Rolling in It

'Avin a Faaaag

Whoa there! So, pillow-faced pop warbler Adele is up le duff. Welcome to the flap-fooffed club, Adele love. Believe me, it's going to do some real damage to that 24 years of yours. May I suggest that your next album is called I'm 24 but Look Forty-Fucking-Eight?
Bearing in mind that her last album, 21, was all about the break-up of her relationship and that her private life is a searing pit of inspiration for her songs, does this mean that her next chart-botherer will be about her skirmish with childbirth? 
Well, if it is, based upon 21's track listing, this is what it'll sound like... 


Rolling in the Deepest, Tongue Exploding, Arse-Ripping Agony


Rumour Has It That This'll Really Fucking Destroy My Social Life, Sex Life, Career...


Turning Babies With a Midwife's Hand Shoved Up My Love Tunnel


Don't You Ever Touch Me Again You Bastard


Set Fire to the Pain Because I'd Like to Die Now Please. Please?


He Won't Go Even Though I'm Pushing Like an Overheating Tractor


Take It All: Baby, Uterus, Ovaries, Flaps, the Lot...


I'll Be Waiting for the Next Nine What?


One and Only Because I'm Never Fucking Ever Doing This Again


Lovesong? Well It Has To Be Better Than That Fucking Whale Music


Someone With a Ventouse


Personally, I'm looking forward to this being perpetually on the Radio 2 playlist. Happy to be pregnant, Adele, dearie? Just let me know if you want to amend that after the first contraction.

Down and Out

Here we go again

There's never a good time to be broke but, fuck me, if the Tories have managed to make poverty even more painful than it already is. Apart from all the blathering about pasty, granny and stamp taxes anyone who is stringing together a living in the hideous region of the poverty line is this far from being dragged through the streets and derided by Etonian toss-jockey David Cameron himself.
For a start foodbanks are the hot new thing if you're at all worried about how you're going to fed your kids. Foodbanks. In 20-fucking-12. Jesus, I thought foodbanks had disappeared with Dickens and chimney-climbing toddlers. But no. They're springing up all over the country, where donations of food are being given to families who are now so broke that going to bed hungry is par for the course.
Add to that the latest news, that some councils have suffered so many cuts that they can no longer afford to house families on their waiting lists, and poverty starts to look like laugh a frigging minute. 
Problem is, though, that this means asking the most poverty stricken and vulnerable in society to up sticks and move to a completely different area which could be hundreds of miles away. Genius. Imagine it. You've got no money, no job and no prospects and your family relies on a foodbank just to get through the week, then on top of all that you're expected to leave your friends and family just to be dumped fuck-knows-where in an identikit estate where your chances of work, money and prospects are even lower simply because you're a stranger in town.
This has to be the closest the poor have ever gotten to being pieces of rancid meat, all but being ferried around in crates because no one wants them. And even if the kids of these unwanted families manage to see through their teens unscathed they then have to look forward to a raging dose of youth unemployment. They can't even stave this off with a stint of further education because university fees are so staggeringly high. Christ, I'd end up disillusioned and rioting too. In fact rioting would be the least of what I'd get up to.
How the nation gets out of this mess is beyond me. I do have one hope though: that the short-sighted fucks who voted Tory at the last election snap out of their reverie and realise what a whopping enormous mistake they have made thus rectifying their devastating brainfuck in the next election. I'm not saying that Labour is the answer - I wouldn't buy so much as a mop from Milliband - but it has to better than this vile representation of 21st Century Britain.
Remember, Cameron sleeps at night. You sure as shit can't say the same thing about the families who are living with poverty, hunger and abandonment. In fact it'll be a while before they get a good night's kip again. Hopefully that while is a short one. Let's end it the next time we have to put a cross in the box. 
(By the way, I thought I'd ranted about this already but it looks like I haven't. I apologise. I didn't mean to spare you like that.)

Pushed

Weapon of choice

If, the next time I go into a supermarket, I get stuck behind two shoppers who are pushing their trolleys abreast of each other while chatting about fuck all I'm going to beat them to death with a frozen chicken. 
I despise supermarkets and avoid them in the same way that Mel Gibson avoids anger management therapy or decent film scripts. Yet today I was forced into such a store only to find myself plodding up n down aisles behind rolling roadblocks otherwise known as social fucking shoppers. I say social because these people go to the shops in the same way that most people go clubbing or dog-walking. You know, just for the fun of it. 
I've also noticed that this breach of shopping etiquette seems to be down to, sadly, women. Usually, in my gnashing experience, it's mothers and their grown up daughters, nudging their trolleys at an identical pace as if they are surgically attached, all the time discussing the undoubtedly gripping pros and cons of washing powder or Rich Tea biscuits.
What in the fuck is wrong with these people? For a start who in the giddy pits of hell goes to a supermarket for a stroll and a natter? Worse, which self-absorbed nutbags forget that they aren't the only shoppers in the entire building and that while they are twatting their way through their shopping lists, people snake queue-like behind them. Are these people so terminally insensitive that they'll hog aisle after aisle like Victoria Beckham being treated to a private opening of a Gucci store? In a word: yes. In another word: bastards. 
So I'm going to start ram raiding these shoppers of doom, scuffing at their heels with my own overloaded trolley until they hobble from the store, leaving me to do what I'm there to do: grab milk, run and get on with a far more interesting Tesco-lite life. Oh, and remind me to swing that frozen chicken around while I'm at it.

Bloody Hell

Pass the toilet duck

Oh my giddy shit. I've witnessed something so grim that if I could remove my brain and soak it in Toilet Duck I would. Problem is, this isn't the first time I've been privy to this act of human vileness so had I really been soaking my brain it'd be the size of a fucking callus by now. Anyway, want to know what this portal to hell actually is? Get this: blood smeared on the walls of a women's toilet cubicle. 
Indeed, there I was, lowering my feminine portions onto the porcelain - in the rather fancy Royal Welsh College of Music and Drama in Cardiff to be specific - when I looked up to find that the cubicle I'd stumbled into was actually scenery from The Exorcist. Fuck knows, perhaps it really was the work of a drama student run amok with a bucket of fake gizzards. But then again perhaps it was the work of a woman who'd seen fit to daub her menstrual outpourings over every available surface as a handy alternative to tampons. 
What, pray, the fuck? Why would a woman ever do something so utterly bleak in a place of public comfort? I find it hard to imagine what thoughts precede an act so puerile that it's the equivalent of a toddler smearing baked beans through its own hair.
The thing is, this isn't the first time I've found myself staggering from a bog within moments of discovering that it was previously inhabited by Freddie bloody Kruger. OK, so it's not a daily occurrence (where in the fuck do you think I live?) but it's happened often enough over the years to make me fear for my own hygiene whenever I take a public dump.
Look, there are lots of things I like to do when I'm in the grips of the crimson tide. Swig straight from a bottle of rum, holler at the unsuspecting, paw uselessly at my throbbing abdomen. But smearing the produce of my fertility over vertical surfaces? Er, no. I can't say that's ever crossed my mind, even when I'm gnashing at that vaguely static plastic that passes for tampon packaging.
So who, exactly, does this? What would the photofit of a blood-smearing po perp actually look like? I'm imagining some swivel-eyed mouth-breather who forms thoughts about as often as Alan Titchmarsh produces watchable telly. Never fucking ever. Alas, though, I fear it's better to not know. After all, my faith in humanity is flimsy enough without discovering that it's intelligent, career loving women-folk who indulge in such atrocities. Bloody hell? Exactly.

West-Ends

Men at C&A

D'you think the members of Westlife are actually ashamed of themselves for churning out such ear-blistering shite that self-decapitation is the only antidote to their warblings? And yeah, I know that they've split up - easily their greatest ever contribution to music - but I still just saw one of their videos on telly and wept openly and violently at the banality of it all.
God, imagine having made an entire career out of producing such soppy bollocks that you've become the very definition of a Mother's Day present. If Westlife's work was my reward for the fact that childbirth was the equivalent of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse galloping through my love tunnel, my celebration of said event would involve a blender and Kraken Junior's fingers.
Anyway, back to the blarney...Not only have Messrs Byrne at al happily agreed to churn out what also passes for funeral durgery but they've also spent the greater part of their careers staring into any approaching camera as if they've found a lump in their collective knackersack. On the days when they had to make videos by gawping achingly into a lens I wonder if they actually felt a small part of their souls being bludgeoned. No wonder Louie Walsh, their ex-manager, looks as if he's been drinking from the fountain of youth. What he's really been doing is drinking the tears of these bewildered Irishmen as, yet again, they burble through turgid lyrics.
No wonder the boy Walsh was accused of making up stories about the lads for the delectation of the media because in reality the pop-throttlers look about as exciting as a set of taps. Fair play though, he stuck to tales of them being eaten by lions or violently injured rather than claiming more ludicrous assertions such as them producing groundbreaking mash-ups.
Now that they've called it quits - oh thank fuck, thank fuck, thank fuck - all that's left to do is erase their back catalogue in a global implosion that forms a black hole for any song that requires said singers to fawn like castrated pups. Failing that I'd be happy to administer my own kick to the group's biffins. All in the name of good music, of course.

Festival Hell

Wet wipe, anyone?

You know what I really fucking hate about the Great British summer? The insidious creep of festivals and festival fashion. These wellies reminded me. until a few years ago, if you stumbled to within even ten miles of the Glasto festival you were considered an unwashed scrote who had fuck all better to do than scramble over Worthy Farm's fences. Now if your summer is devoid of a trip to a festering, fly-caked portaloo you're considered about as fashionable as a kick to the knackers.
Jesus, spare me. Look, if I wanted to stumble about with thousands of bewildered arsewipes while desperate for a hot meal and a quiet dump I'd spend a weekend at Heathrow's terminal five. I as sure as shit wouldn't fork out £100 for the trauma to be soundtracked by Bruce bloody Springsteen as I took a piss in a bottle because the toilets were so far away that they have their own transport system.
All of which means I won't be indulging in the ubiquitous festival fashion either. Christ, from spring onwards shops across the land wedge themselves full of tribal prints, absurd wellies and fucking kagoules. In fact it's become an industry of its own where even if you're choosing hot water and a comfy bed over a summer of sleeping in mud puddles you're still expected to dress as if you've been turfed out of the family home and forced to forage for grubs and worms. 
And what makes me queasier than trodden-on kebab is the way that the middle classes have adopted the festival circuit for its own. Suddenly summer is all about taking Oscar and Amelia for a mind-broadening stint in a 50,000-strong queue for the one portaloo that isn't actually levitating from its own contents. By all accounts this seems to have replaced the annual jaunt to Tuscany which, until a few years ago, was what preoccupied the nation's newspapers. Now said travel features have been replaced with the deeply unappetising must-sees of the hastily knocked up stage three miles down the road. Jesus.
So I'll be fucked if I'll be donning bleached braids and a smear of cow shit this summer. And you as sure as shit won't find me wedged into a crowd of thousands as I flap at my increasingly niffy underparts with the last wet wipe on the site. Instead you'll find me actually enjoying my Great British summer, taking regular showers and laughing at how Oscar and Amelia keep moaning because Glasto's big screens don't feature C-bloody-Beebies. Festival fashion? Of for fuck's sake...

It's a Mystery

Back to your traffic cones, lads

You know, one of things I'll never understand about the festering human race is how popular Monty Python was and, fuck knows, still seems to be. I mean, it's like trying to comprehend the actions of Sadam Hussein or why people watch the X-Factor. It's beyond me.  
Truth is, I've never seen a Monty Python sketch and laughed. Ever. In fact I have never seen one and smiled, internally sniggered or even vaguely forgot that another channel was probably broadcasting something infinitely more entertaining/ funny/ intelligent.
For a start listening to any Monty Python utterance is like listening to a gaggle of 12 year old boys trying to be funny. Are 12 year old boys funny though? Fuck no. And they certainly aren't funny enough to warrant the sort of befuddled adoration that Cleese and his cohorts have attracted. I even remember hearing Monty Python at a comp school sports day - some trying-to-be-popular bell ends were playing a cassette on their new fangled audio machine - and failed to see what the fuck was funny. Believe me, 30 years on I'm still agog that those kids couldn't find more amusement in white noise. 
And for me this theory has been not just tested like Five Mile Island but it's been proven by the fact that in my experience (so get ready for a hastily constructed generalisation) the only people who ever laugh at Monty Python are men. I have honestly never met a woman who thought that Palin and his mates were anything other than graduates spouting  puerile bollocks in between wearing traffic cones on their heads.
Of course, being critical of Monty Python gets me the same reaction as when I am critical of the Beatles: bemusement that I haven't been sucked in by the endless hyperbolic outpourings of the media and succumbed to liking them.
Seriously, if I want to hear anyone banging on about dead parrots or see Confucius blowing a whistle I'll go back to my psych unit and hang about the waiting room. I don't need some sniggering Cambridge tossers to bang on about it for me. If only the rest of the world would realise that. Jesus, talk about a Holy Grail.

Too Many Cooks...

Blah, blah, blah...

Darling kraken-lovers, you may have guessed by now that I have a pathological hatred of television chefs. Tossing salt at your food from a great distance and turning parsnips into jus is about as entertaining as a foaming bout of piles. So it goes without saying that when it comes to Gordon Ramsay I actually develop the urge to self harm. What a complete and utter map-faced twat.
It's not his swearing that bothers me. Fuck no. It's his attitude towards the rest of the world. How he has the flaring cheek to flounce into the kitchen of some backwater pub before screaming at the acne-cursed chef because his pie n mash isn't up to Ramsay's impossible standards. What the frig is that all about? Ramsay, love, if said pus-ridden cook was capable of knocking out some oddly-titled dish in the way that you are I dare say he'd be working at the heart of the London elite too, rather than weeping over his career in the Dog n Duck.
Worse, is when smouldering volcano Ramsay gets the hump because the people he is screaming at dare, yes dare, to answer him back. Whoa there Ramsay. Has your common sense shrivelled after too many hours over a boiling vat of fuck-knows-what? Exactly what is going on, that this guy thinks he's allowed to shriek and swear at people yet they are not allowed to do the same to him? Jesus, have you seen how indignant he looks when the bloke who knocks out chips day after day actually retorts? 
The thing is that I'd love a face-to-face with Ramsay. I'd love it more than a hastily fried egg smothered in tomato sauce. Not only am I confident that I could out-swear him (what you see on here is a mere sample of the depths to which my language can plumb) but I know for a fact that I could argue back at him until he's left weeping among a pile of his own spud peelings.
See, that's because I have no patience for the likes of Ramsay, a spluttering telly chef who thinks that if he harrangues people for long enough he'll get whatever he wants. I'm pretty sure that I could give him something he doesn't want though, and that'd be a dose of his own over-seasoned medicine. 
Come into my kitchen Ramsay, you overblown egg-cracker, and I'll show you a new use for the wooden spoon and, believe me, it won't go anywhere near your cooking.

A Night In

Nightcap, anyone?

Hallo? What suppurating bollocks is this that I have just spied in The Times' property section? In a feature about how to sell a house I've found the following advice. Gird yourself, kraken lovers: "If conventional viewings aren't drumming up business...you might want to consider offering potential buyers an overnight stay." 

Excuse me? You might want to what? Allow complete strangers to stay in your house overnight in the hope that they'll stump up the cash to buy the thing? Fuck me. That has to be the most spectacularly wanky piece of advice I have ever, ever heard. Perhaps, as this piece appeared in The Times, it's aimed at the toffs who have a few empty wings on their country estate and can afford to send the staff in to bully the potential buyers into, well, buying. Otherwise, who in the fuck is actually going to do this?

Moving house is a complete and utter bastard. I find the effort of having to keep seven rooms tidy and synchronised with the smell of fresh coffee so grinding that I'd rather live in a tramp's trouserleg. So the thought of opening my house up to any ole knob end who fancies a free night out would be the equivalent of removing my own kidneys with a chipped hockey stick. Un-frigging-thinkable. 

Jesus, if it took this sort of activity to sell my house I'd take it off the market and get on with stabbing to death the neighbours. Living in the centre of a terrorised Damascus couldn't be as bad as resorting to allowing strangers to fart in your fresh sheets in the hope that you could move to a fancier postcode.

As with other semi-hysterical advice on how to flog a house, this is equally as grim. No, I don't want to get rid of the kids or conjure up the smell of baked bread or repaint the front bloody door. What I want is for potential buyers to have a modicum of intelligence, foresight and imagination and to understand that it's the house they're buying, not my fucking book collection. And if, to do this, I have to treat them to an overnight stay I'd rather sell my frigging soul.

Hairbrained

Going anywhere nice on holidays?

When it comes to countryside fun n frolics there's a particular place for which this kraken family makes a beeline. Now, while said patch of outstanding beauty will remain nameless there is one aspect of this place that I need to blog about. It's a man. In a wig. But it's not any wig. It's a wig so outrageously rough that it looks like roadkill that's been shat on by badgers.
Now this guy works at said site. Problem is that his wig is so horrific that we now count it as one of the must-sees whenever we set hoof in this otherwise scenic place. Believe me when I say that it's a showstopper that would put J-Lo out of business. 
Now fuck knows what this guy is hiding under said toupe but it could never, ever be as bad as what he's hiding it with. Suppurating cranial sores couldn't complete with this verminous rug. Not only is it the wrong colour for him but it's styled circa 1985 (think mullet-like with a DA) and looks so synthetic that he probably lives in terror of naked flames. Worse, the guy cannot be older than 35 so it's not as if he invested in this diseased woodland creature 20 years ago and has never gotten around to changing it.
Problem is that this furball is an attention seeker. Rather than detract from whatever source of insecurity dogs this guy, it adds to it. Visitors stare at him as if he's wandering about with his cock dragging along the floor.
Worse, I am so desperate to know what is underneath this nylon monstrosity that I'm this close to asking him which would be disasterous, not least because the heat from his fury, fused with the flammability of his toupe, could cause his spontaneous combustion.
Now I know what it's like for people to stare. I've got a face cursed with Bells Palsy which makes me look like a Picasso painting: wonky. So I'm almost pathological about not staring at anyone other oddbods. But this bloke's wig is all but screaming at passers by to rip the thing off his pate. The lure of this murdered toupe is impossible to resist.
So in the name of retaining the beauty of this gorgeous spot I may have to take things into my own hands. I dunno, tear the thing from his sweltering skull or send Kraken Junior in to distract him as I peek underneath. Either way, something needs to be done with this abominable tuft and quickly before its grieving mother comes looking for it.

Yes Ma'am, No Ma'am

Whatever you say, Ma'am

You know, it's the deference that I can't frigging stand. The publicly dripping deference. Problem is that the nation has been oozing the stuff over the Jubilee weekend and chief forelock-tugger of all has been the vile Nicholas Witchell. 
I'm sure the boy Witchell is a fine journalist - fuck knows he's been doing it for long enough - but what makes me want to plant a bomb in my own brain is his giddying level of obsequiousness. Christ, watching him file a report on the royal doings is like watching a text book-perfect definition of arse-licking. It's a miracle that his nose isn't smeared with Queenly outpourings.
And, OK, the Queen and her dysfunctional family need to be reported on - otherwise how will we keep an eye on how they're spending our money? - but does it really have to be in Witchell's hushed and revered tones? Whenever I see him I'm reminded of Dickens' Bob Cratchit, rubbing his hands over and again as he begs for money or mercy. Witchell looks like the 21st Century version, except I can only assume he's crawling furiously to secure either a gong or his next story. I mean, heaven forfend that the royals should be offended by Witchell's lack of breathless adjectives. What in the fuck would he do the next time he has to report upon such globe-shaking events as the Queen taking a dump?
I've only known one other person to be so deeply crawly and I used to work with him in a magazines department. He was equally as sickening. In fact he was even worse than Witchell, actively rubbing his hands obsequiously whenever the new editor walked into the room. Jesus, I recall one afternoon when the old and new bosses were together and this grease bucket actually hopped from one foot to another and rubbed his hands as if he was trying to make fire with his fingers. Put him and Witchell in the same room and fuck knows what could happen. They'd out-fawn each other and create a black hole into which personal dignity would be forever lost.
So it can only be a good thing that the Jubilee celebrations are at an end. Witchell must be exhausted after a long weekend of gabbling royal superlatives and cow-towing on the banks of the Thames. Fuck knows, I'm exhausted from watching him. And there's only so much more tugging that his hairline can stand.

Say What?

Inanity at its finest

You know what I find offensive? The inoffensive. And this Jubilee weekend we have been surrounded by ‘celebs’ who are so inoffensive that if you cut them they’d bleed unadulterated blandness. You know who they are, the type of people who soundbite all the right things at all the right times and don’t seem to mind that they’ve morphed into deeply diluted forms of humanity as a result.

What, you want examples? OK: Katherine Jenkins, Gary Barlow, Holly Willoughby, Michael MacIntyre, Peter Andre, Trevor MacDonald, any presenter in the employ of the BBC and Alan fucking Titchmarsh. That’s just a few of them. More will come to mind and jolt me awake in the night, like the Spectres of Dullness Everlasting.

The problem is that the Jubilee celebrations have had these obsequious fuckers coming out in their droves. They've been queuing up to utter such vapid sentiments about the Queen – on the fawning orders of some TV producer or other - that if they said about me what they said about her you’d have to up my meds.

Seriously, some people are so uninspiring and predictable that I’d actually be offended if they said they liked me. It’d mean that I’d been picked up on a radar which usually operates on a level of monotony otherwise inhabited by ITV dramas, pink carnations, Ford Mondeos, chicken-in-a-basket, Travelodges, M4 landmarks and, again, Alan fucking Titchmarsh.

And it’s not just Her Maj for whom they’re happy to spew dullness incarnate. They’ll do it for the Olympic Games too. And when that’s done they’ll do it for the next series of the X-Factor, and then for anyone else looking for a Rent-a-Quote for anything from Christmas TV listings to a fete in the arse end of Tunbridge Wells.

All of which is what made the Jubilee so frigging tiresome. It wasn't the cake or the bunting or the endless souvenir issues of newspapers that bothered me. It was that the media wasn’t allowed to be inhabited by anyone other than those who think the sun shines out of the Queen’s arse.

Imagine how refreshing it would be if, when asked about the Jubilee, Gary Barlow said, “Oh for fuck’s sake. Is that still happening?”. Or if Katherine Jenkins put down her RSVP to the opening of an envelope and muttered, “If I ever see a corgi again I’ll kick it to death”. Or, even better, if Alan fucking Titchmarsh stopped tugging his forelock long enough to say, “If I have to fawn over the borders at Highgrove one more time I’m going to take a shit in Charles’ water feature”.

Oh well. We can imagine. And don’t forget that I'm here to reassure you. While the nation sinks under a wave of vapidity you can always come to me for your daily insult or hastily constructed generalisation. Aye, you can trust The Kraken to never be anything other than offensive. And with the likes of Jenkins, Barlow and fucking Titchmarsh I as sure as shit have my work cut out.

Home Guard

We're doomed, alright

Someone at the BBC needs to be tied to a horse and dragged, at a gallop, across the praries of modern popular culture. Why? Because said creature saw fit to broadcast, at 6.50pm on BBC2 on Bank Holiday Saturday, Dad's Army.
Dad's fucking Army. On prime time television. On the biggest bank holiday of the year. What in the frig is anyone thinking when they consider this to be popular entertainment? It was first aired in 1968, for Christ's sake, which makes it almost 45 years old. Apart from which it has been repeated so often there must be a rut snaking from the BBC's Television Centre through which said series gets piped to the unwatching masses again and again and again and...
Look, I know that there sit-coms that are as funny as having electrodes applied to your nether flaps but, Jesus, does that mean we have to resort to Dad's Army to fill the listings yet again? Is there really nothing else the BBC can come up with? Seriously, I'd rather see the test cards being reinstated than have to witness that bumbling sea of khaki trying to rustle up chuckles for the 36th time in a row.
It's no wonder the rest of the world sees Britain has a limping scrap of an empire. It's as if we've broken the flux capacitor and are stuck in 1945. Worse, we seem happy to pay our licence fee only to get Dad's Army in return. Perhaps the BBC will finally mothball the show when the last WWII veteran goes to the great howitzer in the sky. But, fuckadoodledo, if I have to wait that long I'll start a war of my bloody own. 
So can we deploy the same sort of gung-ho spirit that we employed during the war years, storm the BBC, hunt down every copy of Dad's Army and burn them Wicker Man stylee? Oh for God's sake, help me will you? Otherwise I'm afraid "We're dooooomed!"

A Little Letter...

Just put down the torch, Will. Now.

Pardon me from deviating from my regular blog posting. It's just that I have a little message for the ubiquitous Marrowfat Black Eyed Pea Will. I. Am:


Dear Mr Am
In the words of the spectacular Malcolm Tucker: Fuck the fuck off. 
You see, you're absolutely frigging everywhere and if I have to meet your turnip-faced stare one more time I'll shove ragged chip forks into my eyes. 
Are you angling for a British passport by any chance? Because I can think of no other reason why you should be ingratiating yourself so viciously upon the British public. First you pitch up on the X-Factor. Then you appear on the underwhelming screech-fest that is The Voice. From there you somehow manage to carry the Olympic torch through Taunton, although what the fuck you have to do with British heritage, sport or cider is beyond me. Then you hold hostage the entire royal family by barking your vapid lyrics at them on the Jubilee stage outside Buck House. 
Would you like us to shove a stick of Blackpool rock up your arse to complete the US-to-UK transformation? Or perhaps we could flog you publicly with a reinforced teabag? I'd even, personally, be delighted to force feed you a selection of Fray Bentos pies.
Look, Will, the problem isn't that you are here at all. It's just that you appear to be so agonisingly desperate to be noticed. It's even more embarrassing than the stuttering bollocks you churn out in the name of music. 
So spare us will you, Will? Restrain your urge to turn up to the opening of a British envelope, for fuck's sake, because with the recession, the Tories and JLS we've already got enough shit to contend with. 
Yours sincerely
The Kraken

Nee-Naw-Nee-Naw

It's got the goblins

There’s been a bit of a kerfuffle in the kraken cave in the last few days. I, The Kraken, was ambulanced to hospital with dangerously low haemogoblin levels (I know, I know, it’s globin not goblin but I prefer the latter. It’s more in keeping with the voices in my head). And you know what? Even in my state of fevered semi-consciousness, as I shat, puked and raved my way along the byways of my home town, I found something to blog about. 

Anyhoo, one blood transfusion, one endoscopy, one rectal examination, several pairs of paper knickers, three panicky doctors, numerous personal pleas for death and 257 blood tests later I am back at the helm of said blog with this to say: the NHS is fucking nirvana.

What you don’t think so? Well, fuck me, what more do you want for your tax dollar? As before, I’ve been booted back out into the world wondering what it is people find to moan about when it comes to the NHS. Yeah, there are moments of shittiness but compare that to the tsunami of care that sploshes over you from the moment you’re wheeled into A&E and it’s hardly a deal breaker. Its imperfections fade into nothingness when its employees have swabbed the drool from your chin at 3am and stuck a well meaning finger up your festering arse.

Why the fuck people want to abandon the NHS is beyond me. As with every other skirmish with my physical and mental health the NHS has showed me kindness in so many forms that it’s boggling. Payrolled strangers have held my hair out of my sick, held my hand when I’m bricking it, tucked blankets around my shivering feet and reassured me that I’ll live. Doctors have cracked jokes, nurses have gossiped and cleaners have chatted even when I splashed sick on their shoes or gagged at whatever they shoved into my gullet.

Perhaps I’m writing this while bathed in the glow of recovery, that this adoration is based entirely on the fact that I am no longer lying on my bedroom floor suffering palpitations and shitting over the shag pile. But nope, I don’t think so. This latest experience has just compounded what I have always thought: that the NHS is worth every groat, that we'd go to pot without it and that the Tories are complete and utter fuckers for trying to break it up.

Criticise it if you want but only in the way that you’d criticise your own mother. You know, how you’re allowed to pick holes in her as long as nobody else dares. So clutch the NHS to your collective bosom if only for delivering this kraken back to her cave. I mean, what the fuck would have happened had I not been around to blog? Ok, don’t think too hard about that one. Something tells me I may not like the answer...