Regardless, and unsurprisingly, there’s a huge TV outcry over here with networks “undecided” as to whether they’ll show the offending episode next year and none of the news programs prepared to show the clip. Having said that, it was refreshing to see one presenter simply say “if you think you won’t like it… just don’t watch it” instead of joining in the Parker/Stone witch-hunt.
At first glance it seems that the poll results are very much in favour of people being able to inflict their misery on others, or at very least along the lines that there’s room for argument:
However. By removing all the repeated voting that came in day after day from the same IP address range (i.e. one fuckwit who thought I’d not notice), we get a clearer picture of the genuine results:
So. All you smokers can take your filthy habit and fuck off home with it. Please leave the rest of us to kill ourselves in public in less selfish ways. And while you’re there, have a go at the new poll.
Tuesday night was a pain what with ringing chav‘s dad and everything, but tonight it just got surreal. I heard the front door slam at around 6:00, just as I was on my way out with Kim (neighbour, ex-housemate and all-round good egg) to see a preview film at the IMAX.
As we drove past the shops nearby, I spotted Mrs Chav at the payphone on the corner. No big shakes. Enjoyed evening out, got home.
So I went and knocked on the door. As you do. Only I was sneeky – I waited till one of them had run to the shops, so it sounded like him coming back. Nevertheless, a head appeared at the little window and I heard “he’s here”. In other words “I knew he’d come round if we were loud enough, the miserable cunt”.
A pause and the door opens. Chav-boy… with a grin. Weird. “You want us to turn it down, yeah? Sorry about that.”
So I was my polite self (I know you don’t believe it) and mentioned that I knew he had Tuesday off and sorry about ringing his dad and all and…
“My dad? I didn’t know about that.”
Weird. Whose fucking phone did his dad ring, which was answered by someone calling him “dad” on Tuesday night, then? So he’s either lying or was too wasted to remember.
“And I’ve got tonight off as well.”
“And I’m skint. I’ve only got, like, a fiver and I spent it on beer. I’m kind of having a blow-up. Me girlfriend’s walked out on me! Ha! Hey, and you know why?”
Because you’re a useless waste of space? You live to piss people off? You beat her up? You’ve told her more than once that she means less than nothing to you?
“I beat her at Far Cry on me XBox! She said the controller she has was shit. Fuck, she even… here… come in and look at this!”
So, dazed, I followed him in.
“You’re right about these walls being thin. She threw my phone at me. Look!”
And he shows me a mobile phone, buried in the wall. Sadly not in his skull. Good arm on her, that lass, in fairness.
Everything got weirder about that. I know he’s now overdrawn by some stupid amount of money, which is nice. And he’s damaging the house, so he’ll lose his deposit when he moves out. Which is nice.
But it’s quiet now (around 10pm) so I should be grateful. I don’t think she was helping with the rent, so sadly he likely can still afford to live there. And he’s sure she’ll be back. The cocky cunt. Sad thing is, he’s probably right.
Comic Collectors Ahoy
Please check out my eBay sales if you have a moment. I’m emptying the loft! [link removed – it was a long time ago!]
Well, folks, this is your lot for a few days. Tomorrow morning, I drive down to Dawn’s and we panic trying to figure out how to split no more than 30kg of camping equipment and strong alcohol between us (silly Ryanair luggage limits). Then, off to Belgium via Holland.
I’ll try to convince her that it’s important I get back in one piece. Mainly because I’ll be the one driving us home from the airport. I’ve been checking the insurance policy and it excludes “claims arising from any activity which requires a degree of skill or involves a greater risk”. Does this include moshing? If anyone asks, I fell down some stairs…
Coursework 1 is almost done. Work’s dead today, so I’ve been pulling together most of the stuff I have to do and, when it’s all in one place, it’s not that much. I’ll panic over the maths when I return.
Gym at 12:00, lunch straight after, head for site at 1:30 and – if I’m lucky – home a little early depending on how things go there. Holiday is so close!
Before any of you ask, no you can’t have a postcard. 1) I’ll be on a campsite. 2) the last time I was on hols and sent postcards, two out of the 18 I posted actually arrived. You can, however, sit in your offices and homes and wish you were there with me. That is allowed.
Don’t you hate it when you’ve just clipped your fingernails, they’re all lovely and neat… and then you realise you can’t reach that huge crusty snotter right at the back of your nose? Your finger just seems to glide over the top, pushing it deeper and liquefying is so it either goes down the back way or mushes up and makes a mess of your hanky.
Just me, eh?
Leave them alone!!!
There’s a story on BBC News today about a former prostitute being stripped of her earnings. Now, don’t get me wrong – I’ve never used a prostitute, nor do I think I ever will.
However, why on earth can’t they do their job and be left in peace? This girl came over here as a kid, set herself up and bought a flat with nearly a Â£500,000 deposit. In cash. She went on to set up “escort” services employing at least 45 other women at one time. They reckon she’s got upwards of Â£1.2 million stashed away that they’re going to try and get back.
Now… why? My only quibble (assuming the girls themselves made a decent living and were safe) is that she might not have paid tax. Thing is, if she did they’d be asking where she got the money from.
Will someone explain why prostitution is such a difficult job to have? As far as I’m aware, being a prostitute in and of itself is not illegal. It’s a woman’s right to do what she wants with her body, and if a man (or another woman) wants to pay to make use of those services then so what?
The thing is, everything surrounding prostitution is illegal. Kerb crawling. Soliciting (i.e. advertising). Living off immoral earnings (so if you’re out of work and your partner earns a living on her back, you can’t live off them or you are in trouble). Running a brothel.
The last one’s ludicrous. A “brothel” is described as any premises where more than one prostitute works. Prostitution is not a safe job, and this stupid rule prevents “safety in numbers”.
When the hell will the UK wake up and realise that a legalised, taxed and certified prostitution business (like that in some continental countries) will reduce drug problems, STDs, violence towards women and have the added bonus of bringing in some income to the treasury and reducing the load on our police and courts?
Bollocks to it. I’m off somewhere foreign. If only for a few days.
I have been splattered by the Scumdogs of the Universe. I got home in the early hours of Wednesday morning, soaked to the skin. My clothes, skin and hair coated in blood, mucus, baby vomit, space alien jizz, hydraulic fluid… And with a big smile on my face. Everyone must know about Alice Cooper‘s legendary live show. And many will be aware of Ozzy’s habit of spraying the crowd with water. OK, now imagine some kind of hybrid.
The songs are instantly forgettable. I won’t be rushing out to buy an album. However, the stage show is amazing. It must cost a fortune to set up, and the tickets were less than a tenner. I’ll need to dig out the old one from the last time they toured (13 years ago!) and see how the prices compare.
In last night’s show, we all got to see:
Some nameless guy getting beheaded and covering the audience in blood
Arnie having his chest ripped open and covering the audience in blood
Saddam Hussain having his chest sliced off with a hige sword and his head ripped off. Squirt, squirt
Paris Hilton, nailed to a table, her legs ripped off and being made to go down on herself as the now diembodied crotch was forced into her face. While she sprayed blood over the audience
Michael Jackson pleading that he was a nice guy before having his face ripped off. More blood and copious vomit from his baby’s mouth
Dubya having his cock ripped off, then his limbs removed, while… you guessed it
An insane looking woman apparently with Mad Cow Disease giving birth to a smoking fish (?!) before being ripped apart and etc.
Ronnie Reagan, reanimated at the Reaganator. Imaging Transformers’ Optimus Prime with Ronnie’s head. He has both his arms cut off (green hydraulic fluid everywhere) and then killed (blood)
A troll, beaten to death and then a huge sword shoved down its throat
Add to this the lead singer’s huge alien penis showering the crowd in alternating blue alien cum and bright red blood, plus a microphone stand with an eyeball squirting blood everywhere and the venue was a little bit of a mess by the end. As was everyone in it.
Anyone who’s seen Peter Jackon‘s original films (Bad Taste, Brain Dead(UK)/Dead Alive(US), Meet The Feebles) would love this. Actually, any sick fuck would love this. I know I did.
More blood and piss than a dead pope’s underwear. And you lot think I’m uncultured. Shame one you.
Another of those daft stories on the radio. Tesco recently trialled a scheme where they put “traffic lights” on their own-brand food products. The basic idea was that green indicated healthy foods with certain ingredients (fat, salt, sugar and so on) below a certain lever. Red, obviously, was the reverse. After the trial, they’ve decided to abandon it.
The reason cited? Customers were confused as to what amber meant.
Did they test this scheme in darkest Cornwall where the inhabitants all have extra fingers in place of brain cells? Green – one end of scale. Red – other end of scale. Orange… in the middle.
How bloody hard is that?!
I bought some of those new “Nobby’s Crisps” today – grilled steak flavour. They’re quite nice as well. Bizarrely, they have a little story on the back that tells you where the term “hat-trick” comes from. Which is nice. The Nobby’s Nuts I had the other night gave me details of how to plaster a wall.
The nuts are an obscure idea. Taking one of nature’s healthiest foods, then wrapping it in a fatty batter with a load of artificial flavours. Lovely.
One other thing I noticed on the crisp packet, though, was the fact that they’re “suitable” for vegitarians. Hang on – what’s the point? You could make them any old flavour, say they’re “steak” and sell them to veggies – they shouldn’t be able to tell the difference. It’s not like they have the “real thing” to compare against.
While I’m on a roll, if you’re a veggie answer me this – why bother with veggie sausages, bacon and so forth that’s made to look and taste like meat? I mean, you know it’s not meat, it doesn’t taste right so why not just take it for what it is and have it served up as mulch?
Now, I’m not having a go at veggies – people have very good reasons for their dietary choices – but it just seems like they’re trying to fool themselves in to thinking they’re eating meat so that they fit in. Is that a fair thing to say?
Ironically, I remember noticing a couple of years ago that virtually every meat-flavour crisp from a major manufacturer was veggie-friendly, while the pickled onion flavour wasn’t.
Here’s a bit of friendly advice. Ten quid on a pair of shoes seems like a bargain for about 6 months until they start to look like the Hulk’s post-metamorphosis.
Plastic shoes may be kinder to cows and stuff, but I’m splashing out on leather next time. And I don’t mean that in a pervy “glad I got the wipe-clean car seats” kind of a way. Unless I have nice company.