tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1320061259167997502024-02-07T08:06:58.000+00:00introversialChris & Lee solve some of lifes greatest mysteries.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger103125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132006125916799750.post-70168709270592803942009-09-08T20:43:00.002+01:002009-09-08T20:46:05.606+01:00Stephen’s Gawking<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlwAgQbZJ6iKCPvWIz-pcp5z6tyncMDGcOR4lxgo76tfStNvRKo0JEE9Xcwmica8naaF6eenuuftBACmlJvANNfkJTDuejRRPgpWlsQsZbBSTiFQi4CU1rrNczuIijeGhqfPBJufXY5oU/s1600-h/Stephen's+Gawking.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379185038131442834" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 385px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 288px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlwAgQbZJ6iKCPvWIz-pcp5z6tyncMDGcOR4lxgo76tfStNvRKo0JEE9Xcwmica8naaF6eenuuftBACmlJvANNfkJTDuejRRPgpWlsQsZbBSTiFQi4CU1rrNczuIijeGhqfPBJufXY5oU/s400/Stephen's+Gawking.jpg" border="0" /></a>What does Stephen Hawking do in Amsterdam? Black holes.<br /><br />That little joystick always leads him down the same alleyways…Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132006125916799750.post-22661257481709510942009-09-07T19:05:00.003+01:002009-09-07T19:07:30.743+01:00Tube Pervert<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Arial;font-size:10px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Are you always trying to see a bit more tit or a little sliver of thigh on you way to and from work?<br /><br />Do you quiver with desire when those semi-clad pretty young things on their way to a hard day of painting their nails and texting their friends from their desks hop aboard the tube?<br /><br />Are you stumped at ways in which you can get a bit of eye-candy without being ousted as a tube pervert?<br /><br />You need to buy the award winning self-help book 'Tube Pervert' now!<br /><br />Tube Pervert will help you catch a glance when other pervs are limited to having a lonely touch through their pockets. It will tell you what are the best vantage points, the most secretive stances and the cleverest distractions to make sure that, however many stops you are on for, you get a right eyeful.<br /><br />Praise for Tube Pervert:<br /><br /></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">"Before Tube Pervert, I was limited to getting my jollies by bringing on a copy of Nuts or Zoo, but now I can get a real glimpse of some twenty-something arse all the way from Piccadilly to Cockfosters!"</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /><br />Mr A, Barnet<br /><br /></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">"Last week I got to gawp at a young ladies' red thong right through rush hour! She knew nothing!"</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /><br />T, Lambeth<br /><br /></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">"You would be amazed at how many old ladies wear stockings! I know, because I read Tube Pervert!"</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /><br />Barry S, Wembley<br /><br /></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">"Ah used to get chased by gangs ah Dads, but not anymore - Thank you, Tube Perverts" </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /><br />Gary, Ealing<br /><br /></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">"Rush hour is the closest I've come to having full vaginal intercourse"<br /></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />Bernard T, Wycombe</span></span><br /></span>Lee Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12946149669978218856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132006125916799750.post-65285842776950833452009-09-05T16:57:00.001+01:002009-09-07T19:21:35.450+01:00We're taking this cow & no one can stop us!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvpKWFEiskWL1O_OJKTbnlQ35souEAxWfoj4pefJc1Op1PNtGvFoWkdoD5vkWVnp-TuCiV_PFx0kAg84e3RQf-9G5SzUr89TObOspt4OWaUrLgiR2VwzzaTuZQ3EkwaISR75dr6Vq1cZY/s1600-h/Moon+Cow.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378013438175464034" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 362px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvpKWFEiskWL1O_OJKTbnlQ35souEAxWfoj4pefJc1Op1PNtGvFoWkdoD5vkWVnp-TuCiV_PFx0kAg84e3RQf-9G5SzUr89TObOspt4OWaUrLgiR2VwzzaTuZQ3EkwaISR75dr6Vq1cZY/s400/Moon+Cow.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132006125916799750.post-70742303854810167212009-09-05T16:54:00.002+01:002009-09-05T16:57:06.189+01:00Blob's here!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6wajCENtuDdXXbvUBqgjp9S2X0bgMd62LDL3k2Clrh1ACaG_yOlRFJ4KNlyn4CcFqK-8nZ1jbkXvZM8_3aNdoWfrZPJsRSR1q2LcVjE8obPcPSeAt-ehDZXRXdV_AGM3HvaP-aFUj-Ig/s1600-h/Bob+the+Blob+copy.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378012570003884210" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 385px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6wajCENtuDdXXbvUBqgjp9S2X0bgMd62LDL3k2Clrh1ACaG_yOlRFJ4KNlyn4CcFqK-8nZ1jbkXvZM8_3aNdoWfrZPJsRSR1q2LcVjE8obPcPSeAt-ehDZXRXdV_AGM3HvaP-aFUj-Ig/s400/Bob+the+Blob+copy.jpg" border="0" /></a> Here are some pictures I'm doing for a children's placemat at work for some kids to eat stuff off. <br /><div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132006125916799750.post-2283000966135190662009-09-02T22:20:00.002+01:002009-09-02T22:20:40.264+01:00Dusty Night Terror<div align="center">“Who are you Sir?”<br />“My name is Mr Cherrick,<br />From Ryman, Hucklwitz & D’Troth,<br />We represent the interests of a Giant Moth”</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132006125916799750.post-73315112283079649182009-09-02T22:19:00.001+01:002009-09-02T22:19:58.521+01:00R'mance<div align="center">“Yeowgh!”<br />“Shh you, why all that din?”<br />“I said two, but you put all your fingers in”</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132006125916799750.post-6769139870794555282009-09-02T22:05:00.003+01:002009-09-02T22:11:13.495+01:00Caption Competition<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-xVEBe3XhFHgHAw7NSDtDEc5IQGDBr4S4buMahBDg9I6yo_FhvJm_lKiUsMWxf3KulbLx6S4duvpLL7OZktviBomHMBke2BSgjadzLN9gUY-FeHgiHY-vTi0Qyg2H2cLgh3Z-W00ZX10/s1600-h/Caption+Competition.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376979354676387506" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 306px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-xVEBe3XhFHgHAw7NSDtDEc5IQGDBr4S4buMahBDg9I6yo_FhvJm_lKiUsMWxf3KulbLx6S4duvpLL7OZktviBomHMBke2BSgjadzLN9gUY-FeHgiHY-vTi0Qyg2H2cLgh3Z-W00ZX10/s400/Caption+Competition.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="center">Submit your best captions for the chance to win a delicious prize, a hand drawn picture of you & any celebrity of your choice in an erotically charged situation. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132006125916799750.post-90031844502318701052009-09-02T21:59:00.002+01:002009-09-02T22:00:06.614+01:00We Found it in the field.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwcIBt43lpoZE8pFdSoTQtwleGl8GKQn8eGQSntZcYMgcAcu_OHFhJaOxysy2YEeWUFo1xHWv6aC0nk6Hr-HSvm9TUUS0Vy4H-yw9ay3A7FPCGvnQrSQuiSjeE2jVsk3N2GmIimkG1Hjc/s1600-h/We_found_it_in_the_field.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376977784925290914" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 388px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwcIBt43lpoZE8pFdSoTQtwleGl8GKQn8eGQSntZcYMgcAcu_OHFhJaOxysy2YEeWUFo1xHWv6aC0nk6Hr-HSvm9TUUS0Vy4H-yw9ay3A7FPCGvnQrSQuiSjeE2jVsk3N2GmIimkG1Hjc/s400/We_found_it_in_the_field.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132006125916799750.post-24860460676123838052009-09-02T21:05:00.002+01:002009-09-02T21:07:17.406+01:00Welcome to Introversial. Again.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">In 1666, Samuel Pepys* documented London in all its seventeenth century glory. Well, sort of:</span></span><div style="text-align: center; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">"</span></span></span><span class="body"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">I went out to Charing Cross to see Major General Harrison hanged, drawn, and quartered; which was done there, he looking as cheerful as any man could in that condition."</span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">He was like the blogger of his age. Pepys was most famous for writing an account of the Great Fire of London, but he did more than that. He had a go at women, he talked about farting and he drank too much. He was like a one-man Nuts Magazine, circa 1670.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">He documented the ups and downs of the day, mused a bit and generally wrote what he knew. This is what Introversial will do - it will be a diarist of its day, but will probably write less about houses that were burning down with children in them. And maybe more about farting. And if, fingers' crossed, there are some more hangings at Charing Cross, Introversial will be there, documenting for the ages.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">Also, Pepys did drink in the Cheshire Cheese on Fleet Street a fair bit, as does Introversial. If that pub was serving the same toxic piss as it is now then somewhere in London there may be some missing chapters of old Sam's diary, where he yells at his wife, craves a kebab and then pisses himself.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">We don't know what Samuel started his diary, probably why this blog has been created - a mix of boredom, narcissism, egomania and the desire to get his point across. He, like Introversial, probably got bored of his desk job, saw what other diarists were up to (farting, shagging, burping and such) and thought he would have a pop at it. So here it is, the diary of its day. In 450 years from now, kids may be dissecting this very post and writing a little comprehension on it. On a computer made of lasers in space.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">Introversial in London is the same as Pepys diary. It sees what other bloggers are doing and scoffs in the face of mediocrity and badly spelled anecdotes - the time is now to create a fucking good blog that's funny. Welcome to Introversial.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">*pronounced 'Peeps', as in "The paedo peeps into the little girl's bedroom from the vantage point of a big tree"</span></span></div></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><div id="sidebar-wrapper" style="width: 220px; float: right; word-wrap: break-word; overflow-x: hidden; overflow-y: hidden; "><div class="sidebar section" id="sidebar" style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); line-height: 1.5em; "><div class="widget BlogArchive" id="BlogArchive1" style="border-bottom-width: 1px; border-bottom-style: dotted; border-bottom-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.5em; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 1.5em; padding-left: 0px; "><div class="widget-content"><div class="clear" style="clear: both; "></div><span class="widget-item-control" style="float: right; "></span><div class="clear" style="clear: both; "></div></div></div></div></div></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132006125916799750.post-68125448890081819612009-09-02T21:04:00.001+01:002009-09-02T21:04:45.841+01:00We are all going to die<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 20px; "><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Arial; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia, -webkit-fantasy; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">Set your coffee down gently. Okay, I have some terrible news for you. Terrible, horrible news. We are in the midst of a pandemic in this City, one which will pretty much bring society to its fat bloated knees. In a bitter twist of irony, it’s the tiniest being on Earth that is the most powerful.</span></span></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Arial; min-height: 15px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></span></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Arial; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">SWINE FLU. N1H1 motherf*cker.</span></span></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Arial; min-height: 15px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></span></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Arial; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">It’s here, in London town, ready to finish off what the Black Death and the Nazis started.</span></span></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Arial; min-height: 15px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></span></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Arial; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">It wouldn’t be scary if it was just flu oh no. And it isn’t scary if the virus just has a code (SARS? Please, that only killed the Chinese.) We had Bird Flu, but that just screwed up Bernard Matthews. No, this monster needed a name that envisages terror. The pig, the animal people most want as a pet but don’t have, is now the source of the world’s most deadly virus.</span></span></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Arial; min-height: 15px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></span></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Arial; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">This is how it starts, the old apocalypse, a gentle stream of news reports providing the hacking, snot-filled background music to your everyday life. You’re not really listening that hard to the Swine Flu warnings as you’re more concerned with buying a load of coloured jeans from Uniqlo and going up to Shoreditch to eat a soft cheese sourced from Peru. Then it turns out you have an acquaintance that’s caught it, but that doesn’t really phase you as whenever you met this kid he always had an off yellow tint, he was never one of Gaia’s foot soldiers.</span></span></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Arial; min-height: 15px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></span></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Arial; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">So, you buy a magnum and forget about it and oh look, Peaches Geldof went a disco last night. Thanks, London Lite. All the while micro terrorists are zipping through the tube lines and handrails, declaring a tiny Jihad on your immune system.</span></span></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Arial; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></span></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Arial; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">The Government are setting up committees and hotlines and getting a lot of grief for not giving clear guidelines for pregnant women. This debate doesn’t seem to have much to it – pregnant women should avoid public transport at peak times and crowded areas. Hardly rocket science is it? Not getting on the tube while duffed up should be good advice anyway. There’s no place for a bump at rush hour - I’ve seen someone pour a frappe in a Louis Vuitton handbag and that’s worth much more than a baby*. It’s difficult down there at the best of times, especially without the threat of a highly contagious disease breeding in amongst the squalor of London.</span></span></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Arial; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></span></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Arial; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">If this is the end of civilised London society then it won’t be all bad. I’ve long since held the notion that I would thrive in a post apocalyptic landscape, living in Big Ben, living off tinned peas and firing buckshot at mutants. I’d marry the one of the only beautiful girls left in the world, then chuck her when a slightly prettier one comes along (don’t judge me, it’s Darwinian).</span></span></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Arial; min-height: 15px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></span></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Arial; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">So this is it. Some reports suggest 100,000 people will die, some say slightly less people will die of Swine Flu than regular flu. But who cares? This is it, the end of days. Go and tell that girl in accounts you want to do horrible things to her in the break room, steal something from Boots, tell your Mum you hate her, rob Topshop, do anything – because tomorrow you might have quite bad flu.</span></span></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Arial; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></span></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Arial; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">*We’ve looked into it.</span></span></span></p></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132006125916799750.post-88062262218069112772009-09-02T21:02:00.002+01:002009-09-02T21:03:51.739+01:00Fizzy Milk<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia, -webkit-fantasy; line-height: 20px; ">Fizzy Milk.</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 20px; font-family:georgia, fantasy;font-size:medium;"><br />The wheel reinvented, Jurassic Park set loose. That's right, Fizzy Milk. Coca Cola is set to launch Vio, a carbonated milk.<br /><br />Coca Cola "scientists"* have developed the drink at the firm¹s laboratories in Atlanta, Georgia. The only thing it will curdle in its 8oz aluminium bottle is the boundaries of your mind.<br /><br />The Times says one of Coke’s copywriters claims it tastes “like a birthday party for a polar bear”. I would have thought that tasted more like butchered seal and ozone, but anyway. Perhaps a better tagline would be “like a birthday party for a polar bear who’s mind has comprehended it’s approaching extinction with acute lucidity”.<br /><br />It comes in four “natural” flavours: peach mango, berry, citrus and tropical colada (straight from the Colada tree). It has 26g of sugar a bottle, and 1.5g of fat.<br /><br />This is it. Seriously, It¹s the End of Days.<br /><br />Some of you readers will be already reaching for your gas masks and baseball bats, ready for the impending maelstrom of discontent. And good on you - science has finally destroyed nature.<br /><br />Someone takes a sip they think: “Huh, Fizzy Milk? not bad”. Then, a week later you¹re having a coffee, avec fizzy milk, when some axe wielding lunatic comes smashing through the window of a Café Nero screaming GOT MEEELLLLLK?’<br /><br />Milkmen will be pushed from their cabs as the hoards upend his cart, dancing naked on its ruined, milk-stained corpse. Cows will be set alight, punched to death and garrotted as the fields are stained with red.<br /><br />People will come to fear the moustache, a sign of the fizzles, a madness induced by the realisation that everything is nothing, up is down, milk is fizzy.<br /><br />Someone has a lovely bottle of fizzy milk. Then they start thinking “Wait a sec, why can’t I ride my bike into the sea?”. The financial markets fall, everyone sinks into depravity and primitive stupor. Statues of the Virgin Mary in the Vatican begin weeping fizzy milk. Soon you'll be having sex with your pets while your Mum, caked in her own defecation, watches while drinking a fizzy latte.<br /><br />Everyone starts chanting, “Fizzy Milk Fizzy Milk Fizzy Milk Fizzy Milk” in anticipation of the arrival of a giant moth to take everyone away. It never comes.<br /><br />I can¹t tell you how dark this is.<br /><br />*Not really scientists. Men and women who try and cure cancer are scientists; people who put the rover on Mars are scientists. People who fanny around with sugary liquid aren't scientists. Their "lab" will look like Professor Burp's Bubble Works and they will all wear over-sized top hats.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132006125916799750.post-81544975396781726572009-09-02T21:01:00.000+01:002009-09-02T21:02:19.296+01:00Credit Crunch Tales - Terrance of the tree house<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 20px; "><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">Terrance lived in the tree house for several reasons: solitude, the escape from modernity – but mainly it was because of tax and a hefty credit card bill.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">Terrance had certainly lived the high life. He was only an assistant at a local B&Q (a bad one at that), but that didn’t stop him living like a millionaire. His house had all the mod cons – SkyPlus, HD TV and a six-slice toaster. Women would be showered with gifts, friends would receive expensive birthday presents – but the dream had to come to an end one day.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">The credit crunch came and Terrance fell off the debt merry-go-round. After narrowly escaping a bailiff, Terrance retreated to the local forest. He spent a few nights sleeping rough, but soon realised if he was to carry on his Robin Hood lifestyle he would have to find a new home. He found an old oak tree and planted his flag.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">Running away from his troubles, Terrance became a tree person.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">Terrance’s idea of problem solving was escaping to the woods. He had done this when he failed his GCSEs, when his Dad left and when his football team had been relegated. He even ran away for a week when his Mum told him he couldn’t have a second slice of gateaux. But this was the first time Terrance had decided to become full-time feral as a means of solving his problems.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">His days at B&Q were not wasted – stealing supplies from the warehouse, for which he still had keys Terrance went about building a tree home. He built a fairytale home where he could run away from his debt problems and live tax-free. But it is a lot harder to build a liveable home inside a rotting tree than Terrance thought. In the end, after several attempts to make it like an ‘arbour-Ikea’ Terrance settled with a mouldy shit hole with windows.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">He tried to make pets of the squirrels that shared his domicile. They didn’t acquiesce – they bit him, stole his cereals and pissed all over his toaster. Since then squirrel and the man have led a cold war of attrition in that old tree - Terrance ate one of their babies in the spring, so the squirrels gave him rabies by September.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">Terrance can’t go back to the modern world now. He has sunk too far into the wood - he is a Wildman or Sasquatch, a myth that financial advisers tell their indebted clients. And he still owes Barclays around £7,000.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">Maybe if you wander down to the woods one-day, you will see Terrance in his little home. He hasn’t had a job for a while, and can’t bring girls back to his tree home, so he spends most of his days unkempt, searching the wood for discarded porn.</span></span></p></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132006125916799750.post-79182224636690893352009-06-11T18:50:00.002+01:002009-06-13T11:56:23.641+01:00Political Satire<p align="justify">Gordon Brown’s had a tough few weeks, there’s no denying that. Apparently the odds aren’t that great that he’ll be the Prime Minister by the weekend. He’s even taken to giving press conferences without a belt or shoe laces, looking forlornly out of the window trying to catch site of Albion.<br /><br />Is it too late for him to claw back his leadership when he’s facing attacks internally and externally? It’s definitely touch and go and we all know that no amount of Alan Sugar will make the situation any sweeter. People don’t want to hear about the Prime Minister’s concern for the singing potato, Susan Boyle either – tell us more about the chap who claimed for a moat.<br /><br />Here are three tips to Gordon Brown if he wants to last the night out:<br /><br />1. Master the smile. He never seems to have grasped the concept of the smile I know he grew up in Scotland but this is ridiculous. It wasn’t made apparent until he was stood next to Barack ‘the zillion watt smile’ Obama at the G20 summit. If he want’s people to like him simply try and smile without looking like you’re trying to relearn it after an accident. </p><p align="justify"><br />2. Stop talking about celebrities. As already mentioned, appointing Alan Sugar is a gross error. His appointment as business czar isn’t necessarily the way to go about it (I’m fairly sure a large proportion of the county must watch The Apprentice and think he’s a cunt). Also, 'the people' aren’t that endeared to Susan Boyle, we like watching her yes, but in the same way we’d be fascinated by the discovery of a hairless calf with one eye screaming “kill me”.</p><p align="justify"><br />3. The easiest quick fix solution, it’s been staring at him in the mirror all along, like a sad looking marble. Simply pop out the eye and wear a patch and for added affect wear some dark velvet gloves. No one will fuck with the Neo Pimpernel. </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132006125916799750.post-1783103436821199792009-05-26T19:55:00.000+01:002009-05-26T19:56:23.045+01:00Politics, Performed in style of John Hegley<div align="center"><em>Gore-den Braun<br />As in Eva Braun, Hitler’s Bird<br />Small with blond hair<br />I bet she wore real fur<br />A tenuous link to Margret Thatcher*<br />Apparently she wasn’t that good at her job, Sir**<br /><br />*Pronounced ‘Fat-Churgh’ to tie in with the above line.<br /><br />** I was born in ’84; I’ve heard she stole milk and something about the Falklands, can’t say I’m that clued up. It’s embarrassing really. </em></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132006125916799750.post-78876444021456920802009-05-26T19:54:00.000+01:002009-05-26T19:55:39.999+01:00Pie Rate<div align="center"><em></em> </div><div align="center"><em>He saw that I’d stopped eating my pie<br />I tried to stay cool<br />But we both knew I’d noticed he only had one eye</em></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132006125916799750.post-71129271891939573912009-05-25T18:35:00.002+01:002009-05-25T22:17:19.658+01:00‘I like my women like I like my coffee…’<div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Me & Lee were messing around the other day (As in word play, not “God, my wife must never know of our forbidden love”) and came up with a few different takes on the old “I like my women like I like my coffee…” setup. For your information we’ll be coming soon to a Working Men’s Club near you, as this line seems to intrinsically lead you down a misogynistic/racist one way street:<br /><br /><strong>I like my women like I like my coffee…</strong><br /><br />Ideally not fully of semen.<br />White and cold to the touch…<br />Slow roasted.<br />Immediately after a game of rummy.<br />Thrown against a wall.<br /><br />Yeah, I think there’s a reason this sort of joke has died out a bit. Either that or I’m just a massive bigot.</span> </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132006125916799750.post-10048752592648899122009-04-07T21:18:00.003+01:002009-04-07T21:33:40.995+01:00I did a politics degree...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRr2iAkFh5Hf0Y0JuvWciTROB7QpAR0_3LKwumL-xEiRu_GPb-A48-raIzndPuduIKHhDrlmALeeMa4e_pYkksM6o4JKYM9UGOXLJ2cOSiLs304wRVLXChwVhdN_V2GifM_WXDENDx63U/s1600-h/Gordon+Brown.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322049514983067586" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 218px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRr2iAkFh5Hf0Y0JuvWciTROB7QpAR0_3LKwumL-xEiRu_GPb-A48-raIzndPuduIKHhDrlmALeeMa4e_pYkksM6o4JKYM9UGOXLJ2cOSiLs304wRVLXChwVhdN_V2GifM_WXDENDx63U/s320/Gordon+Brown.bmp" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="center"><em>The Government?<br />I doubt they’d ever repent,<br />They seem positively hell bent,<br />On letting our economy ferment,<br />Like some hideous yeast,<br />Infection</em></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132006125916799750.post-62898800099550087952009-04-07T21:02:00.002+01:002009-04-07T21:06:16.974+01:00Sean...<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322043219426880866" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxu1s187BV4G3pgN0ey0U6bPYqgRsuiAwLJcH63_JHdAj-ql7X1Uad2A_L4mN_rKPugG18p0Wy_BlQVMu_34UcXe2Wt1-C9axQAHmDAzuMVpkx6fooT4dbB9gIfNTxhml2vjYN0szaKXM/s320/Sean.jpg" border="0" /><br /><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center">Sean is possibly my best friend<br />With him I would totally commit to a week long cruise<br />Although, our friendship was tested when I dreamt he had boobs</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132006125916799750.post-74933359580384349872009-04-07T21:01:00.000+01:002009-04-07T21:02:01.066+01:00The Electric Ballroom<div align="center">“Hey man, how’s tricks, are you free later?”<br /><br />“Yeah man, what’s the skinny?”<br /><br />“Fancy heading down to the Electric Ballroom in Camden?”<br /><br />“Not really”</div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center"> </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132006125916799750.post-11999726620074830942009-03-15T12:23:00.003+00:002009-03-15T13:01:02.892+00:00Red Nose Day<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmMYxNIF4JQCwoJA6KEzacSVaAi2vShe2WdSSDvuh4tQzARufT_VOjSa_PJnJrgo-3MIe5Ex70diA6JzPW_E5QCszyKQAL_S-CnQAaKTOQrJPglnIKgMu7yfxtEs2DkCuOdgN-XoaZx-OM/s1600-h/lenny_henry.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 133px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmMYxNIF4JQCwoJA6KEzacSVaAi2vShe2WdSSDvuh4tQzARufT_VOjSa_PJnJrgo-3MIe5Ex70diA6JzPW_E5QCszyKQAL_S-CnQAaKTOQrJPglnIKgMu7yfxtEs2DkCuOdgN-XoaZx-OM/s200/lenny_henry.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313398247362496914" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div>(As a disclaimer before I enter into a rant, this isn't about charity for one second. To prove this I made sure to donate £10 to Oxfam before slating Comic Relief)<div><br /></div><div>For all of you not in the know, Comic Relief was invented about 25 years ago by some British comedians to give to African charities. They sold red noses, did silly sketches and it was wholly honourable. Now it has become BBC's biggest 'charity event' of the year and has taken over every facet of consumer media for a few weeks every other years. </div><div><br /></div><div>Celebrities like Kate 'yes, I can laugh at myself, honestly' Moss and Jonathan 'I better be getting paid for this' Ross do oh so hilarious and fantastically altrustic things so as to help raise money for African and UK charities. Big corporations like Subway, Walker's Crisps, Sainsbury's and British Telecom are now in on the scam and sell a load of Red Nose related shit, a small percentage of which goes to charity.</div><div><br /></div><div>A few years ago they took just four of the participating celebs and guessed at their total worth; Sting, Bono, Chris Martin and Paul McCartney totalled in the region of £1.5bn. That's just four of them - add to that maybe 100 'celebrities' and you would probably have a total well over £2bn. This year Comic Relief raised £40m.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now I am not knocking raising money, far from it. Any attempt to make people give more to those who need it more and slightly level up the global financial see-saw should be commended. And that £40m came from the wallets of the British people, who have had to bail out a few banks in the last three months. It's the hypocrisy of Comic Relief that needs to be highlighted and stamped out.</div><div><br /></div><div>Subway is a global, multi-billion dollar firm. It makes fucking billions every year from selling unhealthy sandwiches to the masses, no doubt buying their produce from the cheapest source at the expense of the poorer half of the earth. Now that's capitalism and you can argue about that all day, but offering 31p in a pound by flogging cheap Comic Relief ringtones and then trying to say its a 'giving' corporation is disgusting. All it did was get more people in buying special 'Red Nose' meatball marinaras for £3.29. And how much of that £3.29 went to charity? 5 fucking pence.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sainsbury's too needs to be shown for the two-faced shitting empire it is: slowly killing the UK farming industry, making thousands unemployed while at the same time selling coffee, sugar, bananas, beef and spices that have mark ups of thousands of percent but only cost them pennies - at Africa's expense. But giving a few pennies to the very continent it is screwing over through Jamie 'I'm even more obnoxious with this fucking nose on' Oliver and his over-priced foods.</div><div><br /></div><div>Comic Relief, like most celebrity charity events, allows these horrid uncaring people seem caring while at the same time improves their profile and most importantly gives them yet another stage to promote their self-brands. There is no honour in it and there is no grace - the two things that charity should be based on.</div><div><br /></div><div>Charity is important, and the Government should do more to make sure the haves give a lot more to the have nots (maybe tax multi-millionaire fuckers like Gok Wan and Cheryl Cole a bit harder, for example). But don't try and scam from the indebted and the poor through corporate bullshit and celebrity endorsements. Comic Relief is another thinly-veiled way for those who have everything to look saintly while those who have not continue to be the victims.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Lee Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12946149669978218856noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132006125916799750.post-89771956232884548182009-03-09T19:20:00.002+00:002009-03-09T19:34:17.574+00:00CHICKEN AND RIB TIME! Kebab and Burger CentreIt doesn't make sense does it?<div><br /></div><div>Every day I see this sign outside the restaurant as I come out of Manor House station and it drives me crazy. Think about it. 'CHICKEN AND RIB TIME!' says to me this place sells chicken and ribs. And that's fine, there definitely aren't enough places in London that sell fatty meats. If I wanted chicken or ribs, I would definitely consider an establishment that is promoting itself as a place where both chicken and ribs are ready to go, ready to eat, any time. All the time. There is even a picture of a chicken, holding a rib, looking at his watch. Perfect.</div><div><br /></div><div>But then they are telling me it's a 'Kebab and Burger Centre'? This makes no sense, my Turkish friends. You just told me, not three inches ago, that your restaurant ticked along to chicken and ribs. It's 'CHICKEN AND RIB TIME!' for God's sake. And now it's a place for burgers and kebabs too? Does the watch-wearing, rib-guzzling chicken know about this?</div><div><br /></div><div>Why not call it 'CHICKEN AND RIB AND BURGER AND KEBAB TIME!' or the 'Chicken, Rib, Kebab and Burger Centre'? Or just 'Takeaway Hut' or 'Top Foods'?</div><div><br /></div><div>So what are you better at 'CHICKEN AND RIB TIME! Kebab and Burger Centre'? Is it chicken and ribs, or is it burgers and kebabs? I mean you are a burger and kebab centre. But you are also a place where it's chicken and rib time.</div><div><br /></div><div>It bugs me so much, every night, that one day I am going to smash that sign to fucking smithereens. The go next door for a kebab, because they are just called 'Manor House Kebabs', and you know what they are good at.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Lee Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12946149669978218856noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132006125916799750.post-60090541927337239752009-03-08T22:13:00.006+00:002009-03-09T23:00:42.644+00:00Heroin Chic<div align="justify"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwwAC4H1EYN89Q5vQdHOAF9v8Gt2q0eIfiTxOzGACXfmd41PTIHoavkG51Vl5gBc88ArUDVYtnhoJTcp8n0qGpTPwL1Jc-gI04wt09nFVCpmir0x0SF10XHr3a00Z0PpYBT9_-eir_1Jo/s1600-h/Chic.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310943848743486018" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 274px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwwAC4H1EYN89Q5vQdHOAF9v8Gt2q0eIfiTxOzGACXfmd41PTIHoavkG51Vl5gBc88ArUDVYtnhoJTcp8n0qGpTPwL1Jc-gI04wt09nFVCpmir0x0SF10XHr3a00Z0PpYBT9_-eir_1Jo/s320/Chic.jpg" border="0" /></a>There are certainly a few odd looking people in London. Big, fat, weird, smelly, scary, skin-diseasey odd looking people.</div><div align="justify"><br /></div><div align="justify">Don't get me wrong, I'm not penning this from my ivory tower. The whole 'scratchy beard, pale complexion and hobo hoodie' look I sport definitely harks towards some sort of serious chemical dependency.<br /><br />That said, undeniably there are some curious looking folk within zones one to six. Public transport seems to bring out the best of them, especially the Number 29 from Wood Green. It’s a bendy bus, so you know people aren’t paying to get on.<br /><br />Here are some of my favourite spots, so far:<br /><br />· <strong>Future Lady</strong>: I saw her today on the way to the tube. She was dressed like someone who had travelled back in time to prevent a nuclear holocaust and was desperately trying to replicate the fashions of the time, to minimise any anachronistic slips. Giant head phones.</div><div align="justify"><br />· <strong>Bad Mum</strong>: reading a copy of ‘What Every Parent Needs To Know’, using a map to the Child Appeals court as a book mark and drinking a can of extra-strength lager. Good luck with that one, Chief.</div><div align="justify"><br />· <strong>Japanese uber-tasche</strong>:A tiny little Japanese fellow who was immaculately dressed, with possibly the best moustache I have ever seen. It was grey, and curled up at the sides. Me and Lee followed him down Bond Street for longer than was cool, trying to think of elaborate ways to outflank him and photograph his facial horns. He must get that every single day.</div><div align="justify"><br />· <strong>Shoeless</strong>: He just didn't haven't shoes on, on the steps of Nelson's Column. He looked, well <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">sad</span>.<br /></div><div align="justify"><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132006125916799750.post-43180294817202411742009-03-07T09:08:00.002+00:002009-03-07T09:13:20.203+00:00Dermatology<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLh2vaaxxA02kLsmHcYAVc1dRyg_Vsij847mWvps493uSSk7yJ4Of5QSuUe2SeDwbCCQcFdpCmHwmRZ7vgoRsBXS5sDy2sNZm0u0MyYsKAS4pXwK33oOP5TDttsAUbJ8lgyTQ8h2lGW-k/s1600-h/Devil.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310370430849355554" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 371px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLh2vaaxxA02kLsmHcYAVc1dRyg_Vsij847mWvps493uSSk7yJ4Of5QSuUe2SeDwbCCQcFdpCmHwmRZ7vgoRsBXS5sDy2sNZm0u0MyYsKAS4pXwK33oOP5TDttsAUbJ8lgyTQ8h2lGW-k/s400/Devil.jpg" border="0" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeplnXrPpdre2phL_uErZPYQnvF1ZuqdKR2hmjVetN8K-XiIoWlBxpOacmSFwOwNXQ50XycnDaIzYBLI7MwRh7TrB2ecCyIjpvTGtoD-zJmgb1jB5eIaXb85QeB_Y8ohzLX8y-f3fzL8g/s1600-h/Devil.jpg"></a>"When the horns came through, the skin condition made a bit more sense"<br /><br /><div></div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132006125916799750.post-43785927903094128012009-03-06T07:10:00.003+00:002009-03-09T22:56:19.845+00:00The Gods of Fate<div align="justify"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC6-aR5M37v6ZAjJeoZOOTQG_oAdf-HRvcco373gUZSy9iwEIcxbY8i2RTL9wugKON2p_nswJVgxJQudSu9Nm4JsJpgY7xZmZYAmaP0rIKeZOh7uobhxWWU0DRMeKaYAJYJEwyLE4MAPM/s1600-h/GoF.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309969997310304674" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 151px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 162px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC6-aR5M37v6ZAjJeoZOOTQG_oAdf-HRvcco373gUZSy9iwEIcxbY8i2RTL9wugKON2p_nswJVgxJQudSu9Nm4JsJpgY7xZmZYAmaP0rIKeZOh7uobhxWWU0DRMeKaYAJYJEwyLE4MAPM/s200/GoF.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div align="justify"><br /><br />Have things got bad? Have I had to seriously consider what a penis might feel like against my gums while fingering a filthy £20 note? Well yes, they have.<br /><br />Why is it that when you’re in the straights you feel more desperate? Is it the loneliness? The claustrophobia? The unexplainable horniness?</div><div align="justify"><br /></div><div align="justify">I decided to tempt the Gods of fate today. The soul crushing drudge of working through the recession in a complaints department made something snap, and I brought a scratch card.<br /><br />I delay it; not straight away, you see. I like to divide up the fictional money in my head, imagining how the £100,000 would be spent: How many hookers are too many? Are you alright not giving to your div cousin? Do people still have a problem if you wear mink?<br /><br />After finally imagining travelling India and living a life of intellectual pursuit, there’s scratching to be done. Using a pound coin is a no-no, for two reasons:<br /><br />I don’t want to anger the Goddess of Luck by being brazen with my wealth.<br />I don’t have one (sob).<br /><br />Best go with a 50p, not too flashy but not embarrassing like a 2p. </div><div align="justify"><br /></div><div align="justify">Scratch. £100,000. Scratch. £25. Scratch. £400. Scratch. £1. Scratch. £100,000. Gasp. Scratch. £900. Fuck.</div><div align="justify"><br /></div><div align="justify">Then comes the self loathing. It’s instantaneous and heavy, like a giant bird shit on your head while all the cool and attractive people laugh at you with their white teeth and muscles.<br /><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132006125916799750.post-37853360534717707932009-03-01T10:27:00.002+00:002009-03-01T12:59:45.399+00:00“Do you want a can?”<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR9JItC5vUHmlRHTXrWaW8EtdLpJ9VTLfBoh1jmU3Ekey5zs5E8jb9weuUnrwrAo4XMKdU33SVQ5gqx_7O_jA2beNFxMizipF-Vyng6UDtaGPCe0qmaNmZ08xcX1itF15KiTdxojpzg1I/s1600-h/Fancy+a+can.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5308164105760729186" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 118px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR9JItC5vUHmlRHTXrWaW8EtdLpJ9VTLfBoh1jmU3Ekey5zs5E8jb9weuUnrwrAo4XMKdU33SVQ5gqx_7O_jA2beNFxMizipF-Vyng6UDtaGPCe0qmaNmZ08xcX1itF15KiTdxojpzg1I/s200/Fancy+a+can.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="justify"><br />This guy on my bus last week was a full blown nutter. I’m not a fan of that word; never the less, this big mad-fox-eyed Shaun Ryder look-a-like managed to plunge the number 29 to Trafalgar Square into a state of panic. He was a real life nutter.<br /><br />Everyone had a strained look of “I’m really trying to pretend this isn’t happening, although I am acutely aware that this might end in me getting kicked to death” as he paced down the bendy bus. It was happening though, but luckily it didn’t end up in an old lady getting a kicking. </div><div align="justify"><br /></div><div align="justify">When something like this happens though, my mind instantly leaps to all those photos from the internal cameras on public transport where some anaemic looking, shirt wearing office worker (i.e. me) gets stabbed in the neck with a William Hill pen 47 times for politely suggesting to the maniac that maybe listening to Dub music really loudly and yelling might not be for the morning commute, it might be suited slightly better to say…3am, in Fabric.<br /><br />Anyway, aside from randomly shouting at people, calling them “trannies” and declaring “Yeah, I was raised by Yardies, bruv” this chap was having in-depth conversations with himself along the following lines:<br /><br />“Do you want a can mate?”<br />“Yeah, I do, can I have one of yours?”<br />“Yeah mate, no problems bruv”<br /><br />This is the sort of teeth gritting tension you don’t get on the tube, only the bus attracts this level of terror-inducing psychopath. He managed to shut off an entire section of the bus and keep everyone firmly away from his vicinity. And all it took was an external/internal monologue, some wild golf ball style eyes and a lifetime of substance abuse.<br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1