Cock Sucking Fool At Pussy Licking School

Good Greetings people, I'm back!

I'm not actually, but such proclamations are often of comfort.

So, what tales of bitterness and woe do I have to impart to my brood of random Googlers, online pharmacy spammers and people dropping in from long, long dead blogs who forgot to remove me from their sidebar?  Oh, not much.

Still living with a woman who quite inexplicably loves me.  Still scratching by in that stoic, yet undignified manner I've managed to make my own.  Still drinking like my life depended on it.  Still campaigning to make auto-erotic asphyxiation and wheelie bin racing Olympic sports.

It would also seem to be the case that I am about to be a father.  I'm not convinced, empirical evidence of a urine stained plastic stick aside.......

This is the part in the movie where I could probably make a bid for national fame. I'd reveal my most intimate feelings, fears and hopes to the world, baring my soul to complete strangers and relating whimsical, heart warming every-day anecdotes about impending fatherhood in a gauchly titled blog.  I'd decorate it with a template utilising a warm orange, ochre and deep pink colour scheme with a pre-designed floral motif and middle class yummy mummies all over the world would inexplicably trade in the horrific memories of their own preganancies for my soft focus, third party edited hilights version.

I could,  but I won't.  I might be a cunt, but I'm not Fucking Arsehole.

If I tell you anything, it'll be the disgusting, distressing, vomit  flecked dispatches of a man trapped at the front line.  It'll be about the emotional and physical violence of living with a woman whose hormones think Adolf Hitler was a pussy.  It'll be piles, flatulence and Eraserhead flashbacks.  It'll be be banal, confusing, profane and fist chewingly embarrassing.

I probably won't bother.  He will be called Clevon.  She will be called Euphemia.

T(w)itty Twister

For any of you still haunting this place, rather in hope more than expectation that I might start speaking my brains again, I can more commonly be found here, attempting pithy one-liners and re-tweeting Frankie Boyle

Cheers!

Only Slightly Less Amusing Than Facebook

According to Google, it's one of the least visited websites on the Internet.  I'm not even sure why you would ever go to the bother of editing profanities over a Spongebob Squarepants cartoon, but hats off to these guys for going that extra mile.  True (f)art.

http://spongebobedits.blogspot.co.uk/

Love & Hate Are Over-used Words. It's About Time You Told Someone You Sort Of Like Them. Maybe.

The annual search for work has been creeping on for six months now, and has only just shown signs of abating.  And so the sad stories fill the void, as I stumble around the internet like a man looking for something he lost in the street a year ago, sure that if he keeps looking in the gutters and gulleys, he'll find it.  I find myself asking some searching questions, like  "What is a Jessie J?"  or  "Who the fuck are Fun and why are they not?" and finally  "I could swear I had that tuneless cunt Jason Mraz rubbed out by a hit man a year ago, look, I have the receipt....."

Fuck me!  I haven't even mentioned Coldplay yet.......

Am I the only one who thinks Chris Martin isn't so much a post-millenial Bono, as much as a delusional 'The Police' fan and Gordon Sumner Acolyte, right down to the fuckin album names: Viva La Vida = Outlandos d'amour?  I thought Myloto Xyloto was their attempt to go one further and quote some Esperanto.......  Sadly, it was just a semi random mishmash of vowels and consonants arranged skilfully to look like it might be derived from a foreign language.  I was most disappointed.


Bugri min purpuro!


. .........and so, winter gives way to Spring.  The waterways are starting to look quite the thing, what with the ferns unfolding and lilly pads bobbing about at the side of the canal.  Mother and her ducks are venturing forth, with swan couples not far behind, and coots, grebe's and cormorants adding to the mix.  Mr Heron fishes in the ponds, weirs and reed beds and  for those with a keen eye and a bit of luck, there may just be a chance meeting with the lesser spotted urban roe-deer.   There's nothing better than a good jant along the tow paths and walkways of yr local canal or river.

Well, that's what the old American lad I met at Maryhill Locks said before he headed on his way to good old downtown 'Mil-na-gayvee'.  Me?  I took a pish in the bushes and chucked my empty Coke can in the nolly.

Fuckin dump!

I've Seen More Profundity In A Puddle Of Vomit On A Saturday Night.

Fuck!  Wish I'd known fifteen years ago that statements of the obvious and sixth form radicalism were the way to make a living in the art world...............

Christmas Casualties

The post Christmas lethargy still clings.  I've only just finished tidying away the festive decorations and ornaments and I'm still stumbling over boxes of shortbread and gift bags full of surprise booz, though sadly Peach Schnapps isn't my tincture of choice.  Not because I don't like it you understand.  Far from it.

It's just that the missus will boot me in the nuts if I so much as break the seal on it.

Mind, it would make a change for me to turn up in A&E with an actual injury for a change.  Boxing Day saw possibly the most farcical and embarrassing trip I'll ever make to a casualty ward, barring any future miss-haps involving the hoover and an open bathrobe.

Ok, so I woke at about 2.30 am with a swollen eye.  A film was forming over it with all red blotches and stuff.  At this point, we have no idea what it is, but it's uncomfortable and getting worse.  So, we jump in the car and head for the Royal as there was no surgery open until Wednesday.  Two hours later, I get the call from the nurse to go through from the waiting room, leaving behind the ever increasing number of Boxing Day wounded (most of whom seemed to know each other)  It was also around this time that the swelling started to go down and I realised what a silly sod I'd been.  If I'd just gone back to bed, my eye would have been fine in the mornig, if a little crusty.

So, there I am, stuck in a cubicle for another 40 minutes or so whilst people with real problems are attended to and I wish the ground would open up and swallow me.  Eventually, a slightly harassed looking doctor asks a few questions, does an eye exam on me and tells me I've merely popped a blood vessel in my eye whilst coughing or something.  I leave apologetically, meet the missus and head back to the car feeling quite sure I've made a fairly decent last gasp bid for the title of Twat of the Year 2011.

Wouldn't surprise me if they've logged it down as an example to be quoted next time they publish figures detailing how much it costs the NHS to deal with Britain's hypochondriac population.....

And so I returned to my slumber, hoping I could pass it off as a bad dream.

A dream.....A dream....A dream........ A dream............


Then I wake up six hours later with the remnants of visions so strange, they automatically consign the previous nights antics to the back of my mind.  How do you get jam from a cat?  Well, you could take the jam off the cat and put it out of reach I suppose.  Alternatively you can always cut the cat open and extract it.......

Dreams can tell you many things.  A dream I had last night for instance, told me in no uncertain terms that I had unresolved issues regarding someone in my past.  On the other hand, a dream about cutting open cats to harvest their 'jam' defies interpretation on every level.  I don't care if you're someone who sees dead people, if you're an expert in Freudian analysis, or you just think dreams are the result of excess gas..........

There really is nothing you can say to someone whose subconscious mind decides to kick that sort of shit out of leftfield.

In other news, I am involved in a full scale war with my telephone.  Since losing my job, I have become aware of just how many automated phone calls I receive in a day.  Is it someone touting a service promising to retrieve miss-sold PPI?  Is it a call centre in Delhi asking for Mr Nick Olsen?

The funniest one was my bank performing a customer service survey relating to the last time I visited the branch.  I just told them everything was tickety-boo and left it at that.  Seems wrong to kick a man while he's down.....

I leave it off the hook now, unless I'm expecting a call from an employment agency.  Even then, it's tempting to ignore the bastards.  These companies are an absolute fucking disaster area, but it's all there is for the average Pleb At Large........

Hell, maybe I can get myself a job with a PPI recovery company.  It's probably the biggest growth area in the British economy along with pawn shops, online money lenders and gold smelters.   Seriously, the recovery companies will take any old shite as evidence.

"Yes, I took out PPI on a credit card in 2003.  No, I don't have the paperwork or any details.  Really?  You can get me 3 Grand anyway?  Braw!"

The banks are in such a hurry to fire through these PPI claims that it's almost certain that some fraudulent claims will pay out.  The money's earmarked, they're not contesting the claims.......  The message seems to be "Fill yer boots, the damage is done!"


Not sure phoning up to ask if you had a nice time at the branch on your last visit is gonna make much difference.