Wednesday, 29 December 2010

G'day Ashes!

Just been watching England retain The Ashes. I don't normally give a monkey's swinging left bollock about Cricket, but I do like The Ashes - and beating Australia in absolutely anything is quality. Smashed em to smithereens.

Talking of Smithers, doesn't Nasser Hussain look like Monty Burns off The Simpsons? Uncanny.

Tuesday, 28 December 2010

More Hammered Than An Auctioneer's Desk

I don't want this to turn into an Arsenal blog - but this deserves a mention! What an utterly epic win for The Gunners last night. Boomshakalakalaka. I woke up half naked (bottom half) on the sofa, mindlessly devastated after a pre-game couple of shots of tequila with Jack Whitehall and a post match liver assault in the public houses of Finsbury. Get in!

When I woke up, in a somewhat husky, wasted voice, I cheered to myself and went on search of food. I ended up finding a tub of caviar and some bitesized sausage rolls. SlumCogg Millionaire. Tucking into my unusual feast I remembered my journey home and offering the random Bosnian I built unexpected rapport with at Walthamstow bus station a taxi lift home. At the intensity of my drunkenness, I bet he felt like he was getting kidnapped - nothing unusual for him, bet it felt like the motherland in the good old days. I asked him where he was going and he could only manage "Leyton". Sweet, that's on the way home. I kicked him out at The Bakers Arms, about 45 seconds after the station, good deed done. With Mustafa gone and after a few blurred street lights, I was nearly home. Immediately I got in and fell asleep on a pile of shoes by the front door. Good start. When I woke up, slightly baffled as to what the fuck I was doing in the hall on top of the shoe box, I must of bumpercarred along the hall into the front room. I had the intention of watching MOTD, or the highlights and maybe writing this- not fucking likely! KO'd on the sofa and not even the bird with the chalk and her clown mate on the telly. Que sara.

Sunday, 26 December 2010

I'd love to box you on Boxing Day

Taking Fucking Liberties, that's what TFL needs to stand for. What the fuck do that lot think they're playing at striking on Boxing Day? Champion pricks. The rotund cunts, hanging like a half born calf and not massively being arsed to come into work to push a stick forward after a Christmas of gluttony, decide to strike - and mug us all off. These cheerful wankers get paid a dirty wage to suck off the Fat Controller, have 133484936282 days holiday a year, yet still kick off - because Graham in the ticket office (who's a fucking gormless muppet anyway) is getting the boot, as the natural progression of technology means he'll no longer be able to have an 80 minute kip on a Sunday evening.

Luckily, I've been in "The Garden of England" seeing some family today and a million miles away from those epic dickheads and their picket lines. However, if I did need to go into town, to jostle with some tourists to grabs some bargains, I would have stuck down the nearest tube striker with an unimaginable force. What a joke.

On a lighter note, I had a blinding Christmas, ate a small African village's annual dietry requirement in meat, drank shit loads of dear spirits and didn't vomit in a stocking like last year. And today I don't have swine flu like last year. Good progress in my opinion.

Friday, 24 December 2010

Turning Down 20,000 Cocksuckers? - No, Mr Presidente!

A news story caught my eye today.

Nigerian sex slave rescue from Mali 'fails'

The Nigerian government have jealously attempted to bring back 20,000 whores from Mali, apparently trafficked by a hardcore of minimum wage Saturday staff:

"So-called "trolley-boys" - the trafficking middle-men - run "the relay race", passing their human cargo onwards, with promises of jobs in hairdressing and supermarkets."

I have always suspected the people going around the car parks of Tescos, with their glazed eyes robotically shunting columns of trolleys, to harbor a sinister secret - and now we have the truth. Leading Tracy on with promises of work in uncle Colin's salon or a shift on the cash registers, disgraceful. It goes on to say:

"The true nature of the "job" is revealed later." How apt.

Strangely, Mali don't seem too keen to hand back their entire army of hoes.

"All of us have failed," says Mr Orakwue, a Nigerian whore rescue man, "The first thing that is preventing their return is support from the Malian authorities".

Apparently the government there realises life as a Malian farmhand on less than a 75p a day isn't much fun without a trip down the brasshouse - that would be like taking the rollercoasters out of Alton Towers.

Wednesday, 22 December 2010

Fuck Off Pizza Hut

Last night, starving like a skinny goat with no grub in the house and to avoid the treacherous slushy streets, I decided to get a pizza delivered. I wanted to order online as screaming my postcode over and over again, to man who is a from a far sunnier part of the world, was something I wanted to avoid. Unfortunately, I encounted a "security" measure. Only the most portly, fat bastards can remember their passwords for Pizza Hut and, not fitting this criteria as an irregular customer, I cetainly couldn't. I thought, "fucknows it's got to be PIZZA or PIZZAHUT" or something generic. But no, it was some cryptic shit I must have thought up buzzing out of my mind. What I didn't expect, however, was to get LOCKED OUT from Pizza Hut's site for 8 minutes whilst they obviously tried to contact the cyber police and let them know I was planning a feast with Julian fucking Assange, to celebrate the last release of cables, or a 10th birthday party with special guest, Gary Glitter. What a prize farce.

Tuesday, 21 December 2010

Happy Christmas

Ho Ho Ho. So this is the start of my little blog, hope you find the rants amusing, if you don't you're most welcome to fuck right off. That will please me intensely. However, should you find this remotely interesting don't hesitate start following and fuel further comedic outbursts.