Thursday, October 08, 2009


So yes I know it’s been over a year since the last time I blogged but the thing is you see I’m just not as angry as I used to be so it’s difficult to put finger to keyboard and come up with anything suffient to fill a curmudgeonly blog post.
One reason I’m not permanently on the boil as I used to be is that I no longer drink and of course when I did, particularly when I was hungover, it was really easy to reach the heights of ire. Hell when I was hungover and travelling to my shitty job on a bus somebody’s earphones buzzing with moronic beat driven cack would generate the same amount of red hot rage in me as the holocaust.

Now I still get frustrated but I try and let things wash over me a little more. However, and now we come to the crux, there have been a couple of things recently that have just ever so slightly got my proverbial goat – not my real goat - I keep him in a cupboard and feed him on Toblerone.

Number one The Pride of fucking Britain Awards.

Now do I have anything against people getting a pat on the back for doing good deeds? Well yes actually because it goes against the whole concept of altruism that the deed is it’s own reward, but even if I were to be more generous and say what’s wrong with night out and a good nosh up after you’ve donated bone marrow to save your brother even though you cant stand the bastard then I’d still object because its not actually about the awardees instead it’s a chance for third rate celebrities and reptiles like Carol Vorderman and Piers Morgan to up their profiles by attaching themselves to little Jordan of Cleethorpes who saved his mother’s life by giving her CPR – and he’s only three – ahhh! Well Jordan didn’t blow down his mother’s windpipe and compress her fat tits necessitating years of therapy just to have the Morgan’s scarlet, sweaty, porcine face shoved into frame with him. If they really want to share the stage with heroes, heroines and doers of good deeds then they should be made to do something noble themselves live on stage. Vorderman could felate some firemen and Morgan could be beaten insensible with knotted ropes by a Boy Scout troop who rescued a drowning puppy. Maybe then Britain really could have something to be proud about.

Number Two The Conservatives

Actually much of my anger on this is directed not at the Tories themselves who are, as ever, hypocritial, supurating anal boils of human beings, but at those out there who feel its ok to vote for them now. Ignoring whether David Cameron, Osborne et al are too posh lets just focus on the fact that they are two faced, smug nasty opportunistic, lying toerags who will say or do anything to get into power. If you want an example then take Cameron’s speech at his party conference where he essentially used the death of his son to gain sympathy points with the electorate. That is one of the most despicable things I’ve ever seen and for which he not only should not be elected Prime Minister but he should be taken to a canal – preferably a northern one – shoved in a sack with six or seven rabid – preferably socialist – ferrets and pushed in. If he survives then perhaps we will let him make tea for some lepers.

But people will still vote for them. The Daily Mail readers because.... well they would anyway and the Sun readers because they are too fucking pig thick to vote any other way than that their titmongering paper says. Of course then there is the Daily Star Vote but they’ll just go for whoever’s got the biggest knob – which surprisingly is actually Vince Cable – Cable by name etc...

I would like to point out that I’m no supporter of Gordon Brown and his bag of Balls and assorted pricks either but it’s just the fact that my memory is long enough to remember the last time the Blue Meanies were in power and frankly I have neither the skills or money to emigrate.

Number Three Banks..fu..fu...fuc...fucking BANKS!!!

Now perhaps I’m the only one to feel this but banks just aren’t what they used to be. 20-30 years ago banks used to be a service industry, you put your hard earned money in and you could earn a little interest and pay a few bills. If you had, god forbid, any problems you could go into the back office with the manager, give him a hand job and get it all sorted – ha ha only kidding - it was never less than full anal especially at the Lloyds. The thing is that the bank was essentially there to help you - the customer manage your money and indeed your life. Nowadays banks have become so unhelpful that they might as well replace the position closed signs with the words Fuck Off! I try not to take my anger out on frontline staff because they are only at the mercy of senior management diktat but sometimes, when they tell me there’s nothing they can do because it’s not their policy to follow common sense, I can’t help but picture them in black uniforms with skull and bones on the caps. Still let’s not go too far. BASTARDS!

Well that’s enough to be going on with. I may blog again next year, or next month or perhaps next week I like to remain a man of mystery – and piles – mystery and piles that’s me.

Thursday, August 28, 2008

Fringe Hard

For the past few years I’ve not really been able to take part in the smorgasbord of art, entertainment and sexual deviancy that is the festival(s) season in Edinburgh. Not having the money to attend I’ve generally chosen to ignore the high jinks as going into town would just depress me, and then how would anyone tell me apart from the majority of my fellow citizens. This year however, thanks to a good friend of mine getting me review work for the local paper, I’ve had the chance to dive headlong into the meshugas.

I have, on the whole, enjoyed myself. I’ve seen many shows, spotted some talent, letched at many a lady young enough to be my daughter and thanks to another good buddy I spent an interesting evening watching well known comedians play poker very badly.

But enough of the good stuff, that’s not what this blog was designed for. You want to hear about the things that have pissed me off, the petty complaints which I’ve built up in great mountains full of bile ready to explode in pyroclastic clouds of hate. Well if you insist…

Let’s start with the locals. Having avoided the Fringe for the last few years I’d forgotten what a miserable, sour faced whinging lot of bastards my fellow Edinburghers can be. For four weeks this city becomes the artistic hub of the planet, but do they care? No. They moan about the inconvenience, the noise, the late night opening etc.

Underpinning all this is, of course, jealousy. Every day these people go to their offices or factories, do their jobs and come home to mince and tatties followed by the X factor and casual masturbation. Whilst they sit there stroking themselves with all the joy of a Morrissey fan they know that just a bus ride away is a bacchanalian orgy going on but they’re too repressed to join in. They want to of course, its forbidden fruit and it’s so close, but every fibre of their Calvinist being tells them to fight.

Yes, deep down they would love to find out what it’s like to be dry humped in a close by a Slovakian mime artist. They desire nothing more than to wear a couple of knife juggling midgets like a pair of gloves or catch clymidia from a second year art student called Tamsin or Rupert (or both), but everything they’ve been taught and brought up to believe in prevents them from doing so. Instead they sit at home and seethe and soon that builds into a carapace of resentment year upon year eating away at their soul, until eventually they turn into the hunched backed, rheumy eyed Edinburgh pensioner who, if you lean over and whisper “Festival” in their ear, will go off like a deranged Catherine wheel – “Festival is it? I can tell you fifty things I hate about the Festival before I even have time to wet myself”

As I will outline in my next blog there is much to hate about the festival period, but it isn’t going anywhere, so whilst it’s here I think the populace should just grow up and embrace it with both hands (gloved hands – we don’t want to catch anything) and get into the spirit (£4.00 a shot). They should go out and enjoy a show or two – which is about as much as they can afford – and carouse in the bars with minor TV celebrities and Australian backpackers drunk on Lidl vodka. Of course if they really want’ to avoid it they could just go to London for the month as everybody there has come here.

Thursday, May 22, 2008

In The Name Of All That's Holy

I love a nutter.

Nothing gives me more pleasure than reading a comment on teletext or on an internet posting from someone who makes a shit-house rat seem like the Dalai Lama and there are no better nutters in my opinon than the fundamentalist christians , their absolute certainty of their own rightness is a pleasure to behold.

Now don't get me wrong I wouldn't like to spend any time in their company. For a start they all seem to have a funny smell about them, a sort of mixture of rich tea biscuits and mintos that permeates through their sweat glands and they do sweat a lot, probably because they wear so many clothes to cover their nakedness from the lord. Then there's the speaking in tounges, I can't even speak remedial French let alone cope with people chanelling the spirit of god (at least not first thing in the morning). The main thing that puts me off, though is the praying, its just not good for the knees. If they are not kneeling then they are jumping out of their seats filled with the love of the lord. Fine aerobic excercise it might be but it's a bugger on the joints.

I do love watching them though, because they are not bound by the conventions of us sane folk, we tie ourselves in knots trying not to offend people but they, well , they make it their goal. The moral vaccum they percieve as modern society means they can't stop themselves. Homosexuality, permissivness, multiculturalism, TV, magazines, newspapers, the way women dress, the way men dress, children, animals, Spongebob Squarepants everything is a sign of the downfall of man. I love the fact they don't try and sell their religious beliefs on the basis of what blessings will come if we join them but rather on the firey pit of hell which awaits if we don't. I was watching a programme the other night about them and one of the group said "if you don't repent you will barbecue in hell" I thought what a great image; down in hell the devil turning the burgers with his "kiss the cook" apron on. A few cold (ok not so cold) ones being downed, and of course the devil has all the best tunes it would be like 1950s beach party film with demons. "Beach Blanket Beelzebub".

Looking at the various groups who are going to hell according to the fundies lets look at who might be at this barbie. Oscar Wilde, Mark Twain, Dorothy Parker, Gandhi, Hemingway, Voltaire the list goes on and on. Now in heaven, not barbecuing but probably surviving on a diet created by Gillian McKeith are, Malcolm Muggeridge, Tennysson, Mother Theresa, Mary Whitehouse and Michaelangelo (no wait he liked bum fun so he'll be down in hell putting relish on his buns). Well I know which group I'd rather be part of so as they say in the film Fried Green Tomatos at the Whistle Stop Cafe* The secrets in the sauce.

*This was based on a book about lesbianism which is not shown in the film so they could market it more easily in the states.

Wednesday, January 02, 2008

Curmudgeon68 pull out review of 2007

I know everyone has already done one of these but I honestly couldn't think of anything at this precise moment which irritated me enough to comment on. Well apart from my next door neighbour bringing home various loud harpies and having horrible, creaky middle aged sex with them within my earshot. That and the fact that some fuckwit gave money to make the St Trinians film.

So here are my highlights and low lights of the year:

The Good:

John Smeaton. The Glasgow baggage handler and one of the nicest people ever to punch a burning fanatic.

I have a plan for him. The people of this country seem to have failed to understand the nature of Monarchy they seem to think it's a matter of choice "oh we don't like Prince Charles we want William instead cause he's lovely". Apart from the fact that if this happened in 20 years time they'd all be calling William a cunt it isn't how monarchy works. So here's what we do we remove the Windsors and bring about the reign of King Smeato the I. His banner would be the Lion Rampant atop a burning Jeep. His first proclamation would be a free pint behind the bar for everyone in the country including children and alcoholics, his motto would be "Get it down you". He'd be great because unlike our current dribbling buffoons who occupy Buckingham Palace he'd be hands on travelling the world and punching other heads of state who annoy us - "Take that president Mugabe" he says as he twats him in the face. So bring on the reign hell even the benign despotism of Smeato I.

The Scorcerers Apprentice. "Your face is like an arse with teeth" "your voice is like a duck being strangled in a wind tunnel" "I nominate Becky cause she reminds me of a pile of otter vomit" Sound familiar its the language of reality TV the spittle flecked ravings of the deranged, the half witted and the deluded. Well you wouldn't have found any of that on The Scorcerers Apprentice a childrens reality show with a touch of Harry Potter as a gaggle of kids compteted to come under the wing of a professional conjurer. Now normally I detest precocious TV children. I generally want to stamp on their cherubic faces until all there look-at-me-ness comes running out of their ears, but somehow the good nature and cameraderie shown by these kids managed to warm my slightly atrophied cockles. Oh sure the wrong kid won and the prize went to a child who may well be the spawn of satan but it was still a thousand times more gripping and full of human drama than any number of Shite Factors or the search for the next anodyne bum-squeak to head one of Lord Lloyd-Webbers pension plan shows. When someone was voted off there was genuine emotion and upset from the other little wand wavers and as the judging was done by the teachers and the Scorcerer himself (think a cross between the child catcher and Mr Chips) it was clear the tears were real not just there to get votes from the gullible public. I hope there is a second series because it deserves one if only to show Cowell and Co how it should be done. I also hope I won't be able to see it as I'll have some full time employment by then that and the fact that watching childrens TV at my age is slightly creepy.

Fun With Kestrels. I was walking home a few months ago and spied a kestrel attacking a pigeon everyone on the street stopped to watch it pin the poor flying rat down which distracted the kestrel who stopped to bathe in the glory for so long the pigeon escaped. For a small moment I felt like David Attenborough without the wave of warm feeling which normally comes his way.

The Bad:

Jeremy and Richard. Both Jeremy Kyle and Richard Madelely have yet to die from a painful disease which forces them to shit their own kidneys out so thats a negative but there are more:

Bush. Still in the White House but come next January 20th he will be gone and perhaps God will prove his/her/it's existence before this year is out and Dick Cheney will spontaneously combust (I can but dream).

Mr B and Mr C. The woeful sectacle of the Brown Governments implosion into sleaze and evermore desperate policy decisions led to the far worse and more terrifying fact of people saying "oh that Mr Cameron's a nice young man perhaps he'll make a good PM. Brown may be mired in well the brown stuff but lets not forget that Cameron and his gang are just Lord Snooty and his chums only not as well drawn. BTW the housing minister Yvette Cooper is married to Ed Balls so if you want to protest this government there is nothing stopping you marching with a placard saying Yvette Cooper Kisses Balls (it may not however accurately reflect the state of their marriage).

TOTP XMAS. The producer of the Top of the Pops 2 Christmas special allowed A) Steve Wright to talk over Noddy Holder yelling it's Christmas at the end of Here it is Merry Christmas etc. I've got a great idea lets show a clip of Martin Luther Kings I have a dream speech "I have a dream that all gods children, white men and black men Jews and gentiles protestant and catholic........(Announcer) "He has a dream eh...I had a dream last night about a pony that played the crazy is that. B) He played the castrated version of Fairytale of New York a whole week after radio one had agreed to play the proper version. So heres my lyrical change in tribute - "You scumbag you maggot you cheap lousy faggot.....If I ever see you I'm going to shoot you in the kneecaps with an armalite rifle.

Norbitt. I have not seen this Eddie Murphy film but have been reliably informed that the experience is more painful than standing on your head shoving a funnel up your arse and pouring tabasco down it.

Rats. Not specific to this year but just for the record I've spent 39 years hating the furry buck toothed Weills disease spreading bastards and I havent changed my opinion. However I might feel more positive to them if a pack got into Simon Cowells house and chewed his face off. Or Madeley or Jeremy Kyle or Richard Littlejohn or....well lets face it the list could go on forever.

Anyway thats a few things from last year (sort of) and heres looking forward for more bile inducing people and event from 2008.

Tuesday, October 09, 2007

The Blog Lives

Yes I am alive and blogging despite rumours to the contrary.

I am still unemployed so I divide my time between looking for work, playing games on my mobile phone, screaming abuse to the sky in some vain hope my upstairs neighbours will die in a horrible explosion and shards of "Gansta Rap" CDs will pierce their pasty white junkie flesh and getting angry at the televison. Let's keep it light and allow me to explain my televisual bete noirs. Firstly E4 they have been repeating episodes of Scrubs a programme I genuinely enjoy sure occasionally it gets a bit too sachirin but thats American TV for you hell even the Sopranos can get slushy. However E4 has taken to hacking this prog to bits for these repeats. Jokes which I am familiar with are often edited out because of, I assume their scatalogical or viseral nature. Words are cut out such as Bitch and Bastard so people seem to have developed some form of laringytis "you son of a blank" is often heard. Secondly E4 and Channel four have hired a human gonk in the form of a bloke called Nick Grimshaw, he's northern and camp and so fucking far from entertaining that I'd have more pleasure from attaching my scrotum to a rocket and lighting the blue touch paper. Mostly however my problem with TV is I find myself watching it too much I should have a job somewhere for me to go so I don't find myself thinking "oh I'll just watch this eight year old episode of ER before going out" or finding myself watching Alan Titchmarch's chat show and the various right wing tit biscuits he has on it. Worst of all is the situation of finding myself thinking "oh I've not seen this episode of Midsomer Murders and then watching to find out whodunnit. So please someone find me a job quick before I start phoning in to multiple choice quizzes on BBC1 makeover shows.

P.S. Whats the freaking deal with Blue Peters tiny new studio.

P.P.S. I can't be the only one sick of hearing about Lewis fucking Hamilton

P.P.P.S. If I find someone who watches Skins I'll gouge their eyes out with a runcible spoon (which apparently you can find at quite a reasonable price - I saw it on Bargain Hunt...AAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHHHH)

Tuesday, June 19, 2007


I don't watch soaps but I would if they had better plots here for your consideration are a few plot ideas for you to look at.

Eastenders: After having his arm sliced off in a bacon slicer incident Ian's new robotic arm takes on a life of it's own dragging him round Walford on a killing spree. Meanwhile after taking a potion that makes all his hair grow back Phil is forced to realise that all his macho posturing has merely been a cover for his latent homosexuality.

Coronation Street: Derdrie rides naked down the street on the back of pig, smothered in swarfega and swigging from a litre bottle of supermarket Rum, also Tyrone has forgotten the goat for the black mass.

Emmerdale: The werewolves have surrounded the Woolpack. Inside the villagers huddle together (some are actually having sex but with the barbours on it's difficult to tell who) fear and pig manure hang heavy in the air. Eric goes mad and bursts out of the pub shouting "eat me eat me" however the Werewolves have gone realising that it would be easier to eat the currently unguarded farm animals instead.

Hollyoaks: One of the blonde cast has developed a wrinkle (don't ask which one they are all interchangeable) the rest beat them to death chanting "Youth is power Youth is power!!)

Neighbours: Toady, Lou and Harold must retrieve the amulet before their new found powers fade. Harold, using his laser vision cuts through the door of Malevalo's lair and Toady uses his knock out whistle to stun the guards but little do they know it a trap - (queue music) Neighbours everybody needs good neighbours....etc

Home and Away: Fights are breaking out between the female members of Summer Bay over the attentions of Mr Warrington the eligible 18th Century batchelor who has fallen through a wormhole in time. Mr Warrington cares nothing of this he has been learning to body board and play the Digeree Do things which, should he ever get back to Little Smuggly on the Wold, he believes will entrance the young ladies.

Doctors: Having realised that they are on in the afternoon and no-one actually watches they now do the show in the nude apart from the last five minutes when people are tuning in to watch Murder She Wrote.
I apologise if I've missed out any soaps but what with all the DIY, property, gardening, cookery, gameshows and general shite out there it's easy to miss things.
Anyway that was a bit of light relief come my next post mudgely service should be resumed.

Friday, May 25, 2007

On second thoughts

A few blogs ago I talked about the climate of fear in our society. In that blog I suggested that the next time someone said that all burglars should be castrated you should say "no, for I am a rationalist". Having just been burgled (and no not in a Richard Griffiths Withnail and I way) I can safely say that I stand by that opinion. They should not be castrated... that is ridiculously lenient., they should be castrated and then flayed and then set alight, the thieving bastards.

I work hard for my money...pause for laughter to die down...and why some smack-headed toe-rag should be able to just waltz or tango or foxtrot or pasa-fucking-doble into my flat and steal £450 pounds of my money (set aside for my landlord) well it makes my already highly pressured blood boil. Of course the police were a huge help especially the one who after looking around my, admittedly untidy, room said "well they've made a right mess in here" Oh ha ha ha that bit of light relief more than made up for having £450 freaking pounds stolen from me. If he hadn't had a truncheon (or whatever they are called nowadays) pepper spray a stab vest and handcuffs I'd have given him quite a dirty look I can tell you.

Situations like this create an Incredible Hulk kind of reaction in me. Normally I'm a lefty liberal "hey it's society's fault and we should look for the underlying reasons for this criminal behavior" kind of guy, but when this stuff happens to me I more of a "If I ever find the wankers who did this I'll cut their bollocks off with a rusty penknife and gas them like tuberculosis ridden badgers".

In the mean time I'll just settle for what I can do. So burglars if you're reading this how does it feel to archly mocked in a blog? eh eh bet you feel pretty stupid now.