Monday, 8 June 2015

TO HELL IN A GO-KART

I don't need to remind anyone how utterly f**king nuts the world has gone lately. And it seems to have coincided with the increase of widely available broadband and mobile internet around the world.

So, seeing as I haven't exactly been keeping this blog up-to-date due to sheer info overload, I'm going to try an experiment in writing down random thoughts that should - hopefully - coincide with what's trending at the moment.

1 ) News: 'Lesbian Couple, wrong colour baby, rent-a-womb', as discussed in The Guardian.

My response: Am intrigued by the idea of rent-a-womb. Do they have photocopiers and a view of the river?

2 ) News: 'Hidden suffering of animal tourism'. The Guardian.

My response: Put tigers in First Class.

3 ) News: The internet and how it interrupts work - 'This is the golden age of procrastination'. BBC Website.

My response: What do you expect when they put an interactive television and porn cinema into a bloody typewriter?

4 ) ...


Tuesday, 27 May 2014

UKIP IF YOU WANT TO. I'M WIDE AWAKE.

With this open door immigration, I'm truly worried about Britain losing its identity.

I miss the good old days of when I grew up, and you saw NF for 'National Front' scrawled on everything. And my dear uncle, ( hugely successful businessman ) visiting Halesowen and being told by two old women outside Jackson's shop to 'bugger off back where you came from'. Oh yeah, I do miss that.

And I miss people's lovely sense of humour. Like last week, my mate attending Jobclub in Birmingham said that the guy in charge ( an old Sergeant Major ), referred to a Somali as a 'jungle-bunny' TO HIS FACE. Yes, this racist has a f**king job, and is being employed by a subcontractor to the government! This same outstanding citizen also said that when he was stationed in Northern Ireland, the army used to think nothing of breaking into shops over night, and stealing cigarettes and whatever else they fancied. NO WONDER THE IRISH WANTED TO KILL US.

Personally, I miss the good old days of AD 43. At least we could get a decent goddamn pizza then, seeing as we were being RUN BY ITALIANS.

So which Britain are we talking about?

Wednesday, 20 February 2013

WATER COOLER ( 2 )

The boss is sitting at his desk in the corner. He's distracted by texts from his current 'girlfriend' ( usually they're from Eastern Europe, who he's met at a bar at 2am on a Sunday morning ). He's trying to write her a romantic text.

Apparently his current amour has already taken to calling him by a nickname ( some variety of cuddly animal, which he refuses to disclose ), and his thumbs are furiously roaming his impractically small keypad in an attempt to keep up the repartee.

He turns to me. 'I need an animal.'

'What do you mean, you 'need an animal'?'

'It's for my girlfriend. I need a nickname for her.'

'That Polish girl - the one you don't even like?' I'm thinking: The one you're screwing because no-one who speaks good English would go near you?.

'Yeah, her.'

'What about 'wolverine'?'

'What's that? - Like, a walrus?'

WATER COOLER ( 1 )

Colleague ( Platinum blonde, tall, slim, large breasts - which she paid for from being on Deal Or No Deal ): Are you still seeing that woman?

Me: What 'woman'?

Colleague: That Muslim woman?

Me: Yeah. ( Thinks: Here we go. )

Colleague: You're mad you are.

Me: Why?

Colleague: All the women in the world, and you go out with her. It's a right hassle.

Me: All relationships are a hassle.

Colleague: No, they're not. Mine isn't.

Me: You were crying your eyes out at work the other day, because your boyfriend left you. He said it was the 'final straw'. He left you because you have nightmares that make you thrash around at night, because you were bullied at school. You smashed him in the face while you were asleep, and he was angry enough to get dressed, ring a mate, and go and sleep somewhere else at four in the morning.

Colleague: I don't understand. What's your point?

Tuesday, 10 July 2012

FIFTY SHADES OF SH*T

Oh God.


Here I am again. 


On the train.


Doesn't anything ever happen to me while I'm not moving? I can't seem to move ten yards without some idiot trying to get my attention.


Alright mate? Where's Trinity Street?


- Never heard of it.


Alright love? Got any change?


- Sorry. I'm running for that train!


Oi, mate? You got a light?


- No. You got any vitamin C tablets?


Do you have any coins for this machine?


- Do I look like a bank?


It's been noted many times that travel writing flourishes because the writer is in a state of transition. He is neither here, nor there, and therefore, the extra-dimensional aspect lends itself to unique experiences.


Although, in my case, I have to ask, is there such a thing as 'Commuter Writing'?


I'm on the train home. I'm trying to read my book - Limitless, by Alan Glynn. It's the second time I've read it in a year, but the 'hit' ( you'll see what I mean if you read it ), isn't the same the second time around. I should have cold-turkeyed longer, then had another go in maybe a year.


Anyway, a bunch of attractive women ( if you like shrill, orange, Stourbridge types ) invade the seats across the aisle from me. The usual: Hiroshima skin-tones, bling, dyed hair ( jet-black or platinum blonde ) plus extensions, and that ubiquitous Selfridges shopping bag.


I turn up the Ambient Himalayas on my iPod, to try and focus them out. I get into the zone: I'm at windswept base camp. My sherpas are getting me an ice cold coke. Then instantly I'm teleported back to Planet Earth, because the women suddenly start singing their karaoke favourites:


'Oooh baby, do-you know what-that's-worth? / We'll make hea-ven a pla-ace on Earth - !! 


I do an Oscar-winning turn as the living embodiment of 'nonchalant', despite a good ten minutes of sonic barrage.


'Oops I-did-it-again - !!'


The CIA may want to try this the next time they have a suspected terrorist in custody. The skin colour of these chicks alone would trigger flash-backs of Guantanamo boiler-suits.


'I'm not-that-inn-o-cent - !!'


After a while, my glacial demeanor, has - I hoped - transmitted itself to their suggestible minds, and prompted them to lapse into a kind of semi-dormant, or vegetative state. 


But then it happened.


'Is that Volume Two he's reading?'


Dear God. 'Volume Two'? That can only mean one thing... My book does have a similar colour scheme on the back.


'Ask him which book he's reading.'


Please. Leave me alone.


Focus on the book.


Mountain streams.


Glaciers.


The brunette nearest me leans over and taps me on the knee.


Attrition.


'Which one are you reading?' she says '- Volume One, Two or Three?'


She is, of course, referring to the housewives' current favourite: Fifty Shades of Grey erotic trilogy. Every woman on the train has a copy. And those that don't, have disguised it by reading it on those bloody e-books.


'I do not read that shit.'


'Pardon?'


The blonde next to her leans around to join in: 'They're not shit...'


I look at the one guy in their group. He's either their nephew, or younger brother, or a cheerful homosexual colleague who works at their salon. Probably called Wayne.


I bellow: 'Two thousand years of erotic literature, and they have to read THAT SHIT!'


The brunette's jaw drops open. 'Oh...Emm...Gee. How rude!'


Blonde: 'I know. Oh-emm-gee.'


The crowded train seems strangely silent.