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Friday, 6 September 2013

Fancy Dress

I have met a lot of people in my time and let me tell you straight up; You are all awful. Like really, really awful. You are the reason I live on my own and you are the reason I drink. That being said there is a sure fire way to make you even worse and that is to put you in fancy dress. Fuck you, you fucking kook.

Some prick once said ‘sarcasm is the lowest form of wit’ – They were completely wrong. The lowest form of wit is you dressed as a kangaroo. Or a zombie. Or a nurse. Or fucking Lady Gaga.

Hold on a minute… Are you telling me you went to a party dressed as Lady Gaga? Really?? I mean you, a male, dressed as a FEMALE celebrity?! You’re blowing my mind… Hold on, you didn’t have a lightning bolt painted on your face did you? You did?!! Holy shit man, YOU are a fucking funny guy and not at all a cunt.  

Being in fancy dress is like shitting on your hands and clapping.

Shitting? Fine.
Clapping? Fine.
Shitting on your hands? Weird, but fine.
Shitting on your hands and clapping? Why the fuck would you do that? I’m stood right next to you. You’ve sprayed faeces on me and you’re getting it everywhere. Your once private act has now left you and everyone around you covered in shit.

Likewise, when you leave the house dressed as Charlie Chaplin you’re basically covering everyone you come into contact with, in your own filth.

Leaving the house? Fine.
Seeing your friends? Fine.
Leaving the house dressed as a wookie? No need. Fuck your life.

Trust me, no matter how hilarious you think you look dressed up as a pirate – You are NOT funny. When you and your friends enter a pub and wave your plastic swords in peoples face – You are NOT funny. When you stand up and loudly announce that you are going to the ‘barrrggghh’ – You are NOT funny. No-one in the room is thinking ‘Jesus those guys are having a great time’ they are thinking ‘Fuck I hope that guy dies’ You are covering yourself and everyone around you in metaphorical shit.

When you run down the high street dressed as the 118 men and shout ‘I’ve got your number!’ at the people you pass by – You are bringing yourself, and everyone around you, down. People aren’t thinking ‘Those guys are class’ they’re thinking ‘I’ve just brought I kid into this world… What the fuck was I thinking?!’

You are the lowest of the low and I find your very existence abhorrent. So if you’re planning on wearing fancy dress this weekend, come find me. I’ve got a bowel-full of shit with your name on it.

Wednesday, 23 January 2013

Moustache Tattoos

That's a weird pose... Why are you standing like that? That's odd. Ohhhhh... I seeeeee... You've got a moustache tattooed on your finger... HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Very good.

No, no I get it. That is VERY funny. You are quite the comedian. I mean, it looks like you've got a moustache tattooed on your finger. What's not funny about that?

What? Uh, no it doesn't look like you've actually GOT a moustache... Because, well, that tattoo is on your finger...

The more I think about it, the more I don't understand why you've done that... I mean... 13 people liked your Facebook photo, that was pretty much all you could of hoped for with that.

To be honest, if you wanted to look like you had a moustache you should probably just grow one. That WOULD be funny... or maybe get one tattooed on your lip? That would also be funny. You've sort of taken the cowards way out there... It just looks like you've got a moustache tattooed on your finger.

I don't get it. You look like a cunt. 

Friday, 18 January 2013

Keep Calm and Carry On

It’s been a long time since I wrote a blog. I’ve been busy, I’ve been lazy, I’ve been drunk and each of these things have contributed equally to our little blog falling by the wayside. Unfortunately, our silence has not meant that all is well. In our absence the world has grown more disgusting than ever. I still spend my days surrounded by people I despise and evenings drinking gin from the bottle, curled foetal on the floor.

A myriad of things have repulsed me over the last few of months. Students, onesies, students in onesies, fedoras, movember, Bognor Regis, dancing, that fella from Xfactor with the ears, that repugnant show ‘Two Broke Girls’… The list goes on and on. Top of the pile however, and by quite some distance, is the grotesque fad of ‘Keep Calm and something something’ advertising and it is fucking EVERYWHERE.

Originally developed in the 40’s to ‘Keep’ people ‘Calm’ during the Blitz, this once quite creative piece of propaganda has recently been mercilessly raped but the 21st century. It’s impossible to walk through a town centre without coming across piles and piles of mugs, tote bags, shirts, hoodies, posters, badges, magnets, bottle openers and all other manners of useless fucking tat with ‘Keep Calm…’ slogans branded on it.

Keep Calm… is the advertising equivalent of some fella following you around town and hitting you over the back of the head with a pillow.

The first time it happens is a little unexpected. ‘Oh!’ you think ‘that was weird… I mean, I guess it was sort of funny in an annoying way…’ but you presume that decency and common sense would dictate that it stops there. You continue walking about town in your own little world, wondering if you have time for another pint before football when he hits you again. ‘Fine’ you think. ‘It doesn’t hurt. It’s just annoying. I can handle annoying. He’ll get bored before I do’

Several hours later you’re sat in Grubbs trying to concentrate on your burger but the fella is still there and is now hitting you with the pillow every 30 seconds.

Hours turn to days, turn to weeks, turn to months and this fella is still following you around with the pillow, clocking you at every opportunity. You complain to your friends but they don’t see the problem ‘It’s funny’ they tell you.

Eventually the hair on the back of your head disappears through the constant abuse. Your skin thins and begins to weep puss and blood. Each blow begins to sting and burn more and more and soon a gaping hole opens up in your skull. Still your assailant bludgeons you with the pillow, now screaming at you to compound the misery.

‘Keep Calm and Drink Coffee!’ He screams
Keep Calm and Ride Bikes!
Keep Calm and Shop Local!!’
Your knees buckle and you fall to the floor.

Your attacker, sensing weakness, tips back his head and screams ‘YOLO!’ and out of a nearby craft shop comes a girl in a homemade dress who starts whipping you incessantly with a screenprinted ‘Pugs Not Drugs’ tea towel. You look around for help but everyone nearby is too busy drinking craft beers from koozies or else taking Instagram pictures of the scene. More blows descend on your head and your body gives out. The last sound you hear is someone asking ‘Hey, anyone wanna go to Infinity Foods for lunch? We can go up to the craft fair afterwards’ Your torment is finally ended by the pillow wielding maniac crushing what’s left of your skull with his fixie.

I don’t want to over exaggerate things but if you make ‘Keep Calm’ merch, you are a cunt. Not only have you jumped on an already overcrowded bandwagon but you are doing so with the most minimal skill and effort possible. You are the worst. The VERY worst and you are what is wrong with the world.

Using clip art does is not creative. It does not make you an artist. The 'Keep Calm...' Pun that you've come up with ISN'T funny. YOU are not funny. There is absolutely zero merit in what you are doing.

Fuck. You.

Friday, 30 March 2012

Summer Etiquette

It’s March and summer is here already. Thanks Global Warming, you’re alright. But whilst we can all agree that the melting polar ice caps and gaping holes in the ozone layer have turned out to be hugely beneficial to mankind, there are still some things about summer that totally suck. For the benefit of everyone in the world, please abide by the following rules this summer.

Shirts on, fellas. Ok the sun is out but please for the fucking love of Lydia, keep your fucking shirt on. There seems to have been a grotesque cultural shift over the last few years that has made it acceptable to not wear a shirt in public as soon as the smallest possible ray of sunlight hits your body. THIS IS NOT OK. AT ALL. No-one in town wants to see your pasty white chest, spotty back and tribal sleeve. NO-ONE. Don't get me wrong, there are times when it’s ok not to wear a shirt. If you’re on the beach, it’s ok. If you’re in your own home, it’s ok. But if you and your teenage girlfriend are pushing ‘Tarquin’ around town, smoking fags and drinking booze, It’s not ok. Not at all. Put your fucking shirt back on you fucking disgusting drain on society. Fuck you.

Don’t join in. Sunshine seems to bring out the loudest, cuntiest side of people and makes them want to do loud, cunty things and join other loud cunts in doing loud and cunty things. I’m a Smith and I am proud to say that I take after my Father in almost every way. I’m going bald, I waste my money on records, I drink too much, I smile too little and I DON’T join in. FUCK. JOINING. IN.

‘Let’s all go to the clock tower at 12 dressed as pandas and dance to Glee songs!!’

‘I’ve started a Facebook group to get everyone to dress up as a zombie and meet outside the library at 3 for a giant water fight!’

‘Let’s all go and have a Frisbee tournament on the beach!’

What?! How about no? How about you DON’T do these retarded things?! Life is not like High School the Musical where you make friends with strangers by getting up to high-jinx with them in the sunshine. Don’t live each day like it’s your last, don’t ‘dance like no-one’s watching’ and don't join in you fucking mouth breather. Fuck you.

Shun Hippies. Unfortunately summer is the main breeding time for hippies and society needs to act as one if we are finally to be rid of these abhorrent, hemp smelling cunts. Picture the scene, you’re on the beach reading a book with a cold bottle of Brooklyn by your side. Heaven right? But… what’s that noise? That’s weird… sort of sounds like someone’s playing bongos…? That’s really strange… It’s not the 60’s and you’re not in San Francisco…. That’s so weird… Anyway, I’ll just get on with my book… Wait, what’s that now?? Sort of sounds like someone is playing Bob Dylan covers on a guitar but... who would bring a guitar to the beach?! Eurgh. Hippies. Your quiet day in the sun is ruined. You try to move further down the beach but everywhere you go you run into more of them. Longboarding, juggling, playing with Poi and Diablos, Hula-hoops and Frisbees, smoking weed and giggling like cretins and BBQ-ing their Linda McCartney sausages whilst drinking cider made from nettles. Hippies are a grotesque half breed of people. Too lazy to be human, too human to be plankton. They are foul and they need to be stopped. If you are not a hippie; be sure not to make friends with one. If you ARE a hippy; fuck you. Kill yourself.

Don’t Litter. It’s 2012, who the fuck still litters for fucks sake? We all love a BBQ and some beers on the beach, it’s one of the best bits about the summer. But when you go home at the end of the day, TAKE YOUR FUCKING RUBBISH WITH YOU. I don’t care that birds or fish could get trapped in tins or bags and die (trust me, I could not give less of a shit about the plight of British wildlife) It’s about having respect for the town you live in. Yeah, you’re done for the day but tomorrow someone else is going to want to sit in the same place as you and they shouldn’t have to wade through empty tins of Strongbow because you and your cunt friends are too fucking lazy to walk to a bin. Fuck you.

That’s it. Easy. Follow the rules and we’ll all ‘get along just fine, man’

Tuesday, 20 March 2012

Deal or No Deal

Deal or No Deal first appeared on our screens in 2005 fronted by 90's Crinkly Bottom throwback Noel Edmonds, and since its inception it shows no sign of dying. The premise of the show is simple, there are 22 boxes containing prizes ranging from 1p to £250,000 and the contestant is responsible for eliminating the boxes one at a time in order to end up with a cash sum of money to take home. Depending on the outcome of the game, "The Banker" , an unseen man on the end of a phone will interject with offers to buy out the contestant, which will spark the question "Deal or no deal?". Whilst the concept sounds simple enough, the show has somehow evolved into a pseudo spiritual quest for everybody involved, so much so that Edmonds has branded the gormless audience as the "pilgrims". These are my top reasons for hating this culture of insanity and their narcissistic box Messiah...

  • Noel Edmonds- Noel Edmonds is the man responsible for injecting the show with its ridiculous element of spirituality, constantly professing that there are higher powers at work. He acts as the ringleader of his cult of "pilgrims", coining terms such as "the dream factory" and "the walk of wealth" and casually employing them into conversations like they're valid terms. I can't help but speculate on Noel Edmonds sanity when watching his erratic, often lunatic like approach to presenting. I cringe watching him desperately try to think of something original to say, as it seems that all of his sub par material was expunged years ago in the land of Crinkly Bottom and Mr Blobby.
  • The contestants- Deal or No Deal features 22 hapless cretins, all desperately trying to stamp their utterly forgettable personalities onto this hour long circle jerk with "witty" one liners and cringe worthy banter with Noel Edmonds. The contestants act like they're pumped full of laughing gas or have mainlined valium before the show started, nonsensically laughing and relieving themselves at every word uttered from Edmonds beardy mouth regardless of its meaning or relevance. Each contestant accepts responsibility for the box that they stand behind, apologising for unravelling a bad number or celebrating in the fact they just got rid of a good number like they have power over what just happened. This is usually accompanied by a "You're a good man X, it's going to be a blue". Their sense of camaraderie is embarrassingly superficial as they over zealously applaud every single action of the player, whether it be a win or a loss. This mismatched group of fuckwits constantly try and create an air of positivity by chanting "Blue, Blue Blue", as if doing so will magically enhance a players luck, when in reality they end up looking like an insane cult.
  • "It's not a game show, it's a real life drama"- Noel Edmonds makes what is in essence an incredibly dull concept a "real life drama" (his words) by encouraging the participants to share their sob stories before their game begins, then exploits this in a rag newspaper fashion throughout the show, siphoning emotion from the participants through the highs and lows of their game. This always climaxes in en masse crying and despair marathon, which makes for some very disturbing viewing.
  • It's a game of probability- Deal or No Deal is nothing more than a game of chance, and anybody that believes otherwise is frankly a fucking moron! There is a 1/22 chance of winning the jackpot, yet the show is dressed up like there's more to it than that, an underlying supernatural aura that somehow conducts the outcome of the game. Players will pick numbers that are loosely significant to them, as if this is a legitimate tactic that will have some bearing on the result. For example"My nan died when I was 13, I'm going to pick 13" or "I'm going for number 5, I have 5 fingers on my hand". The contestants and their odd belief that the collective will of everybody in attendance is going to somehow invoke the desired numbers into a box is absolute madness, and is testament to the level of idiocy present in the studio. There is no strategy or skill involved, this game is literally a guessing game in which idiots are undeservedly awarded money for nothing.
Noel's signature sign off at the end of every hour long emotional battering is "You know you'll be watching next time". No Noel, sadly I won't. I'm just waiting for the day that he takes his insane cult to the fiery depths of hell that this show spawned from by doing a Jonestown.

Thursday, 1 March 2012


Question: how do you make a cunt even more annoying?
Answer: give him an acoustic guitar.
Seriously, fuck buskers.
It seems that I can’t walk up and down the street these days without hearing some smacked up prick in fingerless gloves playing a Nirvana cover on a beat up (and out of tune) sticker covered, acoustic guitar. Without walking past a man dressed as a fawn playing the bagpipes. Without seeing some dreadlocked hippie playing ‘No Woman, No Cry’ on an insanely expensive, vintage guitar that his Tory MP Dad brought him. Without being winked at by some mockney fuckhead in a pork pie hat and v-neck t-shirt singing that Kaiser Chiefs song that everyone knows. All of them judging me because I walk past and don’t drop a few pence into their fucking upturned hats. Fuck them.

My problem with buskers is twofold. Firstly (most importantly), the noise.

I have a dream, a way I would like the world to be, and in that dream there is silence. Everyone wakes up in their one bed flat, puts on a grey suit, walks to work in single file, does their job, walks home in single file, reads a book and goes to bed. There is no talking, there is no music and there is absolutely minimal interaction between people. If I was in charge of the world it would be a silent place where everyone lives in perfect silent harmony.

Unfortunately my dream will never come true. There are people out there who insist on talking, on making small talk, on asking me about how my day or my disgusting life is going. The world is full of garishly bright colours, of people dressing and acting like complete fucking cunts. Cyber goths, goths, steam punks, punks, crusties, all of them walking up and down St. James screaming their disgusting faces off. But the worst offender against my perfect utopian society, the first people to be put up against the wall if I’m ever in charge, is the fucking buskers.

We all get annoyed when we sit on a bus and some chav mouth breather starts playing music through his shitty little phone. We ALL get annoyed about that. But for some reason no-one gets annoyed about buskers and I don’t understand the difference. ‘Busker’ is just a posh name for an attention seeking cunt. Invading your private life with his or her shrill and atrocious noise.

What the fuck are these people actually thinking? ‘You liked that Green Day song, right? Time of Your Life? Well how about instead of minding your own business while you’re walking along, you just listen to me play some bars of it? Yeah? You love that, right? Look at the feeling I’m putting into it, you can tell I’m an artist can’t you? I went to Brit school for a term, now give me some money’

If this were a one-time thing (one hippy asshole per town centre – what a blissful idea) I would man up and get on with it. But as soon as you pass one cunt with a guitar, you hit another and then another and then another. Eurgh. The whole ‘singer songwriter’ thing reached saturation about ten fucking years ago. Fucking grow up. Just because you can play a couple of chords and warble over the top, it doesn’t mean I should have to listen to you whenever I leave my fucking house. FUCK YOU.

My second problem with buskers, is that they do it for profit. I don’t have an issue with people wanting to make money out of music, I’m not a ‘punk’ and frankly the idea of a ‘DIY ethic’ makes me want to break my hands open with a fucking hammer. There is no issue there. My problem with it is that these fucking idiots don’t just want money, they want MY money… Fuck. You. You think just because you’re playing an acoustic cover of a Lady Gaga song on the street I should put some of MY money in your guitar case? Do one.

Dear buskers, literally ANYONE could do what you do. It’s 2012, EVERYONE plays guitar and EVERYONE knows the words to ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ The only difference between you and the majority of other people is that they have some fucking pride and aren’t arrogant enough to think that because they have the smallest bit of ‘talent’ they have to share it with the fucking world. Get the fuck off of the streets and get out of my fucking ears you fucking hippy cunts.

Monday, 17 October 2011


How the fuck have I not covered this self righteous, pompous waste of oxygen until now? I feel that I'm not alone in thinking that this man is the epitome of egotistical douchebag, and I'm certain that he's been setting off your smug alarms for years. Bono is lauded as a saint by some for his supposed philanthropy and selfless commitment to tackling poverty, but despite his charity work and seemingly good intentions I can't fucking stand him! These are my top reasons for hating this pretentious moron;

  • U2 fucking suck- To me, listening to U2 is the musical equivalent of staring at a man's corpse whilst he is experiencing "angel lust" (post-mortem erection). U2 songs start and instantly reach a climax akin to a corpse's flaccid penis as it struggles to reach a depressingly lifeless boner that rapidly loses strength and eventually shrivels up into an inanimate nothing. It baffles me that U2 are the highest grossing band in the world, their music is so middle of the road and ineffectual that I can't hear it, I'm only aware that it exists. U2's style of "rock music" is always used to portray cool maverick types in mundane BBC drama's, for example think Judge John Deed struggling to vault a Rover, James Nesbitt chasing down a criminal through a supermarket or a Blue Peter presenter doing a bungee jump whilst the stock riff from "Elevation" plays in the background. This type of “rock” appeals to a smug beano reading chortler “rocking out” in a depressingly comfy environment (watching highlights of Glasto on the I-player whilst their dead behind the eyes wife is asleep on a Sunday after a roast), denying their middle class sensibilities whilst listening to U2 records (which they bought on the Apple store whilst picking up the new Coldplay album) on their vacant shiny 200GB I-pod (in a leather case to avoid scratching of course).

  • Look at him....just look at him- So it's pretty much common knowledge that anybody that wears sunglasses indoors is automatically an utter cunt. Bono looks like a second rate cast off from the Matrix/a space cowboy from the future, wearing ridiculous hats, constantly draped in a leather trench coat looking like he might flash you at any moment. His flamboyant trademark image extenuates his infinite ego, the finishing touch on a self obsessed wanker.

  • Bono is coming, act busy! -"I don't know why, but we always had this belief that there was something sacred about our music, that it was almost holy." ....WHAT? This is one of many truly narcissistic statements that the deluded old fruit has made when reflecting on his impact on music, highlighting his warped view of his own self importance. You're right Bono, some of your lyrics really are holy, here's a few of my personal favourites that have got me through some really hard times...I didn't give anyone else a choice/An intellectual tortoise” I've got no self control/Been living like a mole...now”.”Grace, is a name for a girl, it's also a thought that changed the world”

    Whoah, it's like he's channelling the words from my soul, his lyrics don't even slightly sound like they were written as homework by a GCSE student. I think if we need any further proof that God isn't real then that statement has put the nail in the fucking coffin, but on the other hand you could look at it like U2's music was created by a God with the divine purpose of punishment. Have you heard the parable of the rich man that moved his money in a private jet to a tax haven in a foreign country? Look it up in the Capitalist Bible mannnnnnnnnnn! Can we just hurry up and crucify him so that he can die for all our sins already?

    "Celebrity is currency, so I wanted to use mine effectively." There is nothing more patronising than having a millionaire getting up on their diamond encrusted soapbox and try and lecture you about global poverty, it is utterly sickening! Bono has never disclosed his contribution to fighting African poverty, but throwing money at a continent that is corrupt beyond belief will not solve anything. I'm not going to deny that in 1985 Live Aid was a well intentioned concert and a historic moment in Britain, but helping to raise money for Africa does not make Bono an expert in global politics. Bono seems to get behind any bandwagon with a safe political message like “War is not very nice”, “Racism is rubbish” or “Global warming is quite dangerous” presenting himself as a cool political maverick sticking it to “the man”. He may not play by the rules but by god he gets results! In reality he should not be entertained as a political figure in any form, just an opinionated old windbag that likes the sound of his own voice and lives with his greasy head permanently inserted in his own rectum.

Bono, you have been stuck in a moment of new age bullshit and pretention since the elevation of your ego in the 80's...you still haven't found what you're looking for and you're out of control. I hope you don't have vertigo, because you are going to fall off the edge of your mountainous moral high ground and it will be a beautiful day....someday bloody someday.

I can't live, with or without you