£5 well spent.

Posted in June 2012

Its been a while since I have blogged, nearly a month apparently. I would like to blame this on my busy schedule, or my many adventures, however, its all because I am just too lazy. I could blog every day, I just dont want too, it wont be funny, it wont be interesting and it will rapidly become very fucking repetitive. However, for those of you that are interested, here is my month in a few concise bullet points:
- I took an evening out in Leicester to see some comedians I had never heard of, however one of them went on to appear on 8 out of 10 cats so he must be alright. It was a pleasant, and most importantly, free evening indeed.
- My grandmother went on holiday for her birthday, she went to Croatia. Instead of bringing me back some kind of spirit, she brought me back a t-shirt, several sizes too big. I think its time to put her in a home.
- I have been diagnosed with a “sleep disorder” and am waiting referral to a local hospital for “further tests!” Its been 3 weeks now, and I have yet to hear back.
- I got some free tickets to Guns N Roses, but never bothered going. Foolish decision.
- Had a hair cut to ensure that the wild hideous look I was rocking about 9 months ago doesnt return.
- Celebrated 6 months with my significant other by going to London and watching an Irish chap and a Swedish woman jump around a bit. It was strange, and the Pimms was expensive.
- Attended a family party in which I fell asleep on the bathroom floor. Congratulations on the ol’ pregnancy from me!
- Continued recording and distributing The Fireside Chronicles, http://crunchycrunchybiscuits.com/category/podcast/, with my co-hosts. If anything, its getting better.

You would order a Pimms wouldnt you?

However, all this pales into comparison with my achievement of the month: I finally bought a toaster. I cannot put enough emphasise on the word finally. For as long as I can remember I have both been moaning about the fact I lived in a house that didnt own a toaster and my plan to actually buy a toaster. It had got to the point where nobody would listen to me anymore, I was just that crazy kid in the corner babbling about how much he hates grilling bread. But come on, who enjoys grilling bread. You have to constantly keep an eye on it, because it goes from bread to charcoal in a matter of seconds.

But, I dont think I was fully prepared for how life changing this event would be, infact for almost a week, that toaster just sat on top of my microwave, begging to be used, trying to lure me in with its sexy silver exterior and its multiple settings. “Hey, look, I can cook bread on a scale of 1-5… plug me in?”

It wasnt until I purchased some reduced potato cakes from Tesco (14p, get in my belly) that I was forced into action. They had to be eaten that night, and my distinct lack of potato cake experience led me to just toasted the hell out of them and devouring them. Suddenly it hit me, snacking could be this easy. No longer do I have to fuss about watching the grill, or putting things in the microwave, and I definitely wouldnt have to call a takeaway ever again. With one push down, these carbohydrate riddled snacks would cook for me.

I present to you... potato cakes.

So this is me, putting all breaded products on alert, I now have a toaster, and I am not afraid to use it. Do you know what? I might go and get some English Breakfast Muffins right now. Smother those bastards in butter and I’ll be in heaven. Until next time friends, stay classy!

Amsterdam: The City of Excess and Bicycles

Posted in May 2012

I went to Amsterdam… recently.

You all know what Amsterdam is famous for: weed, prostitutes and really stoned prostitutes, and I am sure you have all heard countless “I went to Amsterdam and got fucked up, literally” stories from all your “LAD” friends and various “Wolfpacs” up and down the country, so I shall not bore you with one of those. But let me tell you this, marijuana is a magical substance and prostitutes prevent many middle aged sexless men from going on gun rampages and shooting up local supermarkets, so for that I am grateful. In my humble opinion, the British government should legalise them both and let us all calm the fuck down a little.

Before I start ranting for your enjoyment, let me just say I had a wonderful time, enjoyed my company massively, and if you ever get the chance to go, do so. They have a wonderfully cheap ice tea over there and their selection of cheeses is out of this world. Its a city like no other I have visited before, and honestly there is so much more to it than the Red Light District, although fellas, its a fucking bonus. Wink wink nudge nudge etc. If I had to rate it, and I know you are all asking, I would have to give it a firm two thumbs up. Would visit again. Brill!

However, bicycles. Fucking bicycles. In a city with a population of only 750,000 tall, well groomed and large foreheaded citizens, is there any need for over 1,000,000 bikes to be kicking around the city? As a result, half of all the pavements in the city are taken up by bicycles, just thrown randomly on the floor, carelessly tossed to one side, and this is nothing but bloody infuriating. According to a sea captain, over 15,000 of these bikes end up in the canals every year. Its like an upmarket version of the working classes of Nuneaton throwing Lidl trollies into the canal. Of course, with so many bikes about, thousands of people ride them, almost constantly, and from all directions, which makes travelling around the city a dangerous and death defying task. Add into that an endless spiral of tram tracks and awful roadmarkings and it makes for a hellacious experience. You never know from which direction these cunts are coming at you, but you know they are coming at you. Bastards.

I know I was, in essence, a tourist in this country, but I didnt act like a bellend. School trips and groups of teenagers however all act like bellends, and after 5 days, it really started to get on my tits. One particular incident I shall share with you right now, so feel lucky. I was minding my own business, eating a particularly cheap lunch of meat, bread and ice tea whilst sitting on a comfortable marble monument, when I was joined by a group of 20 Germans, no older than 15, possibly except the strange blonde child that looked the spitting image of Simon Le Bon. I assumed they were taking a leaf out of my book, and sitting down to enjoy a pleasant meal. I couldnt have been more wrong. What I presumed were lunch boxes were infact full of birdseed which they began distributing to the pigeons. Within seconds hundreds of pigeons had flocked me to gorge themselves on seedy delights.

Ich bin ein berliner.

One particular young German boy, on seeing that the popular girl with the hoop earrings, fancy clothing and ever developing tits was holding a bird in her hand, seized upon the opportunity to gain a bit of pointless secondary school popularity by covering himself in bird seed and laying down on the pavement, letting pigeons, the birds famous for carrying diseases and AIDS, eat directly off of him. It was so strange to see, that other tourists stopped to take pictures of him, pointing and laughing at his idiocy. Most peculiarly of all was the simple fact that the teachers sat by and let them continue on, it seemed they had been brought here for this very fact. They didnt seem to be mentally deluded, infact they seemed lovely and the older gentleman teacher offered me a sweet, which brought the whole pigeon/child grooming fiasco full circle.

Feed the flying rats why dont you?!

I think thats the lesson I will take away from my little gallivant around Holland, nothing matters. They are a relaxed race, I personally blame the weed, but they never seem in a rush, they are happy to just drift along. It doesnt matter where they are going, they will get there eventually. Actions that would shock or baffle us regular Europeans, dont faze them in the slightest. Oh is that a transsexual just wearing underwear in the clog shop at 11am? Whatever.

To hear me rabbit on about Amsterdam further, and mumble about other topics that you probably arent overly interested in, make sure to listen to my brand spanking new podcast:  http://crunchycrunchybiscuits.com/2012/05/the-fireside-chronicles-1-the-birth-of-a-whatsit/

An open letter to fans of Olly Murs.

Posted in April 2012

I got into a little bit of bother in my local Premier today. Other corner shops are available and are probably better run and cheaper. Go there. Fuck Premier.

For the 3rd time this year, a drunk has compared me, and my fashion sense (hats), to Olly Murs. For those of you who dont know him, Olly Murs is a semi-successful reality TV show loser and occasional stand in telelvision presenter., featuring on such world renowned shows as CBBCs Remote Control Star. His music is sub-standard, pop chart fodder and his smile is some what creepy. The kind your parents would tell you to steer clear from if he was a little older. His appearance on Deal or No Deal, winning a mighty £10, indicates that he isnt exactly the sharpest knife in the draw, but possibly worst of all, is his love of Manchester United. This is a man I do not wish to be compared to.

His success, on paper, seems baffling, but is not totally surprising in the world we live in. He isnt anything new, and is proof that the slightest bit of charisma and a squidge of talent, can carry you to several years of success and financial security for the rest of your life. A combination I intend to exploit and milk at some point in the coming years. However his sudden rise in stature can be attributed to something much simpler than that. Much, much simpler. He is a bona-fide, card carrying member of the trilby wearing club. It appears to be his “thing” and has brought the love of hats back into the mainstream. I imagine the sales of trilbies in Topman have gone through the roof. For this reason, I am able to overlook his pitfalls, look past his sub-standard and generic lyrics, not even discuss the fact he conquered Africa before me and perhaps even bop away to one of his songs after consuming a few cold ones.

His fans on the other hand, dont receive such pleasant treatment from myself, and this is an open letter to them. I am calling you out here. I didnt want to have to paint you all with one foul swoop of my brush, but take this how you want, but you are all idiotic, self deluding, ugly cunts. Olly Murs did not invent hats. Not everyone who wears a hat, wears one because of him. I wasnt so unimpressed by him on television that I immediately went out and snapped up the several trilbies I own, before hordes of idiotic pre-pubescent children beat me to it. This isnt how life works. I would go as far to say that somebody, somewhere, told him to wear a hat. It would boost his image. Make him look loveable perhaps. The safer he looks, the more money he makes. The music industry is missing real hardcore motherfuckers, people who turn up to press conferences naked, wired on coke and still hanging out the back of last nights whore.

I ask you this, where was he in 2008 when I brought the trilby into Etone Community School, and Technology College, and made it my thing. According to his wikipedia page, nowhere. Doing nothing except working as a recruitment consultant for a pointless company in a pointless town. Does he schedule his hats by years? Of course not, he has his new multi-millionaire lifestyle to lead and is no longer committed to the lifestyle of a full time hat wearing follower of fashion.

Idolatry towards minor celebrities who have just been lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time, or catch a few breaks, is dangerous. No longer do people idolize actual heroes, people with genuine skill, intelligence or passion, people idolize cunts. Idiots with money, parading themselves around, laughing at the rest of us, slaving away and living on instant noodles. Because of sheep like you, I hate everything the majority seem to enjoy. Not even because it makes me cool to hate on the mainstream, I take actual pleasure from watching the eventual downfall of todays poster boys and girls, and hope for nothing more than their ultimate pain and suffering.

Aesop Rock- None Shall Pass

That was the weekend that was.

Posted in April 2012

I met a girl this weekend.

Not a brilliant girl, not a beautiful girl, not a girl I want to spend the rest of my life with. In all honesty, not a girl I ever want to see again. Just, a girl. Well, I think she was a girl. She could have been a rare inbred form of bear.

She was the epitome of everything thats wrong with this country, and more so, this generation, but more on that later. Quite easily, this moron could have ruined my weekend, a weekend I was quite looking forward to, had it not been for a hell of a lot of gin and marijuana. I do not promote casual or heavy substance abuse, but it was my Jesus this weekend. My saviour. Without it, the weekend could have ended in violence and/or insanity.

As a little background to my venomous hatred, I had gone to visit several friends from my wild African adventures(for more on these adventures, visit http://ohitsrealitsdamnreal.blogspot.co.uk/) in a nearby city, for a weekend of jovial and intellectual chatter and tea drinking. Sadly, one of these friends brought along a friend of her own, and not the blond attractive one that Fonz had hoped for. You could read the disappointment etched across his face, and his penis, from a mile off.

Immediately the course of the weekend changed, my single aim was survival, for both myself and for this strange girl. The point of this blog is not to call someone out for being hideous, I am aware that looks are a very subjective thing, but this girl hasnt been blessed with natural beauty shall we say. Honestly, I thought her jaw was made of clay, it seemed stuck on and almost too hilarious to be true. Like something you would get on Art Attack back in the day.

Art Attack was brilliant.

Again, I dont want to pick faults in peoples looks, hell I am no uber-photogenic guy, but my word. Its almost saddening how much make-up this girl was using, to the point where it was rubbing off onto other people, including myself. Had I not been engrossed in UFC 145, I would not have let this girl anywhere near my shoulder. Her love of fake tan was ridiculous, and her insistence that she would “deffo tan me” was the straw that began the eventual breaking of Mustapha Camels back.

Mustafa Kamel Mustafa, 54

My main problem with this girl was that she was thick, and she knew she was thick, yet she loved it. Embraced it. Even seem to bask in it. She is the perfect example of the strange movement towards anti-intellectualism in this country, which is tarnishing my generation as a whole. Her simple inability to perform simple mathematical sums was at first hilarious, and potentially could have been endearing, but the fact she went onto brag about it, baffled me. Celebrating your idiocy, in my own humble opinion, is the single worst form of anti-intellectualism there is.

In addition, she was a slag, or at least aimed to be one, which is perhaps even worse. Within hours of knowing her, she was openly talking about her boobs and cunt. Also, upon seeing my friends brother she declared that he could “do whatever he wanted to her, wherever he wanted, whenever he wanted.” She fluttered around throughout the night, seemingly looking for attention wherever she could find it, throwing herself at a group of pussy ravenous teenage boys, who were polishing off a late night McDonalds, and nearly causing a brawl.

In so many ways, she was just an over-sized primary school kid, especially when it came to alcohol. I have been known in the past for drinking a little bit, and often getting myself in all sorts of shit as a result, but this motherfucker takes the biscuit. She pretty much got us thrown out of a nightclub for being asleep on a barstool and looking very green in the face, thus ending our night before it even began.

However, perhaps even more hilarious than that, was her throwing her toys out of her pram and declaring “nobody shouts at me”, in response to a plea that she doesnt slag herself about to any old Tom, Dick or Harry. Especially Dick. She left the taxi, and started to “walk the fuck home”, to Liverpool, from the Midlands, at 3 in the morning. Apparently her plan was to catch a train and didnt give a fuck about motorways. If you catch a train at 3 in the afternoon consider yourself fucking lucky, let alone at 3am. I was all for letting her go, like re-releasing a caged bird into the wild, but seemingly nobody agreed with me. Eventually she made it home, and I didnt say a word to her again.

Female insecurity causes unnecessary drama. Female insecurity add alcohol causes all the fucking drama. Despite this, I would like to point out I enjoyed the weekend. I drank myself into a coma, and found Jack3d, a product that shall now be my air. Muchos gracias to all.

This quote sums up a lot, a lot. “Red Flag, I am so glad I didnt fuck her man. I would have felt so dirty all day.”

Posted in April 2012

I may have created a new underground fight club phenomena.

Maybe this all needs a bit of clarifying. When I say underground, I mean my living room, and when I say fight club, I mean pillow fight club. Basically, too many people were getting injured and too many things were getting broken in our “fake” wrestling matches. I think when I slammed a child clean through the slates on his bed, leaving splinters in my hands yet nothing in this bastards back, we knew it was probably time to invent something calmer, but just as fun.

Its not this hot.

So thus, when the kids I happen to live with, had some friends over the other day, pillow fight club was born. I dont want to blame the alcohol or the fact that Liverpool has just reached the FA Cup final, but I wouldnt have been playing with these kids otherwise. Apparently, they arent interested in me anyway. I dont know anything about Pokemon and I “spend all my time with girls”.

There are only 2 rules to pillow fight club:
1) You do not talk to mum about Fight Club
2) You dont use the posh tassle cushions as they can cause serious eye injuries.

Kids are a bit anal. Well, these ones, and all their tiny identical looking friends, are. They seem to have adopted this as “their game” and it would appear their self-run league is catching like wildfire. The next 3 weekends have been “booked solid” with other children coming over to play and their are several badly drawn tables stuck onto their walls. Probably shouldnt have introduced them to violence so early, and I am encouraging them to lie. Great role model I am.

I dont look this good.

Dont get me wrong, I am quite happy to beat the living hell out of family members with a pillow, especially when their is a little bit of tension between you already. I know one of them left some chocolate in my bed, knowing it would melt and cover my sheets, but I cannot be sure who. As a result, I will pillow fight the living Be-Jesus out of them, until I have a confession. However. random 7 year old kids I have never met? Maybe thats taking it too far, but then again, I have my pride to play for. You have to fight, there is no backing down. My life is one walking talking dilemma right now. Do I beat up children and look good whilst doing it? Or, take my beating like a champ and let the kids look good in front of their friends?

“If we are God’s unwanted children, so be it!”

Ledbury Poetry Festival

Posted in April 2012

I wrote some poetry today.

Now, before you all immediately scuttle off, this isnt necessarily true. This isnt going to be one of those pretentious poetry blogs. I am not going to write how affected I am by the current situation in Mali in haiku form. If you can write decent poetry, good for you, but dont ram it down my throat and make me read it. If its as incredible as you make out, I will stumble across it over time, of my own fucking volition. So take that hipster scarf off, put down your “inspiration pad” and stop trying to be something you are not. Urgh.
Yesterday I received a letter. Well, I say that I received a letter, thats not quite true. The letter was addressed to a man named Max. Many people would argue that its immoral to open letters that arent yours, and it might even be illegal, but if you spell Stuart/Stewart like this: Steurt, then I have absolutely no respect for you, and honestly, you dont even deserve to receive mail. Also, if my postman cannot correctly read an address then he should be fired and decapitated. Its your job, you fucking shit weasel.

Anyway, I digress, Max and I received a letter inviting us to the Ledbury Poetry Festival 2012. Obviously it was such a blistering success last year that they are bringing it back for more fun and frolics in 2012. The letter waxed lyrical about guest judge, Ian Duhig, who has “published 6 books of poetry” and special guest speaker, Tony Harrison, who was “born in Leeds in 1937”. The festival lasts over a week, so I am hoping they have more unannounced guests, or some poetry fun and games, otherwise this so called festival is going to sink without a trace.

Wanted on four counts of child molestation.

Immediately I saw that the event costs to attend and that it was in Herefordshire, miles away from my house, so I tossed it in a draw and began mocking my postmans inability to deliver post in my mirror. It would seem I can do an excellent impression of a moron. However, today hasnt exactly been busy. I woke up at 5pm and have achieved nothing bar making a lovely salmon and spinach lasagne which I never got round to eating.

Almost in desperation, I reread the letter and spotted an excellent little competition. Send them a poem and you could win some money. However, again, it cost money to enter if you were 18 or above, which for any paedophiles reading, I am. Sorry. But wait, if you are under 18, its free to enter. Simply send them your poem either in the post, or via email and they will promise to read it. Well, how could I turn that offer down? Shave this little bit of stubble I have going on and I could easily pass for under 15.

Poetry… maybe I will clean up a bit, do the washing up perhaps first? Poetry was never my strong point. Years of reading about potatoes and famine had turned me off the subject and I was clueless. I didnt want to do any actual work, thats not what this is about. Boredom really had driven me to a new and worrying low. Until I struck gold. Into an email, I sent them this…..

I\’m the Mujahideen, and I\’m making a scene.

Thats right, the rap from the Four Lions in written form, by Jeremiah Khyber, aged 12. They sent me an email thanking me for my effort almost instantly, and once again, encouraged me to attend the festival. I do solemnly swear, that if I win this competition, I will attend every single day of that festival and buy everyone I know an alcoholic beverage with the winnings. After all, I am nothing if not confident.

Its been a pleasure, stay classy everyone!

I live in the south of France.

Posted in April 2012

Today I fed some ducks. Note some ducks. As soon as I even broke the bread out of my pocket, I was flocked by hundreds of AIDS riddled pigeons. Okay, maybe they didnt have AIDS, but its probable come on. It is Nuneaton after all. What do pigeons do for us? Surely their shit alone costs us hundreds of thousands of pounds each year to clean. Do we really value them that much? Couldnt we eat them if farmed properly? But I digress, I immediately regretted my act of animal kindness, and was honestly relieved when a small dribbling girl, armed with 2 bags of bread tied neatly to the handlebars of her scooter, and her mother stole the attention of the birds and I could slip away into the mid-afternoon drizzle.

Really, thats all I have for today. Its not been a day full of adventure, mystery or fun. So, I am basically going to go off on one about a weird concept we have all experienced over the years and has been affecting me no end recently. The dreaded random add. In the past week alone I have received countless Facebook and Skype invitations from all over the world. How do people in the middle of nowhere find MY Skype address? Its baffling, yet a little amusing.

Unlike many people, I am looking at you here Samantha Brick, I knew that these random adds didnt come about as a result of my dashing, handsome and rugged looks or because I have my tits out. They were random adds. However, unlike many people, again looking at you here narcissistic semi-attractive girls, I didnt immediately decline them before posting multiple Facebook statuses shouting my ass off and being slightly racist. “Who does this Abdullah think he is? Fuck off back to Iraq. You dont know me. You dont deserve to look at my body.” I, being the nice guy I am, accepted them all.

I cant help having an ass that wont quit :(

We all know how popular Jamie is with this blog, but 2 other people have really kicked off in a comical fashion. Firstly, we have Antonella Marrongelli* hailing from Argentina. Apparently she is a member of the Argentinian Miley Cyrus fan club, and thats all we talk about. Does Miley Cyrus deserve such worldwide acclaim? I would argue not. Hell, Party in the USA is an excellent pop song, but tell me anything else she has done. Anything. Antonella didnt take this argument lightly. And I quote: “You must be completely silly and an idiot.” It would become apparent over the hours of chatter that she has done lots of others songs, and has been in a longterm relationship with a soap star actor. Proved me wrong didnt she?

If you look through my internet history it will be FULL of Miley Cyrus songs. I click the link and listen to just enough to make a comment on the song before shutting that shit down, and she completely buys it. We have got to the point now where she is adamant that she has converted me into a big fan, and yesterday asked for my address to send me a Cyrus poster. I will keep you all updated as to if/when that comes. Oh, and dont worry, I have given her my grandmothers address, just incase its a crazy axe murderer.

Miley Cyrus- Party in the USA

Last, but by no means least, is possibly my favourite person in the world right now. A fine, upstanding lady called Wendy*, from Missouri, who describes herself as an animal lover, claiming to have “7 hens, two rooster, 25 more rooster, 10 more hens comeing 26 this month, one cat, one bird, one dog but we geting another dog on 10 this month.” I dont mean to be rude, but she is the typical hillbilly American. Bad teeth, stained t-shirts and maybe not the brightest spark. Imagine Cletus from The Simpsons, but with a vagina and addicted to Farmville.

Having known Wendy a matter of hours, a conversation about her cash in hand egg business broke out. It would appear that she sells eggs, brown eggs, by the dozen for $1.75. She offered to ship me several dozen, however thought it would probably be safer and easier to invite me to visit her in person to collect my eggs, claiming “it be nice to met u face to face.” Its hard to properly convey the pure hilarity that is watching a grown woman play with a tiny chick (this is NOT euphemism) on webcam.

The word trolling is thrown about a bit to freely these days, and many of you would jump to the conclusion that I am mocking these people, prodding them into dark corners and continuing to prod them with a big hard stick (again, NOT a euphemism) but this is not necessarily the case. These people genuine fascinate me, and the fact that 95% of people would have cast them aside with a simple click of the delete button intrigues me. What other hilarious things do we just avoid as its easier?

As ever, stay classy!

*Names have not been changed to protect peoples identity.

I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride my bike.

Posted in April 2012

I rode a bike today.

Surely nothing hilarious or unusual in that I hear you calling. Well, for most people, nope. But it never seems to run that smoothly for myself. I never seem to get the rub of the green. Personally, I havent ridden a bike in over 7 years. Its not something I enjoy. Its not something I ever have enjoyed. Its a bit to close to exercise for me to enjoy. Countless bikes were bought for me in the past, but I tossed them into the back of the garage with the old mattresses and several small vehicles, and hoped various elderly relatives would forget about them and/or die. I didnt actually learn to ride or “cycle”, until I was 10, I spent a summer riding around awful “country parks” full of donkeys and ice cream vans with my family, before calling it all a day.

Maybe if I kept it up I could have been a boring sports personality…

I have 4 gold medals, and shit like a champ!

But, being the upstanding and reliable citizen I am, today I agreed to help a family member pick up some bikes from Halfords, for her children. I was led to believe my role would be mainly exuding charisma at disgruntled shop workers and possibly a little light lifting. But no. Of course not. In hindsight, I really should have told her to go fuck herself.

The car boot was full. Full of shit. Generic boxes and countless Bags For Life. Why keep buying them if you arent going to use them?! It baffles me that you could possibly forget to clean out your boot, if you are planning to pile 3 bikes in there. It makes no sense. No sense whatSOever. Of course, I was the one that had to take the biggest bike home, a distance of almost a mile, in the cold and the drizzle. Again, in hindsight, I should have told her to go fuck herself.

Being one of the laziest, and unfittest, people I know, carrying this awkward bike home was tricky. It bordered on cumbersome. I made it part of the way home, hood up and slightly damp, looking like I had just beaten a small child and taken its bicycle, but my arms were beginning to ache. I cannot abide aching. So, of course, the next logical step is to attempt to ride the bike home. Luckily, this bike had stabilisers so I didnt fall hilariously, or even get that wet. However a grown (ish) man (ish) riding a bike meant for a 6-7 year old, looks ridiculous and isnt exactly kind on the body.

Somehow I made it home, but my calves were reddened, my face was wind chapped and my dignity had taken a right royal kick in the behind. As I was hunched over the handlebars, I could genuinely hear people laughing and discussing “What the fuck is that weird kid doing?” Did I get a thankyou? Well yes, yes I did. Did I appreciate it? Did I fuck. To get everyone back, I ate more than my fair share of banana cake. If that isnt justice, what is guys? What is?

Before I let you all leave and do something much more productive, say ANYTHING but this, I would like to give a cheeky shoutout to a Jamie Quiram who commented on yesterdays blog wisely and wittily saying: “Hey it’s jamie and this Page is AWESOME I love it put some nice about me on this page Man.” So… Jamie… I honestly dont know you and I am not 100% sure if you are even real. You added me on Facebook a few days ago, and apparently you were born in 1998. What the fuck? People were born then? Crazy. However, you have a quirky surname and I appreciate it. On the other hand, here are 3 things I dont like about you:

  1. Your grammar
  2. The fact you edit photos and add words around your face
  3. You live in Wisconsin. What a pointless cunthole that sounds.

Stay classy.

Put the kebab down! My ventures into town.

Posted in April 2012

If you are swigging from a huge bottle of White Lightning whilst screaming at your “significant other” in the centre of town, you need to take a long hard look in the mirror and then smash aforementioned mirror over your own prematurely ageing face. Loudly, and infront of at least 20 other people, really isnt the place to air your dirty laundry. It would appear that these two fine citizens, decked out in ill fitting and inappropriate sports wear, sporting the collective IQ of a spoon and with about 3 teeth between them, couldnt really care for modern public etiquette. Claims of abuse, cheating and being a “dog fucker” were thrown about, much to the obvious shock of many elderly women totting about on their morning rounds. Maybe Heron News ‘N’ Booze attracts these kinds of women, that sound like Louis Armstrong and look like a Jeremy Kyle cast off, but how I managed to resist pointing and laughing baffles me.

"Fuck you, you fat dogfucker!"

As fun as it is to watch 2 fat white people, cursing each other out and throwing leftover kebabs at each other, it doesnt exactly paint Nuneaton in the brightest of lights and this is by no means an isolated incident. Across Nuneaton, the abhorrent scum of society are shopping for tracksuits, taking part in no actual sport, and attacking their friends and family members. My grandmother, a former nurse of 30 years, told me that Nuneaton was the psychiatry centre of England until very recently. We had some of the best services and clinics in the country and thus we appear to have an unusually mental population. Suddenly a lot of shit makes sense, like the time I saw a grown man offer to fight a cat for money. Apparently, we used to have a strangely high transgender population as well, but thats another story for another day.

No wonder Nuneaton town centre is dying and shops are closing left, right and centre. The place is a holding pen for the unemployed, the angry and the thick. I left my house to purchase aniseed balls and came home shocked, saddened and a little depressed. Luckily I had some aniseed balls to get me over my hump otherwise this could have got nasty, and quickly. My advice, let the high street die. There are only so many charity shops and pawnbrokers one town can have before the economy sucks a tailpipe and calls it a day. Get on Amazon (other online shopping retailers are available) its bloody cracking.

Turn the porn off.

Posted in April 2012

It was only after cleaning my now semi erect penis with a disused and dirtied make up wipe that I began to feel any form of disgust. Not a lot of disgust, just a little cringe. Not only had I just masturbated to what was abysmal and degrading pornography, which only upon my second viewing did I realised had 3 cocks in it, I was also cleaning myself with a make up wipe. You may not know me very well, but I dont wear make up… very often… anymore This wasnt my make up wipe. I am pretty sure it was left here by a girl, quite some time ago. It was an old make up wipe. Now its a soiled old make up wipe.

Lethargically I tossed it, enjoy the pun, jizz soaked and back into the draw it came from. What am I doing? One glance around my room would indicate not a fucking lot. Clothes lie discarded all over the floor, food wrappers from the past 2 years fill my draws and there is dust everywhere. The porn was turned off and a Word document was opened up. Why? I dont really know. It looks like I am writing again, blogging as its supposedly called. Admittedly this didnt end well last time, I was labelled as being overly “offensive” and was eventually fired from my cushty little “job”, but I dont really have much of a job to be fired from right now so what do I have to lose?

This all might just be me, in a post Wrestlemania funk, looking for something to cling onto. Maybe I have drunk too much. As I type this, I am currently sipping at a can of Fosters with a straw. I have never drank a beer with a straw before, its not as enjoyable as I hoped it would be, but it does save me from lifting the can ALL the way to my mouth. I think I should buy some flexy straws.

I might get some of these

Either way, here I am. Its the end of my year. I dont personally use the traditional Gregorian calendar, its far too mainstream for me. I prefer the Wrestlemania calendar, its very similar to the standard calendar, it just starts in April time and doesnt have any leap years. Leap years dont make sense. Everything you do in the year builds to Wrestlemania, much like Christmas. I could steal this penguin from the zoo, but then I might have to watch women wrestle…..

Last years Wrestlemania was shit. I was tired, having been awake for nearly 30 hours travelling up and down the country, and my partner in sports entertainment crime had just stepped off a plane. I’d been suspended from college and wasnt really pumped for the event. Add some Banks Bitter into that mix and I slept through most of it from Snooki onwards. From that moment on, I was committed to making the 2011-12 year better in every single way, and the scary thing is, I did.

I left college with pretty damn good A Level grades. I turned 18 and legally started abusing various (legal) substances. I had a vaguely stable and satisfying relationship. Despite getting 5 university offers, I turned them all down and ended up in Africa. I met some incredible people and saved the world in the Kalahari Desert. I brought in the New Year surrounded by transsexuals and spent a couple of months bopping about Europe.

All of those were incredible in their own way, but together they may have created the greatest year of my life, only possibly threatened by 2009. How the fuck am I going to top this? What can I do? I am sick of just stumbling about hoping to fall into something, or someone, its about time to just make something ridiculous happen. If I have to write this blog, maybe I will actually do something with my life other than sitting about and masturbating days away.

I might take up fencing.