Arsehole......

My girlfriend tells me I'm obsessed with my arsehole.
Whilst there's been many occasions in the past where I've been called an arsehole by women, or indeed accused by some of them of being "anally retentive" I've never before been accused of being obsessed with my boy pussy.

Again, it's Shiva up to his old tricks, because every time my lady visits at the weekend my bowels decide they need emptying at least three times more than average. Of course, some of that is down to ingesting toxic substances, like green chillis or chilli pickle, and if my arse could speak.......well it can actually, after eating either of the above. You've heard of Rock'n'Roll widows, or darts widows, well my old lady is a toilet widow!

And that's the other thing. I really found it hard to believe that several chaps made a living farting tunes in Victorian times, one such fellow, Le Petomane, even did a show at the Moulin Rouge. I say "found" cos I reckon I could do that! Again, only when my true love is lying in bed, perhaps expectantly, does the great Gas God empower me with enough fart energy to lift off a small space shuttle! My neighbours are starting to get arsey(sorry!)cos they think I've started to play the Tuba, and practise at unreasonable hours!
It's unbelievable, the fart sounds like a lengthy low drone, especially with added porcelain reverb, a bit like a hunting horn. Stags and similar animals gather outside my house excited that there may be some "rut action" to be had. Confused Captains of  small ships knock and enquire as to whether I have a rogue foghorn. It's all getting a bit too much....

Green house gases? Don't make me laugh! It's the gas from my bumhole. I bet there's a huge hole in the ozone layer above my house! I'm a walking environmental disaster, and all the time scientists have been blaming cows and termites. Oh shit.......

Facebook......

Facebook, it has to be said, is fucking sad.
How is it that nice, normal, regular and unassuming people suddenly become mono brained retards in this corner of cyberspace? Intelligent, worldly people abruptly turn Chav, or worse, bigoted. They prattle on endlessly about their favourite "whatever" and expect me to give a fuck, or at least comment. Why should I give a fuck about Elvis, he's fucking dead, poor twat! And as for that wonderful blues rock pub band you love so much, well they're shit, so get over it!
My young relatives constantly embarrass me with their dreadful spelling and pigeon English. Christ anyone would think half the family are fucking "niggas". Again they must be terribly disappointed or surprised when they look in the mirror and realise they're white! Oh and Johnny or Jane, your wonderful partner of a good three and a half weeks has gone and shagged someone else, fuck that's such a shame. Guess you were thinking it was for life this time, huh? Well fucking get over that too, it was a bunk up, ok? not marriage, a mortgage and seven kids. The disposability of your relationship reflects the site on which you met, shallow, vaporous and unreal.
People also use FB to witter on about their kids like they are direct descendants of the arch angel Gabriel, and their IQ exceeds 160, and of course they're sooo talented. Well here's the news, they're Skunk smoking ugly little fucks who make Jade Goody look like Einstein. And that's the truth.
Punks reunited? Don't make me fucking puke! Sad old fat fuckers desperately trying to relive their inconsequential youth, ho fucking hum. Charlie Harper is 92 and lives in a care home fer Christ sake!
And of course, it's helped us all to connect with long lost friends that we haven't seen for ages. Yeah right, we connect, we message once or twice then that's it, we disconnect. Who gives a fuck?
I don't want to hear about your chuffing house in bum fuck Egypt, I don't care about your fucking Gerbil dying, I don't care about your ugly fucking baby shitting its self, I don't care about the new game on your fucking Blackberry(shove it up your arse then it'll be black!)and I don't care about your new job as a fucking robot.......just fuck off will ya?!?

Getting older.....

Ok, so I'm 54 tomorrow. I feel fine, my brain still works great, as does my cock. I have a full head of hair with only vague signs of grey, I'm approximately 8 pounds over fighting weight, but what the fuck, the pot belly is the new six pack, right?

But I've noticed something about older men, something I keep spotting on the bus. Their ears are fucking huge! They're like Woolly Mammoths for fuck sake, with torrents of hair growing out of them, like trophy hair! What the fuck?! You don't tell me someone doesn't mention the fact they look like some Scally has stuck a Douglas Fir into their ear canal? "Oh yeah shit, that ear hair looks fucking cool, is that a weave or what?" It's just not happening.

And it's not just their ears either. Most of their noses are fucking huge too! And they have more nasal hair than most people have round their ass! Are you telling me you can't shave that shit? Well use a fucking blow torch, I would! What sick puppy decided that, as men got older, not only would they look jowly and wrinkly, not only would their cocks stop responding, not only would they cease to attract women, but their ears and noses would grow huge? Gotta be the same bastard that invented the Prostate......

Imodium......

Doctors, who'd have them, ay?
It's hard enough for us males to gather the wherewithal to visit the bastards. And then as if feeling unwell isn't enough, they question you like they're the Gestapo, and make you feel even more under the weather!!
I went to see a Doctor today, simply to get a prescription for Loperamide, I came out of the surgery battered and exhausted. There's me telling him how good I've been, seriously cutting back on my boozing, and the first thing I want to do when I get out of there is have a fucking drink, a large Jack preferably. And all the time he's tippy tapping on his keyboard and muttering incomprehensibly, occasionally raising his eyebrows. Never a good thing.

I do all the hard work(well, me and Mr Google)I do the diagnosis, all they've got to do is write like a drunkard on their official note paper, and hey presto, drug time.(no chance of a bottle of Merck while you're at it Dr T?)
So I figure after all this interrogation, complete with much huffing and puffing he's got another angle on my problem, so what gives Dr T, what do you think?
"I think you should have an Endoscopy, a camera put up your back passage, and a biopsy, to see if we can find a problem". Fucking great Doll face, no disrespect but having someone shove a camera up my ass isn't at the top of my agenda currently, just give me the Imodium, PLEASE!!!

Again, God was being a wag, I being terminally deaf, and the Quack being Italian and barely capable of speaking the Queen's English. Surely it should be a prerequisite that a Doctor who treats Brits should be able to speak English, and for you guys that train the fuckers, if the medical student still wears a bone through his nose, carries a sheild and spear and calls you "M'bungo" that ain't likely. Go figure......

The English weather......

It's a very English obsession, the weather. Hardly suprising, looking out on this cold and wet February day. I pity the poor souls who have to drag their arses out of bed in the darkness, to attend some dull, unstimulating job in a factory, or somesuch. My worst nightmare, but then as Bridie used to say "we're not 9 to 5 people". I don't want 9 to 5 things, like a car or a house or any other delusional material stuff, it's useless to me.

If you look at the weather like it is, and has to be, it can be beautiful any time. But if you judge it for a reason, that it prevents work, or travel or whatever, then it can really get you down. And hence the English reflect their weather, which can be seen as bleak, grey and bland......

I hated the English Winter so much at one time that when I met the Bitch Goddess and she suggested a move to the Sunshine state I simply couldn't wait to get there.
The Flight was long and arduous in those days, some 12 hours in total. With a stop off in a snowy New York, where the shoe shine chairs at the airport had little tv's built into them, so for a dime you could watch a Soap or some news. I stepped outside of JFK to witness a log jam of Yellow cabs, all angry expletives and honking horns.

When the doors of the plane opened in Miami, it felt similar to opening a hot oven door, a veritable woosh of heat. And there were plants growing on the airport roof that would die in the English Summer, let alone the Winter. Exotic, sweet smelling, hot......

We picked up a hire car and drove out of the airport on a road twelve lanes wide. Dusk was starting to fall and the lights of the city blazed. There were billboards and neon. I switched on the radio and trawled through the stations. Little Richard sang "Tutti Frutti", and some nameless Evangelist barked praises to the Lord. We were in Miami, in America, and suddenly all of my childhood dreams about visiting the USA had come true, big style.....

Crashed......

As my regular readers will know, I've had something of an "Annus horriblus" to quote Her Maj. Or as my Chav brothers would say, a "fuck off" year.. Having had all my work dry up, it was inevitable I'd have to sign on, and frankly I was dreading it. There's such a stigma attached to it, thanks to the gutter media(and for me that's all newspapers and tv)and even my closest sensible friends drone on about "dole queue scroungers" and "single Mothers".
Single Mothers......hmmm.....well I've coupled with and known a good number of them, and as far as I know none of them were sleeping on mattresses stuffed full of £20 notes. In fact, to the contrary, most of them live meagre, hand-to-mouth existences.
I consider myself a "genuine" case, if that's appropriate? I've been struggling financially since the Summer, and my earnings have averaged less than £100 a week, so......

I simply couldn't fault the staff at the job centre. They were friendly, polite and very helpful, and unbelievably I would label signing on as a stress free and relatively pleasant experience.
At the end of my time there the chap dealing with my claim said I should ask the front desk for the number to try and obtain a Crisis loan, as I ticked all the eligibility boxes for one.
And that's when a dark shadow fell over proceedings......

I said to my audiologist(whose name is Sister Ray, (whoa! a real life Velvet Underground character, spooky!)the telephone conversation with the Crisis loan people reminded me of the Monty Python sketch, the Spanish Inquisition. "Are you living in a residential home?" "Do you have any savings?" "Do you like Wig Wags or Quavers?" "Blur or Oasis? Discuss." Oh fuck off will ya, I'm skint, please give me a cheque! But no, the fucker droned on for over a half an hour, then put me on hold for 15 minutes, waaah!!! He asked me how I pay my gas and electric, I told him via direct debit, "oh well we can't give you anything unless you pay via a card meter", thanks a fucking bunch, next time I'll remember to swiftly change my utilities to the most expensive tariff to be eligible. "Have you any food in the house?", well thankfully Jeeves had just stocked the larder for Christmas, a brace of pheasants, ducks, a whole deer and a crate of my favourite champers, Chateau Marlmore, '73. A very fine vintage.....no you fuckwit, I'm skint, I've got nowt, ok? "Well, we can offer you £90 for a 14 day period......" how generous(anyone would think they are paying you from their own personal bank account, not from money the government has robbed off the likes of me and you these long years past!)"but you'll have to be really careful with this money, because you may not get any more for some time". Oh really. So now not only are you laying a guilt trip on me, for taking your personal cash from you, but you're suggesting I'm irresponsible with my finances. Careful with it? Of course I'll be careful with it. As soon as I get off the phone I'm straight to the nearest crack house, via the Co-op of course, to buy a crate of Jack Daniels, how's that for fucking careful?

Boys from Brazil? bollocks, they're living in England mate, training people for the Crisis fund call centre. Except these trainers ain't regular SS officers, no, these bastards got thrown out of the Gestapo, for being extra cruel!
God knows this country's in a state, mostly as a result of the criminals who rule our society robbing and stealing from all of us, without discrimination. And then they have the audacity to tell us to be thankful for a tiny sum of money that they give back to us, when they stole it from us in the first place!

Well, I got the £90. I had to go to the PO nearest the Jobcentre......along with all the other junkies, drunkies and assorted Chavs(including a very fat person dressed in a wrong way round baseball cap and neo shell suit, talking like a black person, they must be dreadfully disappointed/and or confused when they look in the mirror)boy was I pleased to get back on the bus that was a mere 20 minutes late. Sadly there were a few others, older people, that didn't make it, as they'd frozen to death in the -3 wind, but hey, at least they died amongst friends!
MERRY FUCKING CHRISTMAS EVERYBODY!!!

Life......

Sometimes, it has to be said, life makes you want to spit, right?
Just when you think you're landing your plane on the airfield of good fortune a fucking wing falls off. Or put another way, the light at the end of the tunnel that you've been looking for for so long turns out to be the flame of life's arc welder, making you a spanky new cage, the poverty trap.

Dear Bridie gave me an amp in 1977, a 1964 Fender. Having consulted the other party involved it was agreed we'd attempt to sell the it on eBay.
There's quite a bit of history connected to the amp. It played all the venues in the Punk era, and prior to that another friend used it with a showband for many years. Oh if only this amp could talk, what tales it would tell......and it would remember them better than me!

Anyways the bidding started at £150, jumped to £200, then £250, incredible! Final price? a wonderful £565!! Hallelujah and saints be praised!
So me and the mad Princess decide we'll package it up and ship it off. But I figure one last strum through the old gal, so I got my Strat and plugged it in. The familiar sound of valves humming met my ears and I fingered a jangly G chord.........then suddenly nothing! Sure the valves were still humming but no guitar. To say I was a little unsettled would be a major understatement, I'd just sold this ancient treasure for £565, and now the bastard wasn't working! Waaaah!!!
Remarkably I only wacked myself for a few minutes and decided no matter how many times I switched the amp on and off/changed the leads and guitar it wasn't going to repair its self, so I duly called the repair Dude. A chap who sure knows his stuff but as a human being his demeanour makes SuBo look like Charles Manson. Christ he's slow. So three days and £130 later, I ship the amp at a cost of £40. Final ker-ching for me from £565? £175.......

I am so grateful for small mercies. And I know the Youniverse loves me. I will retain the gratitude attitude but...... fuck my luck!!!
I believe, or let's say I have faith in Karma as the Cosmic law. But realistically its bollox. Cos in this day and age he who fucks the hardest wins. The bigger the motherfucker you are, the better you'll get on. I don't want it to be this way, but hey that's showbiz. And don't tell me it'll be better in the next life, cos I don't want a next life! And I may not get one......

Look at the planet. We are polluting and overpopulating it. There's so many wars we've lost count. The Muslims hate every body, the Catholics hate the Muslims and daily people die for their Buddhist, Christian and Hindu beliefs. And across the globe, not just in the Third world, people die from lack of food or clean water. And we call ourselves civilised? Where is Karma? Well it's not fucking up the people that are destroying our planet, that's for certain. Cos their rampage goes unabated, and continues to get worse. C'mon Karma, sort out these evil bastards! Oh, you say it's not God's will, or the timing simply isn't right. Ok well fuck off then!!!

Best not mention the tax people telling me they're going to bankrupt me for £340, then shortly after my chainsaw brake dying, then the saw itself spluttering to a dead state. Again I'll say, fuck my luck!!!