Beautiful. Just Beautiful.............

Now this is how you do violence. No running about like a fanny, arms flailing, kicking wildly at anything that moves.

Just get the guy turned then knee the fucker in the back before decking his fat pal.

This is the wonderful, heartwarming story of two two aggro merchants in a busy town centre getting the pasting of their lives from a pair of dragged up cage fighters.

It should really happen more often than it does.......

Swells

As if last week's Michael Jackson/Farah Fawcett '2 for 1' deal wasn't fascinating enough for a rubber-necking scumbag like me, the news comes through that SHOUTY MUSIC JOURNO Steven Wells has also relocated to a quieter suburb. I don't really remember much of his writing in the NME, though his by-line meant you'd get a few laughs if nothing else. I was more of an Melody Maker chick to be honest. In the intervening years since I gave up reading the weekly music comics, it seems he'd relocated across the Atlantic and was plying his scabrous, contrarian trade over there when he fell ill with cancer. Och! Anyway, just a thought God, but any chance of a similar run this week, but on slightly more deserving targets? I'm watching the Glastonbury coverage on BBC just now, and I can think of at least three of the presenters.........Or possibly the whole of Blur. That would be nice. As I said, just a thought...

Is That The Time?

Jesus! It feels like an eternity since I last posted. I'm getting a bit fed up of writing these entries like periodic postcards to the outside world, but until I get mind, soul and body in order, it'll have to do. The truth is that I've been a little too tired to think about anything other than the most rudimentary blog input. Alas, I'm off until Tuesday and I'm taking myself away for most of that time. Where? Ha! I'm not telling, someone might find me. Work has been the biggest fucker. Two of our number were made redundant and we've moved to another office. The days go by quicker but the work is a few degrees more intense. Having to account for 90% of your working day was the first big shock. I shit ye not, every single thing we do in a day has to be logged and timed. For some jobs it's not a problem, but when you do half a dozen different things, it's a fucking nightmare. I spend about an hour of my day just filling the bastard fucking spreadsheet in, complete with the case numbers of everything that's crossed my desk. I keep looking for the column in the spreadsheet that says "Time spent filling in this useless piece of shit because some over-paid retard at the top of the company gets a fucking hard-on from reading statistics".

Bah! It doesn't help when one of the folk to survive the cull is contributing to the deterioration of my mental hygiene. We all know the concept of the 'man-child'. This is the 'woman-child'. I haven't had to deal with her much before, but she's starting to drive me to distraction. Job-wise, she does one thing. All day. She has done for the past four or five years. This wasn't a problem when we had high volumes of work and everyone was assigned a duty. Now we all need to be able to do each others jobs and while this is no problem for most sentient beings, fat arse has done nothing but wheedle and whine like an irritating five year old. Fuck! If I hear her simpering on about how she misses our much loathed old boss, or how she's fed up of getting emails from the team leader updating us on our new roles, or how she doesn't like the new office, I'll end up snapping and cramming one of her filthy cheese spread white bread sandwiches down her craw with a rolled up Land Certificate!! At the very least I might ask her to experiment with eating with her fucking mouth closed. All I hope is that management and HR realise they got it wrong when they decided to jettison the smartest cookie in the pack and keep this stammering, simple minded fucktard. There, all gone. A little weight off my chest.................. Feels better already. So, that's the state of play in my world. Borderline psychosis, fatigue, anger management issues etc............... What about the rest of you? Has the very notion of going to work made you physically ill in recent weeks? Are you having a wonderful time in a land of milk and honey where nobody cares when you come and go and free gym membership and prostitutes? Are you constantly justifying yourself to an off-hand, shit thick time server who looks at you like you've just vomitted on their lap? Do you get to watch YouTube and I-Player on your company's internet connection and spend your days emailing clips of swearing hamsters and old Rainbow episiodes to workmates? Are you a smug comfort-zoner or are you a down-trodden prole? Answers on the back of the usual beermat. Behold! U2 Are Shit! as are Coldplay, Metallica

Ten More Things To Make You Paranoid And Insecure.

Having read this interesting little piece on MSN, I was curious as whether or not these were things women really liked in their men, or if it was simply the twee fantasies of a pair of middle class media types out to make a bob or thousand in the shit book market. Being currently long-term single, I decided to ask my good friend Barry from down the pub to run his rule over their slightly specious looking list of rules.

10 things you didn’t realise she liked about you by Penny Isaacs and Sarah Lockett 1. Your baked seabass. Eating out is hugely enjoyable and you both love a delicious hot curry on a Friday night after work. But, what she really likes is when you go to the trouble of making her your special foil-wrapped sea bass baked with teriyaki sauce and fresh ginger. Women love being cooked for because it shows you are capable and sophisticated. We also appreciate it when some thought has gone into choosing a tasty dish which will appeal to the calorie conscious. If you are a beginner in the kitchen, get a good quality ready-prepared fish dish and follow the instructions. Plus a pillow pack of salad. You know she hankers for fantastic fresh cream chocs for dessert though!

Barry - I did have a look at doing the Sea Bass, or some other fancy dish, like steak pie & chips. Since all I have is a calor gas stove and a three bar fire, I decided it was best to splash out on a tin of Heinz baked beans & sausages for tea. I put some pepper and dried parsley in it to tart it up, with a few slices of toast on the side. This was washed down with a bottle of Lambrusco from Lidl and followed by a couple of those nasty, gelatinous individual trifles. Audrey's making those "Go to bed" eyes at me, but I have bowel rupturing gas and have to make my excuses. Not a good start. 2. You bought her a DVD of Casino Royale. You were neither threatened by, nor made fun of the fact that she ogled Daniel Craig and openly declared her undying devotion to him when Casino Royale came out. In fact, you rather like him too! Well, you would like to be him yourself, so you bought her the DVD the day it went on sale and you have watched it together about 100 times already.

Barry - Well, I didn't have the money to rent, never mind buy Casino Royale. That said, my mate Nasty Dan did get me a copy of Bukkake Royale for the price of a blank disc. I very much identify with the male lead in this film, and see him as a role model worthy of emulation. Sadly, Audrey thinks he's a hairy fat bastard with a curiously deformed penis. She claims that shagging him would be only slightly less pleasant than sharing a bed with me. A qualified success.

3. You get somebody in! She enjoyed watching you gamely try to help her dad jump-start his car but she admired the fact that after 5 mins you got out your mobile and called the AA. She finds your candour about being unable to replace a wheel, fix a drain or do anything handy about the house quite refreshing. Changing a fuse/lightbulb/battery is about as useful as you get but you don’t pretend to be Ray Mears and have the telephone number of an all purpose Mr Fixit pinned to the fridge.

Barry - Not a good round. Me and her old man hate each others guts. Honestly, if the old prick was trying to jump-start his car, I'd be busy trying to cut his brake cables. This is where I have to take exception to Penny & Sarah. I'm no handy man, but have you seen what tradesmen charge these days? Fucking crooks the lot of them! This is why I take care of these things myself. That I currently have no running water, no gas and half the lights in the house don't work is neither here nor there. 4. You never flirt with other women in front of her. You sensibly keep your opinions about other women to yourself. Women do not like their date to flirt with another female. They particularly dislike it when another woman plants herself at their boyfriend’s feet, kitten style, peering upwards, all doe-eyed. Nor do they like you to compliment someone enthusiastically on their appearance/success. It is bad form to bring this up with your girlfriend even once you have got home.

Barry - I have to say, I fall flat on this one. After eight pints of wife beater, three V&C's and only a packet of KP dry roasted to line the stomach, I find it hard not to let my crotch do the talking, and more often than not I can be found in the snug, on the way back from the bogs, sticking my tongue in the ear of some old dear that's done up like a christmas tree. I must say though, I do take Audrey's feelings into consideration my doing any drunken fumbling well out of her sight. 5. You let her hog the bathroom. She appreciates the fact that you shower and change in ten minutes flat so that she can spend hours doing her toilette before you head out for the evening.

Barry - My bog's fucked. You don't stay in it any longer than you need to unless you fancy catching cholera. 6. You never go clothes shopping with her. You understand that men and women have different ideas about the shopping experience. Men know what they want and buy it. Then go home. Women regard shopping as a leisure activity and can spend hours trying on every item of clothing in the shop. You let her get on with it.

Barry - Well, I once made the mistake of going to Primark with Audrey to buy her summer wardrobe. The security guard wouldn't leave us alone and rudely interrupted us as we were stuffing a five pound blouse into her bag in the changing room. Our protestations that we were simply putting it there until we got to the check-out fell on deaf ears and we spent a night in the cells. We used to end up in Littlewoods or What Everyone Wants, but now they're gone, the only other option is the charity shop circuit. It's not too bad though, she looks for dead peoples shoes and stone-washed denims, I check out the records and tapes section for the latest Suzi Quattro and Shakin' Stevens releases. 7. You are charming to her parents. According to the old saying, ‘my daughter is my daughter for all of her life; my son is my son until he gets a wife’. She loves the way you engage with her mum and dad. You treat them to the theatre, offer them lifts to the garden centre, buy her dad books on famous dictators and you haven’t yet complained that he has repeated the same lame joke about stamp collecting - ‘be like a nun- get in the habit!’– six times now.

Barry - I have a restraining order keeping me away from her parents. They failed to see the funny side of things when I pissed through their letterbox one Christmas eve on the way home from the pub. I mean, take a fuckin' joke!! 8. You take her to the sun. A girl likes to get into a bikini and worship the sun god for at least two weeks every year. She has also told you a hundred times that Mama Mia has made her lust after life on a Greek island. You realise that sun and sea are essential to her mental well-being. A fortnight under campus in rain-sodden Devon is not what she really hankers after in July, so even if it is going to be Torremolinos you make sure that she gets her annual beach fix.

Barry - Sadly, Audrey has been banned from every Spanish beach we've ever been to. Let's just say she makes Donatella Versace seem alluring. For this reason, we end up at Pontins, getting minced on cheap wine and spirits and entering Lambada contests with couples from Larkhall with matching King Billy tattoos and 'UVF' Indian inked across their knuckles. 9. You bring her coffee and toast in the morning. Women can be slow starters in the morning, especially after a big night. Once we are fully alert we can beaver away like dynamos until late at night but those initial waking minutes are painful. How fantastic then to rouse to the aroma of a strong cup of coffee and hot buttered toast! It is one of those small but significant gestures of affection and appreciation which makes her love you! Ditto bringing her a cup of tea when she looks exhausted.

Barry - Due mainly to the lumpy mattress, soggy quilt, rising damp and the lack of heating, Audrey tends not hang about in the mornings. I do remember once bringing her breakfast in bed, but I tripped on a pile of Exchange & Marts, sending her bowl of cornflakes all over the shop. Just as well I suppose, the milk was on the turn if I remember right. 10. You indulge her interest in chick lit and chick flicks. There are few things more irritating than having a partner expressing patronising views about our choice of light entertainment. We do not want to have our ‘cultural’ preferences ridiculed particularly if our partner’s tastes run to more esoteric and heavyweight intellectual literature and film. But, to your credit, you do not smirk when she goes to see the latest ‘bonnets’ film or slushy rom-com. Nor have you been sniffy about all the self-help/chick lit/cookery/horoscope books she devours.

Barry - Audrey's not one for Chick Flicks, and all she reads is TV Quick & the Star. As long as a film has Jean Claude Van Damme, Steven Segal or Vin Diesel in it, she's happy as larry and randy as a goat. No complaints here.........

So, there you have it. The verdict on the ten things men didn't realise their women liked about them. Barry knows exactly what Audrey likes about him.

Fuck all.

Three cheers for Penny & Sarah!

No Future/The Future's Bright etc

May plague and pestilence befall the cunts at Post Office Ltd!! Thank you for the lovely quarterly bill for £112.52 that landed on my floor today you hopeless fucking arseholes! This in spite of the fact that I have a monthly direct debit with them. The woman on the help-line tried to explain it, but I couldn't quite figure out what she was getting at. Nor could she if the truth be told, so I bit my lip and left it. I'm crap in these situations. Hopeless in fact. If only I could hire an army of bitter, snippy middle aged women, or a gang of argumentative Glaswegian navvies to handle my telephone correspondences. I'd be swimming in free stuff and goodwill. I'm currently considering one of two options. Either I accept my financial hosing with good grace, or I call up again and ask a few more pertinent questions, like............ "Why wasn't I warned in writing that my line rental had 'expired'?" "Why has this occurred? Was it something I said or did?" "Why do I have to cough up for a quarterly period instead of just the last two months?" "Do you enjoy ripping off increasingly depressed, poverty stricken oafs like me?" Ok, so the last one's a bit unfair, but I'm not in a mood for equanimity or fairness. The world isn't fair, which is why I'm running out of cash only a week after being paid. That said, it is my fault. I missed the fact that I'd not been debited in January, and only just realised nothing came off last month. Oh, and I hadn't received my monthly bill for a while. It has to be said, I've not been myself of late. Work is chipping away at my soul, a little every day. I'm starting to share the same dark, appalling thoughts about my manager as the weird, borderline sociopath who works in my section and won't talk to me. The house hasn't been hoovered in months, the dishes get done once a week whether they need it or not and I've become obsessed with the passage of hours and minutes, to the extent that I clock-watch relentlessly out of work hours. The fact that just under twenty quid hasn't come out of my account for a few months is of little importance to me right now.

Fucksticks!!

(Almost) Text Only

Like Tom without Jerry, like Abbot without Costello, like Richard without Judy, the iLL Man without photographs is something of an aberration.

Sadly, I have been unable to upload photos to Blogger for most of tonight. A curse of extreme ugliness upon all of their firstborn! It seems to have resolved itself now, but like every other dreary drama queen on this mindless little planet, I feel as if I'm being victimised. For that alone, I hate Blogger with a passion right now.

If I had a phone-line to the bastards, I'd be insulting their dead grandmothers rather than making this blog post. I know things go wrong, but for fuxsakes, can't they give me any more info than "There has been an internal error"? Talk about vague. Their help desk is of no use, mainly because you have to join some obscure user group before you get to post up any problem you would expect them to fix. I object to the very concept of 'joining' anything, but i make the odd exception. I am fucked if I'm going to sign up to something I've already joined though. Bunch of mammary brained bollock ticklers!

Yes, of course, it's a 'free' service, but don't tell me they don't make their wedge. They're not a fucking charity. This is my cocktail hour they've eaten into and I don't appreciate the bullshit!!

P.S. I seem to have thrown my Tonka trucks out of the playpen. Would be obliged if someone would be kind enough to retrieve them for me............. Cheers!

The Passing Thoughts Of A Passing Idiot

Like any semi-sane homo sapien, the moronic nature of our world is something I try to shelter from as much as possible. There are times though, when I feel like a bum caught in a thunderstorm with nothing more than a cardboard box and skinful of Special Brew to protect me from the elements. Cases in point...............

First up, Jordan gives it to us with both barrels. Apparently she reckons the death penalty is brilliant. Fair enough I say, her and countless millions think the same thing, so who am I to tell them not to ?

No, what vexes me is her notion that all rapists should be, er, raped.....?

I'm intrigued as to how exactly such a punishment would be meted out. I mean, is she proposing that a task force be employed to rape the rapists? Surely if you have people raping rapists, then that makes these people rapists too, so you would have to employ another group to rape the rapists you employed to rape the rapists. In turn, they too would become rapists and so on, until you have the rather absurd, not to mention unpleasant situation, whereby everyone on the planet becomes a rapist. I'm on two minds to be honest. Jordan is either one of the stupidest human beings on the face of the planet, or she's one kinky old tart.

One to ponder mes enfants, one to ponder..................

Another mystery of the universe is how Ulrika won Celeb Big Brother. I haven't watched much of this particular BB, but every time I did see her, she seemed to be doing a fair impression of someone having a plate of shite wafted under her nose. A fine performance, I have to admit.....

Anyway, I leave you with the news that drinking apple juice every day can prevent Alzheimer's disease. What journal of medicine has broken this news? Why, none other than the Daily Express! How long before they run a front page declaring that drinking your own piss will guarantee eternal life?

Anyway, I would imagine that for most Daily Express readers, the new found medicinal properties of apple juice have come just a little too late, no?

One can but hope...........

Frankly, Mr Shankly

Posting in the wee hours. Wouldn't have it any other way........... As a child, I always responded well to late nights with the 'grown up's', listening to odd and apocryphal tales about strange family members. Time moves differently for a nine year old than it does for an adult, and eleven pm always seems like the dead of night. These days, an early night is half twelve, so such formative experiences have obviously served their purpose for this trainee hedonist. Of course, it's all Vic 20's, ZX 81's and Acorn Electron's these days.................The art of being bored senseless by ageing relatives seems to be all but gone............... I awoke this morning to find Police tape everywhere. It covered most of the back court, as well as the street in front of my flat. Even getting down towards Maryhill road was a chore, having to be directed by various officers of the law until I was clear of the area of forensic interest. Seemingly a man in his early forties had keeled over right outside my bedroom wall on Friday night. No suspicious circumstances it would seem, just common-or-garden natural mortal termination, the likes of which happens a thousand times a day. It's just that this guy did it 'alfresco', rather than lie rotting in his flat for six months, until the neighbours started to object to the smell. Since I'm of the belief that one of the finest things a human being can do is to die and make one's neighbours retch from the stench of one's putrifying corpse, I can't help feeling that this chap may have missed his chance. Still, he got the full 'men in white suits with camera's' treatment, so it wasn't all bad............... Talking of glib attitudes towards death............. Latest score from the Gaza Strip. Game off due to corpse strewn, blood soaked, crater riddled pitch. Match re-scheduled for sometime in the distant future, when the price of human life is regarded highly enough to print receipts. Then there's work. The human pustule I work under seems to go from strength to strength. As the department dwindles and the heart of the place dies in front of us, the little pissant charged with the daily running of our part of the office seems to become more and more virulent. A major lesson to us all in the dangers of allowing unctious, egregious, time serving little turds to hold control over anything or anyone. He reminds me of Major Major from Catch 22, but without the positive personality traits. We're talking about someone who tells you to bring any work problems to him, and then treats you like a mental retard when you do. His basic personality defect is that he breathes. I'm of the belief that he can't help it, that he's a seriously tedious, small minded, passive aggressive little arsehole who has no business being in charge of anything more important than the stationery order. My escape is almost complete. I shall not be denied. Ok, nothing more to see........... Go on, bugger off! ;)

Clichéd Christmas Carping: Part 32(b)

I've heard it stated that Christmas is a cruel joke perpetrated upon the broke, the lonely, and the depressed. A plausible, but maudlin and slightly pretentious statement. Granted, it's a right old pain in the crotch, but since it's 'but once a year', it's one I can live with. Anyway, top things about Christmas: Christmas market in Argyll Street with it's neat little wooden stalls and amusing tat. (obviously stolen from Lapland New Forest...) German sausage sellers. Without them, I'd have died of hunger on many of my abortive Christmas shopping trips. The lights on the trees in Sauchiehall Street. Lovely! In fact, the plethora of Christmas lighting strung up over various bits of greenery at St Georges Cross and Cowcaddens. Beats the cack in George Square. Not that you'd know it was fucking christmas in my current place of work. Half-day on Christmas eve? Ha! Don't be so fucking silly! No, if you want to leave early, you need to make up the time apparently. How about I turn up at 4pm tomorrow and take 45 minute lunches for the next two months? If we're going to play silly buggers, I want to be the king of the castle! Buncha Crotch Pheasants! On top of this indignity, the cretins decide to pay us on the 23rd. Every other fucker on the planet seems to get their Christmas wage a good week before the 25th, you know, so that they can go and do their Christmas shopping........... Not the employees of the company I work for! Instead I have to fight the clock as well as the crowds in an insane after work dash, two days before the day we all celebrate the birth of the little babby Jimmy Christ, usually by getting wasted and buying each other the finest consumer durables China has to offer. Stereotypical Christmas bitches in no particular order: Endless queues? Check! Doddering fools? Check! Pile upon pile of worthless tat? Check! Pissy weather? Check! Shakin Bastard Stevens and Paul Fucking McCartney on the PA? Check! (x100000) Do my shopping earlier? Fuck off! I have neither the time nor the inclination to think about the annual orgy until I need to, it's just that a three mile trolley dash in the dark is about as much fun as listening to the Catholic church whingeing about a childrens party song. Next year, I do it all on-line................ All malignance aside, have yourselves a safe, sane and gently innebriated Christmas.

Low- Just Like Christmas

Aberdeen Man Lost At Sea

"I thought he was dead!" "Someone told me he was travelling the world in Sinclair C5!" "Really? I heard he was re-painting the Sistine Chapel with a toothbrush and a pot of Duluxe !" All wrong of course! I've been jumping through my arsehole for Jesus, if it's any of your business. Which it's not.

I have to admit, I'm fascinated by parochialism. That notion that nothing that happens anywhere else is of any importance, unless there are fellow Scots/Brits/Belgians etc involved. A prime example of it was seen today on a newsagent billboard for the Daily Record. "Scottish Victims of Nickell Murderer!" Ok, I know, it's just an angle, it's about flogging sub-literate printed bum wad to people who have trouble walking and talking at the same time. Thing is, this all comes from a newspaper that looks down it's nose at the very notion of Scottish independence as something tacky and small-minded, as something a little bit................parochial? Tonights music comes courtesy of Kinky Friedman, of Texas Jewboys fame.

Kinky for president!!

We Reserve The Right To Refuse Service To You - Kinky Friedman

Avoid Christmas Disappointment & Stay In Bed

It's that time of year folks. The time of year when you start to do the 'heating's coming on dance'. Usually around about 5.45pm. Not long after the frostbite has set in, which of course makes dancing a tad difficult. Ventured out tonight in the freezing fog to get some messages. I did consider going back out again with the camera to get some moody fog pics, but I wasn't for doing anything until I regained the feeling in my fingers and legs, by which time I'd decided I'd rather set fire to my armpits than go back outside again. Of course, a good old cold snap is no bad thing, if only to freeze snot nosed, paranoid, mentally deficient wanker students to the pavement as they queue ACROSS the pavement to get their money from cashpoint machines. The result is the sight, all across town, of absolute fucking morons causing a major obstruction to passers by in the name of the confused notion that just because someone is behind you,they can't see your pin. Fucking hell!! It happened to me the other night and it was frankly embarrassing to have to join in with this 'dance of the retards'. I could see people joining the queue and thinking the same as me. NOBODY CAN SEE YOUR PIN IF YOU COVER THE KEYPAD!!!!!!! If someone is too close for comfort, simply fucking turn and stare at them, as I did a few weeks ago to some toolbag outside Sainsbury's. It ain't fucking difficult. In fact, it's rather satisfying and empowering. Just watch them sheepishly step back and out of your face. Even the meekest of spoddy studes should be capable of such a feat, though if passive aggression is your general MO, then I have to admit that such activity may not be for you and queuing across across the pavement must seem pretty natural........

Built To Spill - Nowhere Nothin' Fuck-Up

Not my favourite BTS song, but the best one I have to hand. Still better than most stuff you'll ever hear.

What's New iLL Man?

Things that have been filling my admittedly tiny cranial cavity over the past week, causing mild flooding in the left ear and several nosebleeds................

i - What the fuck has happened to the speaking clock? There I am on Sunday morning, attempting to synchronise my alarm clock and I've got fucking 'Tinkerbell' squeaking away at me. I don't know what they've done with the well spoken bloke that usually does it. Is he on holiday? When is he back? I'm getting lonely here....................

ii - Made a cyclist stop at a traffic light yesterday. Nothing out of the ordinary in that, but hearing his cries of anguish as he was forced to apply the brakes and obey the rules of the road for once in his fuckwitted life was a rare pleasure. As I watched him approach the lights at something approaching 20mph, I could see the brief flicker of indecision on his face as he considered romping through the crossing. Rather cantankerously, he decided not to. Victory!!

iii - Some household tips. I have triumphed over the mildew currently infesting parts of my house. Well, not entirely, but leaving the bedroom window open in the evenings seems to have sorted the problems in that particular room. Also, re-open yr living room curtains before going to bed is helpful. Don't be conned into buying a de-humidifier folks....

iv - My last trip to the speedway was on Sunday there. I had heard tales from a friend at Ashfield about the female residents of Saracen Street in Possilpark and their thing for pyjamas as streetwear, but I only half believed it. I witnessed the phenomenon for the first time on Sunday afternoon. The look seems to be a Berghaus jacket, a pair of Primark silk-look patterned jammies, either slippers or a pair of trainers and a bag of stuff from the local mini-market. From what I've heard, it's also standard evening wear too..........

I just hope it doesn't catch on with the blokes and I get treated to the sight of fat tattooed lads in boxer shorts and curry stained vests and T-shirts.

v - It would seem that the Democratic candidate for the US presidency suffers a little from an identity crisis in the eyes of some voters. I understand entirely their confusion. For a very long time, I was labouring under the misapprehension that his name was Barry O'Bama and that he was of Irish descent.

You have no idea how glad I was when I found out this wasn't true...................(SATIRE!)

vi - A final thought for the Rangers fan at work who's got a massive chip on his shoulder about not being able to sing certain songs at the football:

The Famine Song is over

Why don't you sing something else................?

Winter Warmer No2 With Me Tonight - The Beach Boys from Smiley Smile

Calling All Armchair Despots!

When you do what I do for a living, the mind tends to wander off in search of improved mental stimulation. Of course, this generally involves internet abuse, scribbling out food shopping lists and doodling on notepads. Today however, I got to thinking about what might happen if we were to declare our own countries.

Think of the little part of the world you live in and imagine what you would do with it if it were to gain independence. My thoughts on the subject are as follows..............

The state would be named 'The Peoples Republic of Maryhill'. Initially I would run the state from the burnt out ruins of the Community Central Halls, as a symbolic gesture, before re-locating to the rather comfier local housing association offices until the mess made by my bloody coup was cleared up. I would then elect a polit-bureau consisting entirely of family members, friends and whatever local mental cases join my cause. The economy would be based on three nationalised industries. Fast food, off licenses and a scratch card lottery with bogus prizes. Plans to invade Springburn, Hillhead and Possilpark would be formulated in due course.

Sounds like paradise!

Ok, your turn now. I need some allies........................ ;)

Lord Snooty's Giant Poisoned Electric Head

The Bonzo Dog Band - My Pink Half Of The Drainpipe Every time I have to go across to the other office to pick up filing, I'm reminded of the above song. Office life has a habit of turning even the nicest and most amusing people into brain buggering bores, but the group of halfwits I spent two hours in the company of today make the more annoying folk I normally work with seem quite witty, erudite and fascinating in comparison. Quite a feat really........... Where do these people come from? These blank eyed monsters with their tales of suburban terror. Their miserable holiday snaps, banal chatter about what they had for dinner last night, about what their boyfriends do for a living, about how they went to Miami on holiday and DID FUCK ALL!!!!!..................... Apart from go clubbing and shopping.......... Nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnngggggg!!!!!!! Pass me the white hot needles, I feel a migraine coming on............ Why bother even leaving East Kilbride? September is 'Bonzo Dog Band Month' by the way..............

They Told Me It Was All A Dream.........

I'm taking a big stick to work with me tomorrow, so I can shove it between the spokes of any passing cyclists................. Some definitions for the mentally challenged. Road - For Uni-cycles, Bi-cycles, auto-cycles and auto-mobiles. And motorcycle sidecar combinations. Sinclair C5's are something of a grey area. Pavement - For pedestrians, pedestrians and possibly some more pedestrians. And maybe those electric shopping buggies OAP's use (David Duff was telling me he's got some 'Go Faster Stripes' and a little flag on the back of his. I was dead jealous...) I'm also preparing myself to witness my first ever pedestrian road accident. They've just recently altered the lights at Charing Cross, but it still hasn't deterred some idiots from playing chicken with whatever traffic is coming round that blind bend into Woodlands Road. Maybe I should take a shovel with me too...............

Dafties

Every so often, find myself over at the other office to collect files for our department and each time I come away wondering what it is they teach them at school nowadays.

Overheard the other day...........

1 - "That Paris Hilton makes great perfume!"

2 - "How do you spell 'Richard'? Is there a 't' in it?"

3 - "What does 'intricate' mean?"

There are more, but I'd need to talk to other witnesses and make a list of them. The latest one I heard was "What's this 'credit card crunch' thing about then?" Utter genius!

Mind you, give me a genuine simpleton over some pseudo-intellectual bore any day of the week.

Is It Really? I Had No Idea..........

Alternative Solutions: 'I Know Where You Hide Your Porn', 'Heterosexuality Ruins Marriage' or 'I Like Poor People!, They Make My Trainers' **

Oh God! How long do you think it took them to come up with that particular observation? I mean, they have that great big ruddy wall to work with and that's the best they can come up with? Bad World For Poor People? It's a bad world for a hell of a lot of people if you give them the time of day to tell you. I'm sure the author meant it to provoke thought or maybe get a message over to the many thousands who pass through Charing Cross each day. Instead people see it and think "Yeah, it is a bad world for poor people. That's why I'm not poor. What can you do? Not my fault..... Now, what's on Talk Radio......"

The wall gets painted red about twice a year by the council to cover the graffiti that seems to accumulate on it, and obviously someone has chosen their moment to impart something 'meaningful' to us all. It's the dribbling simpleton element of the left in full flow. People who think the above message is anything other than a statement of the blindingly obvious, and more to the point, don't recognise it as a colossal waste of fucking paint and wallspace. I preferred the old graffiti tags that were on there before, they had a certain rough charm if nothing else.

Anyway, here dear reader(s) is your challenge. Taking into consideration the size of the wall, it's elevation and visibility (certainly in winter), I want you to come up with an alternative message for the people of Glasgow. It can be as crude, surreal, clever or banal as you want. In fact, if you can come up with something that is even more ridiculous than "Bad World For Poor People" you will win an extra special (non) prize!

Anyway, I think I have a bout of what may well be Sciatica coming on. I've lost count of the amount of times I've refilled my hot water bottle tonight. Spent most of today at work walking about like a stop-motion Max Wall. Not fucking funny! The yelps of agony when I sneezed or shifted the wrong way in my seat were to be heard in the street I believe...........

Tomorrow: When they steal the kettle and condemn you to drinking hot piss from an electronic box.

**I realise that in this day and age, the last suggestion could and probably would be taken at face value by many people.

How To Disappear Completely

None of you will be surprised to know that I both crave attention and like nothing more than being left alone. It's a real fucker, I tell thee. Oddly enough, I generally tend to have my requests for peace and quiet granted to me. In fact I rarely have to ask, which is nice..... It's a bit harder when I want everyone to look my way, so I suppose that's why I blog. Then I can combine the two disciplines. I can act the arse to a small group of people AND be left in peace to listen to music, tend to my plants, wash the dishes and play old Spectrum games on my PC.

Anyway, it came to my notice recently that the Inland Revenue have no idea that I'm working.

Woohoo!

Recently, the company I worked for was taken over* and since the tax bods were doing a wee audit on me anyway with regard to unpaid taxes (easy Duff, I'm still PAYE, I won't be sharing a cell with Lester Pigot and Ken Dodd just yet), it came to their notice that I was no longer working for Solicitor 'X' and for whatever reason, my new employers hadn't updated them on the chaos that they were about to unleash. You do realise it would have been months or years before they caught up with me had my dear old Ma not been residing at my previous address........

This leads me to my other disappearing act. Over the past few weeks, the whole Glasgow operation has been having it's email/operating systems changed over to those used by the new company. Quite apart from realising that we've actually gone back to the dark ages with regard to how Windows works (I swear, my old Commodore 64 was more user friendly), they've also been kind enough to fuck up my email so that all emails sent to the Glasgow offices in general avoid me, and me alone. 'Im also unable get in touch with anyone else, unless they happen to know my new email address. To all intents and purposes, I might as well not exist.........

So, there you have it, I'm 'The Man With No Name', 'The Outlaw', 'The Fugitive', 'The Black Rider'.............I shall bring the company to it's knees from within! The Silent Assasin will strike without mercy!

..........as long as it doesn't affect my holiday allocation of course.........

*Technically speaking, it was 'merged', but then technically speaking Guido Fawkes is a journalist.........

Spinny wind vane thingy at North Berwick.

All I Want For Christmas............pt1

Actually, all I want is peace and quiet.

Ok, maybe one of those joystick thingies with old video games on that you plug into the telly. Lovelyjubbly!

You can fuck off with yer 'Nintendo Wee's' as well, ludicrous shiteboxes that they are. You can tell that every wanker in the universe will be getting one and then boring you tearless about it in the New Year, to the extent that you'll be forced to cram sharpened pencils into your ears and staple your eyelids shut, just to escape from the horror.

I know people who think video games are real. People who would marry their X-Boxes if they could.

It's got me thinking though. I've been trying to remember all the Christmas presents I got when I was a kid. Some were life altering, like my first bike or first computer. Some simply provided hours of fun like the Subbeuteo set, the Scalextric and the train set. A few were utterly ridiculous though, like the BMX add-ons I got one year to make my poxy single gear mountain bike look good. This would have been about 1984 or so and my father, for reasons best known to himself, managed to source a bike with a gear so low, that it was only any fucking use for climbing near vertical gradients. All very well if you're into that sort of thing, but I was eight years old and just wanted to race my mates along the pavement and knock little old ladies over as they came out their front door. This became impossible, mainly because my legs couldn't pedal fast enough to go at even half the speed of some guy riding a Raleigh Bloody Grifter. My pensioner skittling days were at an end, mainly because I wasn't going fast enough to be a danger to anyone (I think I'm beginning to understand.......). I also looked ridiculous, my legs flailing impotently in thin air, which meant most people got a good laugh at me to boot.................

Somehow or other, I must have thought a number plate and foam pads for the crossbar and handlebars would make things better. They didn't.

From one deluded Santa request to another. As a nipper, I had a bit of a thing for Astronomy. I'd read books, memorise the planets and pester my dad to go up the hill at the back of the house with some binoculars to look at the moon. It stood to reason that I'd want a telescope eventually. Thing is, instead of getting it out at every opportunity (Easy!), it lay virtually dis-used on top of a cupboard for years until it finally made it's way to the charity shop. Quite sad really, wonder who's got it now..................

Strange things Christmas presents. Massively over-priced gifts given to undeserving brats on one special day every year, sure, but they also sort of demarcate the process of growing up. They give annual insights into the strange thought processes and odd whims that kids harbour, just before the world turns ugly and Christmas becomes a tedious and empty ritual involving banal rubbish like money, gift vouchers, cheap perfume, Hai Karate toiletry packs and disappointing packages containing socks and comedy ties.

Still, at least theres the food......................

Haw Pal! I Hope Yer Next Shite's A Hedgehog

On the whole I don't have a huge problem with the human race. A frustrating bunch, yes, but in the words of Douglas Adams, 'Mostly Harmless'. Of course, there are exceptions and I bumped into one today.

It happened on the way back from the football. I crossed a road and as I reached the other side, some old lad and his dogs were walking down to the same bit of pavement as me. I stepped onto the pavement and he halted just to my left. I murmured an apology, as you do when you think you've got in someones way slightly. As I walked off, he called out at me.

"Is it raining?"

It was raining, but I thought nothing of it. Again he called out.

"Aye,it's hard tae see in the rain wi glasses on, i'nt it?"

I looked round at him in askance then continued walking. He was an old jake in a cap and wearing tinted glasses. The irony of his words weren't lost on me. Just before he turned up another street he called out something crude about the umbrella I was carrying, something about a 'Dolly Brolly'. Maybe he was jealous of it, I don't know...........

What got me was that there was absolutely no call for the outburst. I had done nothing more than walk past the stupid old cunt, but there he is, haranguing me in the street. See, that's when I find the human race intolerable. I can't stand bad manners, intentional rudeness. Sure, people can do things that annoy you, but most of the time it's unintentional, most of us understand this issue and simply mutter a few oaths under our breaths and get on with it. Rest assured though, there are always pricks like the 'gent' I encountered today who act like aggressive little fuckers at the slightest provocation, regardless of what age they are.

Round 'em up and send 'em off for 're-programming'...............