbing each other with dry spaghetti.
Worse, one quick view makes you wonder whether you stumbled onto a show about the plight of limbless newborns, such is the level of intensity with which the programme is presented. It's all ferocious hyperbole and cruet-based hysteria. It's cooking, you fucking fools! Cooking! You're not resurfacing Mars or dissecting the Royals live on air. You're slapping a pollock on a plate! That's it! That's all! Get a fucking grip!
Christ, I tell you what. Blogging doesn't get much harder than this.

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Friday, 11 November 2011

One Bulb Short...
Today, November 11 2011, I saw my first set of domestic Christmas lights flashing in a bay window. November. The eleventh. 


Off With Their Wheels 2
Mayday! Mayday!
Oh, for fuck's sake. Remember my post on Nov 4 about mobility scooters twatting about on our local roads? And how one road hogging geriatric had adorned his scooter with wing mirrors? Well get this. Tonight I was driving along in the dark and came upon him and his scooter which has now been decorated with...headlights. Headlights! On a mobility fucking scooter! And he was clinging to the white line in the middle of the road as if he was landing a jumbo fucking jet at Heathrow (except that the nearest he gets to breaking the sound barrier is when irate drivers holler at him). 
Worse, I've just checked the DVLA website (I know, I know, I'm a sad bastard) and found that this guy isn't only legal but he doesn't need to have a driving license and can even use it where the limit is over 50mph. Oh Christ, oh Christ, oh Christ. I think I'm going to be consumed by burning rage before collapsing and forming a black hole so deep and terrifying that witnesses suffer exploding bladders and torn bowels. No change there then.

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Thursday, 10 November 2011

Park (Your Arse) Life
Yeah? And what are you gonna
do about it, Santa?
Tell me, please, what's this national obsession the UK has with buying new sofas for Christmas? It used to all be about the Chocolate Orange, for Christ's sake. Now it's a stampede to furnish your digs with a lurid three seater, matching armchair and pouffe (as well as furnishing your bank account with a raging New Year's debt).
But why? How in the fuck does having a new sofa improve your Christmas? By making you spend the entire pre-Crimbo rush waiting for the delivery guys to appear? Or by making you destroy any festive cheer by screaming at the kids because they smeared choc all over the thing by 7am on Christmas morn?
Are people fucking mad? Christmas is the last time on earth to buy a new sofa what with all that mulled wine sloshing about and todders chucking up the entire contents of any given selection box. 
I ask you, is it down to fear? That Santa won't have anywhere to rest his porky arse after breaking into your house like a festive pervert? Or perhaps it's an irrational terror of the eternal DFS sale ending.
More likely it's a fear that by ignoring your arsely needs you'll have a shit Christmas, just like the ads tell you will happen if you don't invest in something with ribbed velour and four casters. 
Truth is, though, that new sofas do not a merry Christmas make. Rather they make for a terse and shouty festive period where everyone is so scared of fucking up the purchase before the 2014 repayments start that they spend the big day squatting on the floor instead. Merry Christmas, my, and the nation's collective, arse.


Park Life
People who park their cars like wankers. They’re the sort who can fuck my day up to the point that I’m unable to function as a rational human being. 
At my favourite coffee shop this morning  – which has a car park teeny enough to swallow – I found a car had been less parked than abandoned across several spaces. Thing is, I knew exactly the type who’d do this and I wasn’t disappointed with my guesswork when the shaven-headed bloke with the gawp, tats and latest copy of Autotrader necked his brew and clambered straight into said car. I almost hollered Bingo! You can spot the fuckers a mile off can’t you? 


Tuesday, 8 November 2011

Twat Factor 2
Reckon F-Cock left the X Factor because of what I wrote on my biog, like? No, neither do I, you nut, but it's one fuck of a joyous piece of news isn't it? Common sense has prevailed and you know that I'm busting at the seams with that stuff. Ha!


Monday, 7 November 2011

Ugly Noise
Aye, another dose of Nickelwank
Oh Christ, I rarely blog about music because a) there's a lot of shit stuff about and I don't have the time to lambast it all and b) there's a lot of great stuff about but I hate being nice. So here's a rare foray into the world of popular beat combos:
What the fuck is that caterwauling otherwise known as Nickelback's latest single When We Stand Together? Fuckadoodledoo, have you ever heard such earnest, self-righteous bawling in all of your life? It makes me want to fill my aural canals with quick drying cement. Here's a taste of what the fop-haired knobwads have unleashed on the world:
When we could feed a starving world/ With what we throw away/ But all we serve are empty words/ That always taste the same
Worse, it sounds like a Eurovision entry, but the type that bags nil points before the losing warblers get packed off back to the arse end of Bulgaria. 
This song, Nickelwank, is not music. It is an infection. A pus-busting boil that must be lanced with a six foot needle and a decontamination chamber. All that bollocks about feeding the world with empty words that taste the same? Well they're choking the fuck out of me.

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Twat Factor
What's that written on your face, Frankie?
Whoa! However hard I work at avoiding the X Factor, the slithering trails of its talentless mucus still manage to seep under the door of my life. And I've noticed one especially foul deposit: the barge-faced, fat-handed twat, Frankie Cocozza. Or F-Cock for short.
What the fuck is going on with this guy? Why are his plummeting depths of talentlessness even being given air-time? He sings like his biffin's bridge is is being grated, he shambles about like Stig of the Dump on peyote and his trousers display legs like elastic fucking bands. I'm at a complete and utter frigging loss as to how he even got past the audition stage, especially when you consider how often he must have been mistaken for a feral, inbred monkey.
And, please, someone explain to me what's going on with his fucking hair. How many diseased ferrets died to provide him with that barnett? Or did a Tribble escape the Star Trek set and burrow into his skull? Perhaps it's not him we should be voting for but the flea-circus that tumbles and trapezes it's way across his head every week. Who in the bollocks is voting for this guy? The entire staff at Head and Shoulders? The National Union of Nit Nurses? Itchy and fucking Scratchy? 
Seriously, F-Cock needs to go back to his day job, whatever the fuck that was: collecting the lice off gorillas, say, or letting medical students laugh at his legs. It sure as fuck can't be a job that involves singing. Can it? Oh fuck, I'm already wishing I hadn't asked.


Saturday, 5 November 2011

Car Goblins
Woman! Where's my Arctic Roll!
Arsing along the M4 today we were passed by one of those Toyota Hilux flatbed truck things. Problem was that it had a bumper sticker that made me gasp loud enough for Conjugal Kraken to swerve violently. It read: My other toy has tits. So, as I was unable to impart this at 70mph, here's a message for the one male and one female passenger who displayed such shite on their rear end:

Dear Bloke: I say bloke, because that's probably what you think you are. Look, stop scratching your knackersack for a moment and listen, will you? You. Are. A. Twat. Yes, a twat. Where in fuck's name did you get a sticker like that anyway? Did you use a flux capacitor to steal it from a 1970s Burt Reynolds film? And...don't tell think women are frigid for not wanting wanting to shag you and black people have no sense of humour over the words coon or nigger. Yeah? Right so far? I suspect so. OK, OK, so you could be a paragon of modern man. I could have gotten you all wrong. But something tells me it's you who has gotten it all wrong. Trucks n tits. You're one pinched arse away from being Alf Garnett. Oh shit. That makes you proud doesn't it?

Dear Female Passenger: Step the fuck out of the car. No? Then you're as bad as he is. Really, why would any grown, sentient woman get into a car with that splattered all over the bumper? I'd rather walk over broken, shit-splattered glass in my bare feet. Do you enjoy being driven in a vehicle that describes you as a tit-adorned toy? Oh, please tell me that you've at least had words with him over it. Or that you have a car with a retaliatory sticker that reads: My other toy has a teeny tiny cock but he compensates for this by driving a truck. Otherwise, what happened? Do you also reside in a world where people eat Arctic Roll for pudding and have three telly channels to choose from? Look, hand me that flux capacitor will you? I'm going to smash it the fuck up.

Course, I could be way off my Kraken beam here. Perhaps I really do need to have the humour shagged into me or perhaps said passengers were mortified that this gem has been stuck on their brand new car. Either way, I'm writing this on my laptop. And my other toy has a hair trigger.

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Friday, 4 November 2011

Off With Their Wheels
And to you
Like Saga-sponsored roadblocks, mobility fucking scooters seem to have taken over my local byways. As if driving isn't enough of a shriek-inducing pisser, this takes my level of road rage to Raoul Moat levels.
Aye, those puttering armchairs that ferry the fat or the elderly at -6 miles per hour are actually on the roads. Yes, the roads. Not the pavements, the actual roads. Do you know how often I've sailed around a corner in the car to find a mobility fucking scooter (try saying the phrase without the f-word in it. It's physically impossible) bang in the middle of my lane? 
There's even one ole geezer who has kitted out his mobility fucking scooter (see?) with wing mirrors. Wing mirrors! And you know what else he does? When approaching a large local roundabout he trundles bang into the middle of 'his' lane creating the sort of tailbacks you'd see in LA moments before a tidal wave. Entire local traffic systems have ground to a halt as the infirm and incontinent chutter through traffic lights.
I dunno. Perhaps these flying monkeys died in the war for the right to terrify grown men and small children with their road-hogging histrionics. Or perhaps it's just the teetering indignance that comes with old age. Either way, they need to get the fuck off the roads. Or, or, I'll, er, nick their batteries. Bastards.

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Thursday, 3 November 2011

I'm What..?
Get a load of this, my little gherkins. A friend of mine went for a job interview recently (no one will be named in order to preserve the dignity of the gimps involved). Now, said friend is a fucking genius in his profession: knows his onions, works his bollocks off, gives a shit, has even been wooed by a publisher who wants him to write an academic tome. You'd think he'd waltz before an interview panel and be snapped up, wouldn't you? 
Well fuck me if my chum failed to get the job he'd rocked up for. Why do you think that is? When the panel gave him feedback did they tell him he had poor qualifications? That he needed more experience? That his B.O. wilted pot plants? No. You know what they told him? That he was too enthusiastic.
Aye, you read that correctly, my Kraken loving gremlins. Too enthusiastic. What the fuck does that even mean? That his love of his job would too delightful to bear? That the spring in his step may devastatingly improve the morale of his new colleagues? Or perhaps too much enthusiasm would cause some sort of quantum shift in the fabric of the profession, bending time and bursting atoms until his specialism exploded in a cloud of gaseous infectiousness?
Of all the reasons to not get a job, that has to be the most fucked up of all. So what does it mean for his next interview? Perhaps he should act bored and ask the interviewer what colour knickers she's wearing. Or wipe his arse on his CV before origami-ing it into the shape of a B52 bomber and sending it by registered post.
Christ, but it makes me thankful that a large dose of the mentals has rendered me unable to work for a good while. Or perhaps I'd stand a better chance at jobhunting if I did it while drooling over a strait jacket. All the interviewing bets, sure as shit, are off.

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Wednesday, 2 November 2011

Room for one more, lads!
Talking about being given a large dose of the willies, Julian Assange has been extradited to Sweden. That's what allegations of rape and sexual assault bag you. That and the fact that he constantly stares knowingly into the middle distance while being really fucking irritating. The latter's not exactly an allegation though. From what I've seen of the bloke it's completely and utterly fucking true.
Now, Assange hasn't been found guilty of anything official so this blog might be worth shit soon. Yet I'm gripped by the celebs who so stridently declared his innocence when his tag nuts first hit the fan. Jemima Khan, Tony Benn, Bianca Jagger, Ken Loach...some of whom admit to never even having met the bloke, for Christ's sake. All that fucking indignance, all that placard waving, all that outraged's a fucking miracle that the bandwagon didn't career into the deepest ravine (but let's leave Jordan's ladyparts for another blog). 
What the fuck is wrong with these people? Were they really so desperate for a cause? How bored must Khan and Loach have been the week Assange first crawled out of the Wiki-woodwork? 
Aye, well they're not so fucking supportive now that Assange is getting bundled onto the first flight to Stockholm, are they? There's been no sign of Khan offering to pack his pants or Jagger bagging him an upgrade. I haven't noticed Benn escorting him from court or Loach promising an appeal either.
So where the fuck are they? Were they just too busy to be in court today? Or have they realised that the bandwagon they've been clinging to has a wonky wheel or two?
Can't wait to see how supportive said celebs will be from here on in. Or perhaps their press gimps will have little to say for once. Looks like they've had Stockholm Syndrome in more ways than one.

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Ow's About That, Then? 2
What the fuck is this business about Jimmy Savile "lying in state"? In my 29 Oct blog I banged on about how much the guy creeped me out. This has taken it to one fuck of a new level. Please tell me this wasn't one of his own requests because there's not enough soap in the world to deal with the amount of showers I'd have to take.

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