FECK ME IT'S A BLOG



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.