Saturday, 31 December 2011

Get Out Of My Church, Before I Smash Your Face...

The exact place where the Jesus was born, once a very small Premier Inn, is now The Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem. Quite possibly one of the holiest sites in the world, including other locations such as Mecca, the River Ganges and my place on the sofa.

Not necessarily the place you expect it to kick off, certainly not between men of the cloth. Check this out:

Firstly, this is ultra funny. Arms house in the house of God. This ain't Celtic vs Rangers, Millwall vs West Ham or Boca Juniors vs River Plate. Nope, this is Greek Orthodox and Armenian clerics who have had a dispute over boundaries, apparently hammered out of their minds on holy wine, kicking off before making their preparations for CHRISTMAS. The only reason this epic 100 priest strong "Battle of the Basilica" came to an end was that they got raided by Old Bill. Bless me Father for I have sinned, I smashed a broom handle over another priest's kneecaps. Brilliant.

Of note, at the start is one Father, probably youth firm with his hood up, whipping out his smartphone to catch the action: "This shit's going on YouTube!" before the plod come in (0:18) and give one hell of a (sorry, heavenly) beat down to another of the church leading combatants who's hiding sheepishly in the corner after dashing a broom in another cleric's face. "I'm just here to watch the mass!" he pleads.

Then, at (0:26), this fella walks across wearing something that looks very much like a criss-cross Stone Island jumper. How much more firm do you want to get? Not wearing any colours, behind the Old Bill lines trying to get everyone involved!

Finally, at (0:43), you can clearly see one of the Armenians' uber-bearded top (alter) boys "not avvin none of it" with the coppers, probably already on a ban after it kicked off down in Nazareth at Easter.

There were no arrests as Bethlehem police chiefs said they were "men of God". The local atheist councillor, however, commented "pure thuggery, they were blatantly all here for a row, we should have used rubber bullets".

Sources suggest the next mass may take place behind closed doors.

Saturday, 24 December 2011

Happy Christmas you rascals...

Well look what we have here, I missed the birthday of Coggblog by 3 (now 4 as I write - Happy Christmas!) days. Take away my dessert and call me a rapscallion. rather than find a theme, I thought I'd actually write a blog of what I'm doing, as it's the birthday of God's eldest tomorrow and the first anniversary of me scribbling (or typing) my nonsense on this website...

So, I've just managed to butcher at least 4 metres of top quality wrapping paper in some bizarre attempt to conceal the identity of my gifts to the missus. It's literally a fire hazard. Charlie has mercifully stayed (as I wrote that he woke up and needed a feed) asleep for most of the night and the half bottle of Wray & Nephew hasn't left me blind or unconscious, which is good. (FFS, cue Charlie screaming). Back. There's something on the telly about Black Adder and the bird that played Grotbags in Emu's World, if I need to explain then this is a waste of typing, has turned up- how off key! All the same, nice to see her without the green hair - takes about 97 years off her.

Facebook seems to be filled with people properly smashed off their faces, sober(ish, who can blame them?)people performing parenting duties or Jehovahs who are basically awake and bored of the Christmas stuff. Amusing all round. I kind of envy my Swedish mates, they do it all on the 24th and beat us by a day. I remember one Christmas Eve (their main day) which was weird as we did all the usual bit's n pieces, then on actual Christmas Day I went bowling then went to a club for 5 hours. Certainly a change of scene! This Christmas Eve I've been over to my dad's house, had a mini Christmas with michelin star quality roast and met up with my aunt, uncle, step gran & grandad and gran who met Charlie for the first time whilst returning the most treasured possession of my childhood that I thought I'd lost about 17 years ago. Smashing.

I had Top of The Pops 2 on earlier, proper helped me get into my Yuletide groove. There's nothing quite like Slade, Wizard or, my favourite, The Pogues to actually make you think of snow covered streets and Christmas cheer. It's a little bit different this year, with the little one, all the Christmas magic has been restored to its innocent brilliance - even if he only understands the lights and silvery glittering of the things on that big green object that appeared where the clothes horse used to stand. Let the bells ring out for Christmaaaaaas! Maybe even louder than the epically smashed locals from the pub down the road signing "We wush yoooou a marry Chrusssmus, we wush yoooou a marry Chrussssmus..."

What awaits the rest of this wonderful Christmas Day eh? Well we've got a busy schedule, me the lady and the little man. Firstly we're off to her mum's gaff for a champagne breakfast, then the small matter of a drive to my mum's for the actual main dinner event. Remaining fingers crossed the little man behaves and teething takes a back teet so we can all enjoy the day. Wish us luck!

Anyway, one thing I haven't done yet is give you a full written version of the infamous "Fingers Story". Not actually as filthy as the name suggests and if you know me in person you'll probably know it already. Either way! Tomorrow will be the day I put it into type and in the meantime I'd graciously ask that you share the FB page amongst your mates so I can become a little more famous. Much love.


Monday, 5 December 2011

A Letter of Complaint...

Dear Sir / Madam,

I am writing to lodge a formal letter of complaint, the treatment I have received has been nothing short of diabolical and this is the last straw.

Firstly, during my stay at your 'resort' the food has been bland, unimaginative and infuriatingly repetitive. My friends have informed me that they are enjoying far more varied menus where they are staying- which comes as an embarrassment considering I witness the staff stuffing their faces with all manner of cuisine, yet not one bite manages to make its way to me at meal times.

Secondly, the 'entertainment' at your establishment leaves much to be desired. I fully appreciate that you are understaffed, though the chef is quite obviously not capable of performing an additional role as a cabaret act and some further innovation is required if you're to stand any hope of actually keeping me entertained. The film and television selection is awful, I'm bored beyond belief of the same musicals and would thoroughly appreciate something more on my intellectual level.

Finally, and this does irritate me as it makes no sense at all, your chauffeur service is nothing short of a farce. On Thursday, I was taken to a doctors appointment in an open topped vehicle. It's DECEMBER and freezing. Are you completely insane?

Needless to say, I expect an instant improvement or I will be forced to seek alternative accommodation.


Charles (Room 2)

Dear Charlie,

I'm very sorry your stay with us so far hasn't quite met your expectations. Considering you've been alive for 16 weeks, I'm baffled as to what you can compare the family home to- but hope the following provides some insight:

On the subject of food, your fragile digestive system can't handle anything more exotic than Aptamil Comfort milk. You're most welcome to sample some of our king prawn madras but, as we're not sadists at the 'resort', watching your little frame writhe around in spicy agony isn't going to happen. Also, Elijah, the friend you referenced, has 9 months on you and can physically endure the demands of mashed meat and vegetables. You can't. Be patient.

Not entertained? I personally feel Mum's renditions of 'Alice The Camel' and 'Old MacDonald Had a Farm' are excellent considering she did not attend stage school or receive formal theatrical training. Plus, your Mum and I have provided you with an eye watering array of children's television channels, including the daily opportunity to enjoy Mr Tumble and his brigade of freaks, which we actually find soul numbing having to watch again and again and again. I'm slightly perplexed as to why this is an issue as you seem to find the Jumperoo the most entertaining experience in the universe. As a result, this matter is closed.

Your iCandy Cherry cost us an absolute fortune. It's like the Bentley of buggies. Not only is it easy on the eye, it's practical in ways you'll never imagine. On Thursday, you were wrapped in 3 layers of under clothing, a jacket and covered by two fleece blankets then topped by a wooly hat. You had less skin showing than an Imam's wife. The alternative is walking, which your little legs haven't learnt to do- relish the rolling luxury of your carriage.

To conclude- it looks like you're stuck with us for the next 18 years. Also please don't formalise your name, you're 'Charlie' until you're in trouble or a barrister.

Lots of love,

Dad (Proprietor)

Ps. How the hell did you write that letter??

Friday, 2 December 2011

Coggmas Advent Calender: 1st Dec

You got absolutely nothing, we're basically in a recession - get used to it.

Wednesday, 16 November 2011

Beware of the FATIMONSTER...

I'm quite pleased another bollocks reality programme is on TV, for one reason and one reason only: The brute that is FATIMONSTER.

Fatima Whitbread, television's answer to the question: "What would you get if you forced Chuck Norris and one time Pat Butcher lover Moira Stewart to breed?" - is nothing short of ferocious. In tonight's episode, Mark Wright, the pathetic tart from Essex, fell out with the Fatimonster and I genuinely feared for his safety when Tarzanne asked him to go for a 'walk' with her/him/shim/whatever in the jungle to clear the air. Imagining Fatimonster coming back into camp from the darkness, blood around its mouth and proudly wearing Wright's skin like an Eskimo's polar bear cloak - left me most certainly petrified.

Thinking back to Jurassic Park, I'm not entirely convinced that even a high voltage electric fence would be enough to contain the Fatimonster. When the raptors learnt how to open the kitchen's doors, the audience collectively gulped and thought the worst. I can certainly picture Fatimonster's eye pressed up against the window, condensation forming whilst his nostrils flared warm fishy breath on to the cold glass.

Simply chilling.

With the likes of the irritating Lorraine Chase goading this savage predator, I can only envisage this series will end in tragedy. I expect the body count to reach the high hundreds as Fatimonster, charged on a cocktail of 'roids and raw meat, roams free through the jungle and surrounding villages. With the exception of pint-sized co-presenter Dec, who the beast will keep an inch from death to presumably make the terrified Geordie its King Kongesque pet bride, repeatedly stroking his cracked skull like an over zealous 5 year old girl to a new barbie doll.

Another creature of note on this series of I'm a Celebrity is spin off show's insanely hyperIrish Laura Whitmore. I'd never seen her before and can now see why. The fact I don't speak fluent Gaelic and despite having a huge Irish family myself, it's almost impossible to understand a word she's saying. Very similar to a Celtic budgie on a Charlie Sheen dose of powerful amphetamines, I genuinely believe a career as a Setanta horse racing commentator or an auctioneer would have been a better bet for the buzzing leprechaun.

Anyway, apologies for the lack of commentary recently, I've been up to the arsecrack of dawn caked in baby sick and trying to find a moment to kick back and write has been a challenge. If you like what you read and wouldn't mind some more, head on over to and like the page.

Thursday, 6 October 2011

The Microsoft Assassin...

As I sit here at the arse crack of dawn coughing my lungs up with this bastard chest cold, I'm taking a moment to remember Stevie Jobs.

There you go, Job done.

Never met the fella, although he sounded like a clever man who produced some useful stuff, but never had much in the way of vocabulary skills- naming his firm after a fruit and his first big product after a rain jacket. Equally, if you'd have said 'iPhone' to anyone 10 years ago they have talked to you like you had severe learning difficulties and replied 'MY phone, you say it's MY phone- you cretinous sap'.

He could, however, have stuck around a little longer to produce an iPhone 5. Perhaps he knew that just adding a letter to the name and bringing it out in green or blue would make everyone shit themselves with glee enough to camp out like tramps down Regent Street so they could lay their fat geeky hands on a new handset. Very shrewd? Very lazy. Or, was this due to foul play?

I don't mean a handball in the penalty area, no, I mean perhaps the workings of the evil Billy G. Was the skinny, spectacle wearing, former king geek growing tired of Apple's success? Did he find himself staying up to the early hours, bitterly searching online for Halo 3 players called 'SJobsy' so he could use his cheats and act out his revenge? All possibilities. My favourite and probably most likely sequence of events is that Billy G had him assassinated.

There's only one entity in the Microsoft arsenal capable of completing such a deadly task. Made of steel, yet astonishingly flexible. Possessing the stealth of the most adept ninja, able to pounce from the shadows just by opening a window.

The cunning, Microsoft Office Paperclip.

This absolutely sick fuck has lurked on every one of my documents and spreadsheets since I was at primary school. Leering at me arrogantly with a smile as sincere as a traffic warden's, I'm constantly stalked by his desire to seduce me into following his dubious 'advice' and nauseating instructions. This kind of cold hearted bastard would be perfect for the Job.

With the specific mission of preventing the release of an even better phone than the iPhone 4, Paperclip would've had to have acted swiftly and decisively. Whilst poor Jobs sat innocently completing Angry Birds Rio for the eleventh time, Paperclip would leap out of the darkness and stab frantically with his sharp ends, terminating the Apple CEO and avenging the death of every Windows phone in the land.

'I've DONE it master!' Paperclip would loudly hiss.
'Well done my child' Gates replies, 'now make haste with your escape, we've a spreadsheet to create!'

And that would be the end of Steve Jobs. In tribute to the late Mr Jobs, I've written this entirely on my iPhone and every penny raised from this post will go towards buying me the new 4S version.

Thursday, 29 September 2011

Coggblog Is Back In Action...

Finally, Bastard Telecom have fixed my Internet connection, my 7 week old sleep thief has decided to relinquish his kleptomaniac ways and I've downloaded the Blogger app on my phone- Coggblog's back in action.

I'm picking up some interesting bits & pieces and putting them on, so have a butchers and like the page.

To give a bit of a backstory on the Bastard Telecom situation, some cretinous mugdick drove down my road with a hiab crane on the back of a truck, cleverly deciding it would be a good idea to leave the bucket/grabber raised in the air- nicely ripping down the phone lines to 40 houses in the process. Blatant Twats took over a week to show their baffled little faces and actually get round to fixing everyone's services. If I'd have caught the utter prick who committed this heinous crime, I'd have gone round his house, pushed over all his houseplants, stuffed a school of kippers behind his radiators and put up cards in every phonebox in the area advertising his services as a rentboy who caters to rape fantasies. That's just for starters.

Monday, 5 September 2011

Mermaid Whores...

For the right price, the liberally minded people of Västerås in Sweden can enjoy a rich vain of aquatic prostitution - served by Europe's only floating brothel.

Saturday, 27 August 2011

Arsenal, I've had enough...

I'm having about 4 hours of sleep a night with the newest Junior Gunner who was born almost two weeks ago. It would be nice to bring him into a world where the club he will support - and there will never be a doubt about which club - were conducting their business in a way that honoured the supporters and showed the ambition that the fans, and even the players, have been screaming for. But it's clearly not the case and I'm profoundly fucking fed up and it deserved a rare Arsenal focussed blog.

To say I am livid is as much of an understatement as saying Charlie Sheen likes the odd line. All the transfer window has done for me is compound my fury at Arsenal Football Club. Everywhere I turn I see clubs that are proactively adding to their squads, quickly and efficiently, finding targets and doing deals. So far, we have signed ONE player worth a first team place, Gervinho. Not taking away from the potential of Jenkinson, I'm confident he'll become a class act if his efforts so far are anything to go by, but it is just potential and he isn't experienced enough to command a regular starting slot by any stretch of the imagination. Furthermore, and this makes me grit my teeth to dust, signing Oxlade-Chamberlain to play the Walcott waiting game for £12m is an outrage when he's not going to be starting games, we've got genuinely no idea whether or not he's going to have the required calibre and, most critically, we're screaming out for reinforcements in other parts of the squad. We've just sold two key players for about £60m and we've done nothing to replace them. It's a farce.

Juan Mata would have been an excellent signing. Yet we're going to see how much of an excellent signing he is - for the Russian gaff in West London. Sitting around wanking over a couple of million here and there is costing us the best talent. Looking back as far as Alonso when it was reported we could have got him for just another million. Another million. Then it wasn't so poignant as we had Fabregas and the midfield wasn't as depleted as it is now. Apparently Mata's release clause was £17.5m - what were we doing?! Chelsea have paid £25m, because they can, but whilst we're meant to be looking for the best value - why didn't we just get him for the early price?!

Today I've been reading that Phil Gartside at Bolton is kicking off that we've offered just £6m for Gary Cahill. Can you blame him? I'd laugh down the phone at Wenger or that plank Gazidis and tell them to piss right off. This is a decent centre half with Premier League experience, not cup-tied and who would hit the ground running. WHAT ARE WE DOING?! He's clearly worth over £10m and we've got all the coin from Cesc and that greedy French lesbian just sitting there, yet it's clear as a hermit's diary the plan is to waste as much of the remaining four days of transfer window by taking the piss and mugging people off with Netto level offers when we should, at least, be bidding at Tesco prices. Mind boggling.

So who's to blame for this pantomime? Arsene Wenger or the Board?

Has Arsene Wenger lost the plot and become stubbornly obsessed with trying to recreate a 1995 Louis van Gaal's Ajax style youth super team, rendering him utterly blind to what is currently required to be truly successful in the Premier League? Was it going the entire season unbeaten that tipped him over the edge- from responsive, intelligent team building to unbelievable, blind arrogance? Or could it be his never ending addiction to economics? The latter would sit very nicely with the Board...

I think the blame lies with both the Manager AND the Board. The directors at Arsenal so regularly and patronisingly informed us that they never took anything out of the Club - but they put in absolutely fuckall. Peter Hill-Wood inherited his Arsenal shares, so did Nina Bracewell-Smith. By instructing or humouring their employee's indulgence in his obsession with penny pinching, they spent the least they could, reducing the Club's debt and maximising their share value for when they sold to the likes of Kroenke and Usmanov (via David Dein, who bought most of his shares from Hill-Wood). Kroenke, being on the Board, is obviously keen to keep Hill-Wood where he is - the Club churns out profit and they never need to invest - EVER. Fuck the fans - what a blinding little venture!! Even better when you can turn round to the recession battered fanbase and ask them for an increase of 6.5% on tickets. Talk about taking the piss. On one hand you baulk at spending a fraction extra to sign players that can make a clear improvement to the squad and the other you make a net £4.5m out of the pockets of the public that already pay your hyper inflated wages. It's beyond an insult.

I love this club with every grain of my soul but it's beyond obvious we need serious changes or, in an ironic contrast to our new slogan, we're going to be going (further) backwards. Let's see what happens next week.

Monday, 8 August 2011

London IS Burning...

It's kicking off - EVERYWHERE. Tottenham, Wood Green, Enfield, Peckham, Brixton, East Ham, Clapham, Croydon, Hackney, Ilford, Dalston, Barking, Lewisham. In Birmingham, too.

North. South. East. But, so far, no sign of anything in the West! Which is slightly baffling because if you're going to go looting - surely Harvey Nics or Harrods is going to be a better bet than Trixie Fried Chicken or Iceland. Diamond rings or prawn rings. Decisions, decisions. One picture made me laugh, some absolute jewel encrusted buffoon had looted from Currys in Tottenham and got nicked by the old bill trying to make good her escape. She had, however, forgotten that one of her looted treasures might haven given her away. The cretin was wearing a Currys' staff fleece with a nice stitched logo. You couldn't fucking make it up. Mug.

Another irony is the hoodrats, and they're nothing but curb scum, went and smashed up the JobCentre in Tottenham. Erm, hold on a minute, isn't that where you get your giro from, you useless fucking Jeremy Kyle fodder sewer filth? Actually, this is riddled with irony. This was started by a recognised criminal getting nailed in a preplanned operation - the old bill had plenty of reasons to collar this fella. Now the crowds are complaining about THEIR treatment from the police - after doing this. Although, they'll be happy when the coppers stop their houses getting burnt down. The mobs burnt down a Greggs in Croydon - they'll all fucking starve! In Clapham, they're battering down the door of Ladrokes. How are you now supposed to put the last fiver of your benefits on trap 5 to win some more special brew? Lastly, how are any of this band of tree swinging, cave dwelling low-lifes ever going to learn how to use a knife & fork when they destroy WIMPY? The excuse I just heard was they "Don get nuffing from der taxes". You deserve FUCKALL. You've never paid a penny of taxes in your life.

The Met Police don't have control. I've just seen a copper on TV get a brick in the face - sparked him clean out. We need to take the ARMY to these little pricks. Fire beanbag guns at their masked up faces - this is no way to carry on. How can we carry ourselves as a serious, a decent city when we let these little fucking hoodrats control our capital. We can't. This says how much is wrong with London. There needs to be a proper shake up after this. Wonder if they'll need a better wake up call than this?

The coverage on Sky News is pretty good. The BBC, in their usual shit style, have some poor interviews with some shop owners and no live pictures. Now the BBC are talking about the stock market. A bit more irony. The Sky News truck has been attacked - the BBC ran for cover. Apparently, the license fee doesn't buy you the armour necessary to repel rioters.

As the darkness falls, the proper menace will come out. Less light, less chance of getting nicked. More damage and more "fun" for the vermin to be had.

North. South. East and West. LONDON IS BURNING.

Friday, 15 July 2011

Ante-not-laugh-unless-they-fit-natal Classes: Part 1

I HAVE to write a post now. It's been a biblical distance since the last post and I'm starting to forget what the symbols on the plastic rectangle in front of me actually do.

So, in typical I-haven't-got-a-funny-subject-so-here's-the-boring-shit-I've-been-up-to style, let me tell you about my recent adventures...

Last week I went for my first antenatal class. What a madcap caper that was. Myself and the missus went down the hospital without a clue where the class was meant to be held and what to expect. Whilst eventually finding the venue, in a some random seminar room, we watched a proper variety of society take up their places in a pre-booked audience. One person of note was a fella who had literally had 37 bells of shit kicked out of him, sporting an nicely battered face including a broken nose and very black eyes, to the extent they had little bits of blood entering the whites. Clearly a right hiding. Great. NHS, quality crowd. Other randoms consisted of a guy that struck an uncanny resemblance to no other than Moby, with his Asian wife and some Kiwi fella that could have doubled a Hurley from Lost (the barnet certainly, though he wasn't as fat).

The Midwife leading the class went about describing all manner of hectic birthing manoeuvres, from the bizarre to the surreal - although nothing Mrs Coggblog hadn't seen on one of her many pregnancy or birthing TV programmes, One Born Every Minute being a prime example. She also managed to avoid pissing herself laughing at the diagrams the Midwife was drawing on her board. The Midwire drew an asterix, an actual star, for the lady's arsehole when explaining the dimensions of what was what going on during labour. I'm trying very hard to maintain composure, though this a challenge. This didn't phase me despite being sometimes surprising, certainly nothing to shock or bamboozle. However, we got to one stage where the dynamic all changed.

As we were sitting at the front of a U shaped crowd, constantly looking forward and toward this woman's artistic display of various parts of internal female mechanics and her endearing reference to the "mucus plug", the first question from the audience came as a slight surprise. We certainly didn't expect the origin - and most definitely not the content.

"Excuse me!" said the shocked voice from the crowd, as everyone looked around. Moby, of all the observers, had started to fit. Not a little fit, a full blown spastic plugged into the mains, I'm going to swallow my tongue, please take my bellend out of this broken toaster, mong fest. As his eyes rolled back like prices at Asda, the "Midwife" asked the class: "Has anyone got any medical training?". Brilliant. You're a medical professional with not the faintest, foggiest idea of why this poor civilian is buzzing out of his mind at the slightest mention of "mucus plug". How reassured we were! The guy with the battered face added an important suggestion: "Shouldn't you just let them fit?". Happy days, surrounded by experts.

Whilst Viscount Kwikfit gurned and contorted, the Midwife asked someone to fetch the poor chap a drink. I naturally obliged and ventured out of the seminar room toward the water fountain to grab the man a beverage. I got to the fountain and pulled two cups in one from the stack. I thought, it might be a good idea to fill both, hand him one to drink and dash the other in his face - old skool revival style. I declined. This was no time for heroes.

When I got back to the room, Moby was starting to come round. He looked paler than a Japanese anaemic in polar camouflage. As his eyes started to focus, he looked up to see a room full of pregnant birds, a fella with a totally battered face and a Midwife 10cm from his eyes asking him if he was OK? His response was nothing short of golden.

"I don't know where I am???"

Cue the ignition of our internal laughter nuclear reactors. YOU WHAT MATE?!!? This was meant to be a serious, educational setting in front of a random collection of co-preggers civilians. Myself and the missus were ready to crumble in tears of sheer hilarity we had never experienced. We so nearly collapsed and wept when we'd seen the star for an arse - now this was too much. I had to bite down hard on the corner of my fist to prevent myself from literally shitting with uncontrollable laughter. Dorothy, or whatever was the Midwife's name, carried on as if nothing had happened. Pro. Or maybe not.

The rest of the evening was spent teetering on the edge of buckling whilst Hurley from Lost kept relentlessly asking stupid questions. I managed not to screamingly rip the piss out of the defeated brawler - or his pale faced amigo cowering in the corner after his magnificent performance of an electrocuted epileptic. Needless to say, the latter won't be coming back to the next class if his pride is remotely stronger that his resistance to middleweight gore. God save the NHS. Until next time...

Sunday, 19 June 2011

The Apprentice: Sheikh – You’re Fired!

After what I can only describe as the greatest Apprentice episode ever, I’m left with some very delightful memories. In a nutshell, Natasha Scribbins is a dirty whore and Jim "Carbomb" Eastwood, despite surviving the "troubles", couldn’t terrorise his way to victory in the task.

Having the responsibility of being the team leader thrust upon her by Lord Aspartame, Natasha took the driving seat in the task – and instantly showed her true colours. I could almost see the thought bubble of “COCK, COCK, COCK,COCK” appearing out of her salivating head as she conjured the idea of doing a lads mag and asking a gaggle of randoms – “How do you blow your load?”. It’s nothing short of a miracle that she didn’t visit the area I work as a question like that would be joyful ammunition to absolutely ruin her on camera with a succinct but descriptive answer. Imagining Lord Aspartame’s reply “All over Karen Brady’s tits and occasionally on Nick’s chin, used to be Margaret’s tonsils”, I thought she was doomed, but I was to be proved very wrong. Sex does apparently sell for the old bastard.

Jim, clearly a bit fancied by the Sand Fairy, went along with the witty and well thought out idea of using the name “Hip Replacement” for his team’s new title aimed at the over 60’s market. Zoe, the woman who sounds like she has suffered a stroke or at least a significant brain injury, shouldn’t have had her mindless input considered, never mind accepted. They might as well of called the new magazine “Colostomy Bag News” or “The Piss Stench Gazette”, none of the ad agencies jumped at the opportunity to remind the older audience how brittle their skeletons were or how limited their lives had become. “Out with the old, in with the new” read their slogan. I thought the programme on Dignitas was earlier in the week? Not a winner by any means.

So, after getting pretty much devastated by the ad agencies, the little Sand Fairy arrived in the “boardroom”, climbed into his high chair and delivered a damning verdict for Jim and his band of idiots. Reliably, Susan ‘The Piranha’ Ma, waffled the usual bollocks whilst revealing that she’s actually only 21. Makes me think she must have seriously ping-ponged or partaken in some very heavy duty 4 handed massages to get her place on the show. Well, we all know Harry “Twitching Droopy” Redknapp likes a bribe – Lord Aspartame must have continued the t*ttenham tradition with that Oriental fountain of genius. As she wasn’t surrounded by 20 of her shoal, Lord Aspartame didn’t see her as a threat and she survive the chop. Unlike Stan Colleymore, who despite pleading guilty for his various attacks on women, held no favour with Lord Aspartame and the mug was rightly fired. Until next week!

On the subject of firing, this week I bid a warm farewell to my firm’s Finance Manager, a cheerful West African chap called, not titled, Sheikh. When I say bid farewell, I don’t mean actually say “goodbye”, as I never got the chance. He had suddenly gone AWOL, disappeared without any trace and not responded to any of the MD’s calls – leaving us all baffled. Playfully toying with the notion he was dead or had been convicted of multiple rapes, the company had absolutely no idea where he had disappeared to and the top brass were forced to send him a letter informing him that his position had been terminated. Little did we know! Dear old Sheikh, the reliable, invoice chasing comrade we had grown to consider as our own was in fact a massive tea leaf. His careful checked references appeared to be nothing but lies, written by his “uncles”. It came to light that Sheikh had been locked up for two years following a £100,000 theft from his previous employer. A name like Sheikh conjures up images of a white Mercedes, several wives and a lavish lifestyles. This Sheikh got the bus, had one wife (and a mistress, to be fair) and lunched on cold discounted Bangladeshi curries from the local market – we didn’t see that one coming. His tekkers was to issue refunds for products made by his old firm and then pay the money into his own bank account. Not quite a criminal mastermind, you cheeky bastard. He even borrowed money off a colleague before he left for the court house! Anyway, his new prison now has a black Andy Dufresne. A fully ACCA qualified new inmate. In no time at all I’m sure he’ll be doing tax returns for the screws and working for the warden. Or he’ll be getting buggered and beaten senseless on a daily basis. Perhaps the latter. Better start smoking Sheikh – you’ll need the currency!

Saturday, 28 May 2011

Ta Ta Me Old Fruit...

This is my last night in my ends. I'm moving to a cottage in the middle of fucknows-where-Kent as apparently they have hospitals that babies get born in without catching MRSA or get sold to a Latvian couple who paid "good price". It wasn't my idea, but the tickets have been bought and my beloved 500 Arsenal programmes are in a box halfway out the door - so I'm going.

It's going to be a shock to the system. I'm from Leytonstone. I'm used to chicken shops - not farm shops. I'm used to looking at someone like you're going to cut them if they touch your trolley in Tescos and being able to buy 12 beers in a black plastic bag off a Turk at 3am. In this leafy parish, Dot knows Graham, who's Colin the baker's son, who went to school with Phyllis - the lady who won Best Courgette 2004 at the village fete. Nobody fucking knows anyone in my manor - unless you've got beef or they actually live with you. Neighbourhood Watch consists of waiting until next door has gone out before popping their kitchen window and nicking their Xbox. Where I'm going they smile at you like perverts just for being in the same mile radius. When we went to view the cottage some yocal walked past and said to my missus: "Hello, how are you?" whilst smiling like a Cheshire cat. I said "Who the fuck was that? What did they want? Have you still got your purse?". In the motherland the only people who smile at you like that are traffic wardens and drooling crackheads about to plunge a screwdriver into your face for 48p.

I will cherish some very sweet memories of living round here. Like the time some Americans staying with local family asked me which way to the station and I sent them to "Fatched Ouse". Thatched House is the biggest irony since time began. It's in between Leytonstone and Stratford, has four Caribbean takeaways, 11 chicken shops, a Percy Ingle, a minicab office and a dirty cluster of estates. It's head, shoulders, knees and ghettos - there certainly ain't no mock Tudor culture down there! Anyway, the Yanks got robbed. I know this is fact as later on I met one of the estates' yoofs wearing the very same Denver Broncos watch Mr Yank was wearing an hour earlier. Classic.

Another fond memory is how none, absolutely none, of the pizza places in the area would dare go into my mates block to deliver a pizza. Not a chance, and certainly not the 14th floor. They had a five minute waiting time from when they parked their budget ped outside, as they knew, in six minutes, the vultures would come out and they'd be getting jacked. New drivers got ruined and learnt quickly. How many times we'd see hoodrats riding a Pizza Go-Go branded ped across the local park until the Old Bill wised up that the 13 year old "driver" wasn't legitimately employed and the bike was nicked. Comedy.

So now I'm heading off to a village with the population of about 100, probably about 97 by the time I get there - although not reduced from gun crime, just old age. People are going to be nice, which may take some getting used to. I might, however, have a trip back to East occasionally to stop myself feeling homesick- just to see the crackheads blow their noses on bus timetables and to grab myself a one piece snack box from Chicken Palace.

Gonna miss you East London - I'll be back!

Thursday, 19 May 2011

Wednesday, 18 May 2011

The Apprentice: You Mugs.

I've just watched The Apprentice for the first time in a long time. I know why I left it for such a long time. Do they actually pick people by how smack-me-upside-the-fucking-head-stupid they actually are?? One team, lead by the carnivorous and piranha faced Susan Ma, head into town to buy a Cloche. They don't know what it is. GOOGLE it. Jesus wept. How many primates are walking around with high powered smart phones clever enough to use Google, Bing, Bang or Ask Jeeves. Jeeves would laugh in your face and call you a mug. He's a butler and there to serve - but he's not a mong. That's right, go and buy a greenhouse you brigade of champion muppets.

The Grand Wizard Sir Rabbi Lord Aspartame OBE MBE QVC BBC ITV SKY1 LWT BHS C&A LandOfLeather Hons should have at least picked someone better than Super Hans in that rag tag bunch of High Street pirates. I turned over and literally thought I was watching Channel 4. Had PeepShow's Super Hans cleaned up his act, finally kicked the rocks, applied for The Apprentice and made good his buzzing existence? My survey said: Not fucking quite. No, it was some chump called Vincent. He could have been buzzing given the fact that he was leading his harem of pin-striped wearing business brasses around with about as much coordination as the Right Honourable Charlie Sheen MP, on a Bolivian day trip with an after party in Professor Burp's Bubble Works. Baffled. Useless.

I miss Margaret - and have a fairly educated idea as to what's happened to her:

Late at night, in his opulent offices in Canary Wharf (actually a shanty commercial park in Brentwood, Essex) Lord Aspartame asks loyal, hard working Maggie into his office.

"Send her in Tracy" (or whatever the bint on the fake front desk is called).

Margaret arrives.

"Margaret, I need your help".

Margaret, shuddering at the memory of Lord Aspartame's last request of help with an office enema and the Nescafe Brown Blend farts he stalked her with for a week, replies sheepishly:

"Yes, Your Holiness, how can I help?"

Stepping down from his eleven shoebox tall high chair, Aspartame gestures Margaret nearer.

"Margaret, take a quick look at these figures, in this spreadsheet, this one here, right on my desk."

As Margaret approached, shaking like a shitting spaniel, Lord Aspartame snapped closed his eagle like claws, dragging Margaret's alarmed face to his crotch.

"Now suck me like a bloody overzealous Dyson or you're FIRED! FIRED I SAY! FIRED!"

The rest is tragic history. Needless to say, the vivid, haunting, vision of fellating Aspartame's salty acorn was enough to drive poor Margaret away, forever. Forever in shame and denial. Lord Aspartame has now employed a seasoned cocksucker in the form of Karen Brady (used to noshing two old men at her day job with West Ham) and this task is part of every episode's team debriefing. He's never been happier and the series continues...

(For the record: The Vince/Super Hans comparison is fucking mine, not Dara O'Briain's: reference titter/FB at least 30 mins before the aftershow)

Saturday, 7 May 2011

SNUSRAGE and Slow Walkers...

I have very little snus. Almost none. The impending doom and sorrow is not having a pleasant result on my patience.

Yesterday, on the way back from shopping in town, a group of French tourist teenagers were crawling through Oxford Street station, SLOWLY. Very. Very. SLOWLY. Londoners move fast on the Underground - and so do I. In a knuckle whitening example of how blind they were to people wanting to get by, they occupied an entire corridor to look at a map, posters and just take in oxygen. I couldn't get by. This made me want to scythe these shellsuit wearing rats down with the rustiest, sharpest instrument I could find- although I would have been happy with a wooden spoon. When we collectively arrived at the escalator, my heart filled with joy and celebration that, in 10 seconds, I would be able to barge this group of Gallic pricks down the steel steps and watch their garlic stained skeletons crumple into a pile of satisfying dust. By the grace of God and the frogs' guardian angels, a pair of coppers walked through the mob just as I was preparing my "Iron Shoulder Technique".

Lucky fucking bastards. Along with those who want to dice with death by walking those lightweight, skinny, pixie suitcases that have longer legs than Peter "Freak" Crouch - yet are only travelling from London to Zurich or some other cunty highbrow wanker arena around Europe. It's amazing to consider the physics of how the two bars of their cases' extendible handles could gracefully wrap around their heads. That experiment was close to happening last night.

I am weaning / pining / catting / snarling my way off my beloved snus. Actually, I want to bite you on the FACE. I have been doing snus for 5 years and it packs a dirty punch versus cigarettes. You don't have the odd 5 minute snus. No. You have a snus for an hour. Or at my stage of addiction - almost all day. Now, I have to deal with the fact I have JUST 7 left in the universe. Some bastard in the European Parliament (I'd would cut him in half, fill him with salt & vinegar, then sow him back together with flaming needles) has decided that snus can no longer be sold to ANYONE in the EU.

W H A T. T H E. F U C K.

This person should be drowned in furious hornets. Or thrown into a bag of livid scorpions. You fucking bastard. Snus does profoundly less damage than smoking, it's cheaper and can be enjoyed anywhere. WHY take it away from people?? Brussels. The ultimate meeting place for the biggest wankers in Europe. You've done FUCK ALL for me here - now you take away my only vice (other than occasional binge-drinking ultra rapscallion adventures, you can't stop them, but they need snus too). I categorically guarantee that if an MEP crosses my path before I get my next batch of snus - there will be a kidnapping, torture and a very satisfying variety of katana blade manoeuvres.

Save a life. Bring me snus. I now have 6.

Wednesday, 4 May 2011

CoggBlog's Vagabonds #2+3

NAMES: Vlad & Leatherface

PAST LIVES: Oligarch & Mining Empire Heiress.

REASON FOR VAGABONDERY: Vlad's unending appetite for buggering and murdering Kazakh rent boys was seen as highly undesirable by the Kremlin and his once lucrative oil drilling contracts met a swift decline. His once beautiful wife, Leatherface, maintained a consistent addiction to the good life, provided by her father's successful mining business, her main vice being expensive fashions- Siberian Snow Leopard fur jackets. After she had rendered the last of the species extinct, accumulating 101 furs to form the ultimate body warmer, her wildlife loving father disowned her. She, along with Vlad, were left with nothing and started drinking petrol and Castrol GTX to cope.

HOBBIES: Loitering around the Jet garage in Dalston, trying to lap up occasional fuel spillages. Mourning the loss of their bastard son, Igor, who tragically died when his trapeze broke auditioning for Russia's Got Circus Talent series 5.

SPECIAL ABILITIES: As Leatherface no longer holds any moisture in her body, at all, she is completely impervious to damage by extreme heats. She has been known to snort the flames coming off oil rigs for shits and giggles. A feat previously expected by BP to be impossible. Vlad holds the audacious title of being the only man alive who can stare a bison to death. Experts speculate his dark rapist heart disturbs the bison's soul and the extreme fear of nonconsensual sodomy scares the bison to his doom. (Poor bison. Chilling.)

I encountered this begging "dream team" on the streets of Islington at 11.30am on a Sunday morning. Leatherface stopped me in my tracks to crinkle her face tighter than a last place betting slip and pretended to display some agony or distress in the hope I would reward her with revenue for her super-unleaded fuelled performance. Ushering my smoking companions away, in fear that she and they would combust into a raging inferno of perpetually burning flames, I told her quite bluntly that I had no change. Cue Vlad, with his menacing stare, to ask me himself. No Vlad. I'm no bison and you won't get a penny from me. Admitting defeat, the couple took their ethanol aroma elsewhere.

PLEASE NOTE: No bison, buffalo or ox were harmed in the writing of this blog post.

Friday, 15 April 2011

CoggBlog's Vagabonds #1

NAME: Neptune.

PAST LIFE: Aqua monarch.

REASON FOR VAGABONDERY: Controversially ousted from his underwater kingdom amid accusations of sexual relations with Ariel, a mermaid minor. Additional allegations including racism towards various members of the ocean public, including a leading civil servant, Sebastian, the Jamaican lobster - led to his demise.

HOBBIES: Catching pigeons for food, keeping his Big Issues dry, trying to contact estranged wife Ursula and furiously bashing one out over Angelina Jolie in his lair under a railway bridge in Shoreditch.

SPECIAL ABILITIES: Can communicate and fornicate with dolphins and other aquatic life. Breathes under water for 26 seconds. Can eat prawns with the shells on.

It was interesting to meet Neptune last Wednesday afternoon. He pleaded, with tears running down his barnacles, that he wasn't a marine paedophile and that all the charges brought against him were just an elaborate and cunning plan created by his arch enemy, King Triton. Asking him for an explanation, he replied in a rather mysteriously heavy Glaswegian accent: "Ah thoot she wer saxteeeen at tha teeem". Dubious Mr Neptune, dubious. I declined to purchase one of his magazines and let him go about his way. Sadly for Neptune, he drunkenly tripped on the curb in front of me, fell on the floor, smashed his face and pissed himself. What a tragic end for such a regal character.


Visit the CoggBlog Facebook Page - LIKE IT.
Send the link to everyone you have ever met - COMMAND them to like it.
Repeat whenever you meet someone. Forever.

Monday, 11 April 2011

Old Orleans Vs Harvester - FIGHT!!!

I've just had a very forgettable, or unforgettable, meal at Old Old Old Old Old Orleans.

We were served by a skeleton disguised as a bag of bones called "Ethel", who couldn't have been a day over about 97 years old. This bird was asking Jesus whether he would like "beans, fries or herby diced potatoes with that biblical fish". And Jesus fucking Christ, he wouldn't have stood for what I was served tonight.

I thought I'd be slightly sophisticated and order a starter other than a prawn cocktail, so opted for a "Black & Blue Mushrooms" dish which was meant to be sautéed (ooh, French) mushrooms, something BLACK(?!?)and blue cheese, served on brioche. I got something the resembled what you might find if you scraped a slice of toast along the inside of a toilet pipe coming from the deepest darkest dengue dengue fever intensive care unit in the whole of Africa - or an industrial colonic irrigation production line. The missus got enchiladas. Wise choice. After bitterly attempting to finish this tepid disgrace of an impression of cuisine, Elthel asked us if everything was alright and if we needed more drinks. Whilst receiving a bone shattering kick in the shin from the missus (translates to: be nice, we're at dinner), I decided not to ask for a pint of Tamiflu and an ambulance, instead opting to give a nod and a fraudulent smile.

Next up is the main course. You can't go wrong with a "Mardi-Gras Grill"? Just a plate of assorted grilled meats, served at once and hot? Yes you fucking can. As the usual 6ft tranny in a purple peacock outfit wasn't delivering his trademark dish, Ethel returned with our mains - and so chipper I thought she'd had her nostrils over a bottle of paint thinner since she took the plates from the starter. This brazen assortment of meat could very well have just been lifted off the M11. It was warm, so must have recently died, but so solid in texture that I felt like mailing them off to Help for Heroes as bullet proof armour for Our Boys in Afganistan. It could be saving lives, rather than trying to take mine. I'm trying to grip the steak knife with such ferocity that I miss sliced the steak, let go of the knife and it missiled about one inch wide of a fella's face sitting on the table in front of us. That could have been a fatality. Luckily, he didn't notice and still had both eyes. Whilst this circus is going on with my dinner, the missus is happily chomping away on her delicately cooked, well seasoned and fresh fajitas, blissfully unaware of my agony.

"Glenda" then introduced herself as our new waitress as Ethel was on her "break". I took that as Ethel has just had four strokes and perished in a piss stained heap of apron and bones - now Glenda wants her inherited tip. Bye Ethel. Glenda then repeated Ethel's enquiry and asked if everything was going OK and why I hadn't eaten my kevlar medallions. Not wanting to cause a fuss and quite keen to make an escape, I gave her the same façade and told her it was fine, I wasn't that hungry and would like the bill.

Considering I only even contemplated trying this place because I had a tenner voucher, the bill came as a BIG surprise. FORTY SIX POUNDS. This was AFTER the voucher. I felt like ripping off Glenda's colostomy bag and making her wear it like a hat. Resigned to nothing other failure at my choice of restaurant and with the slight consolation the bird had eaten her food, I decided to get the fuck out of there. Never again. Morale of the story is, go to Harvester. You'll get a waitress at least 80 years younger, meat you can cut without the aide of a diamond drill, more salad & croutons than your wildest dreams - and all for £20.

Wednesday, 6 April 2011

t*ttenham twins

In light of the recent brutal 4-0 raping of t*ttenham by Real Madrid, I felt it might be a good opportunity to honour these chumps with some uncanny look-a-likes.

At times I really couldn't tell them apart - especially Dodson.

Saturday, 2 April 2011

Night Bus Mentalists

I love a night bus. Just love it. When I can remember it. Like plucking various mentalists out of Broadmoor, you couldn't ask for a wider range of nutters - unless the invites went out to Gazza, Myra Hindley, Colonel Gaddafi, Uri Geller and Raoul Moat (and that would be a fun trip - just keep the knives off Hindley, the spoons off Geller and the guns off Moat).

It's not very often you get the chance to debate politics with a dribbling quantity surveyor from Putney or explain to stoned "Kamal" from Stockwell that the only way to get his daughter back is to stop robbing handbags and find a job. On a recent trip from Trafalgar Square, a Bolivian woman leant over to tell me she hadn't stopped itching for days. How gracefully reassuring. In the very same bus trip, a man turned round from the seat in front, in tears, to WHISPER how much "Before he hurt me, George used to eat jaffercakes, to eat jaffercakes". In any other situation I would hit someone like that very hard on a soft part of their head and run like the fucking wind. On this occasion, I'm on the only bus going to East London for at least an hour and doing anything other than slowly nodding seemed like it would cause the McDonald's night worker in front to get horribly stabbed.

However much a circus the next night bus is, I will never forget the very best night bus friend I've ever made. She was the kind of twisted, crack-guzzling mentalist that night buses were designed to ferry from secure unit to secure unit - and, to protect society, someone who really should be under a very large chemical cosh. I like to call her "Shouty Witch". I got on an N8 bus at Oxford Street and quickly manoeuvred into an empty seat, grateful for a rest after a long night out on the lash. Wondering how it was a bit strange that this was the only empty seat on a packed bus, I looked at the window next to my new seat companion, which was completely steamed up as if it was a windscreen of a Eskimo's Land Rover. It was the middle of August - this struck me as rather bizarre. I was soon to find out why. My beloved Shouty Witch then let out a tirade, which I can only compare to Scatman John receiving between 80-120,000 volts of direct current, right into the steamed window. This lasted 8 minutes. Who the fuck am I sitting next to. The civilians looked round with shock - and relief that they weren't me. Then I knew exactly why this seat had been free. At this stage there is no other space, let alone seats, on this packed N8. I am going nowhere. Shouty Witch carried an odour of piss, rotting chicken drumsticks and the all the sweat of a Libyan army tank driver. Before she managed to open the sachet of Whiskas or tin of White Lightening she magically conjured from an unknown orifice, it was mercifully the time for me to get off. I'll never forget you Shouty Witch, my night bus princess - let's just hope we don't cross paths again.

Wednesday, 23 March 2011

Snus, Crack, Heroin - In That Order

Sweden makes Volvos, flat-packed shelves and powerful mind bending snus. I gave up smoking about 5 years ago, but I might as well have started injecting skag into my eye sockets. It's got more nicotine in one tub than what went through Dot Cotton's lungs after 11 retakes of when Ethel died- which is very, very moreish.

Despite the fact I can actually breathe, taste grub and avoid having to go outside in the freezing wastes in the middle of winter, I do sometimes wonder what in the name holy Mary and infertile Joseph I'm doing bang on something you can only buy in SWEDEN. This is fucking crackers. It's not like I can trot down the Shell station night window, grub myself a quick Ginsters and pick up some snus. Nope, I've got to get it smuggled into the country like an Iraqi in a wheel arch. Plus, unlike most illegal consumables in the country, I can't go up to a fella in a pub and ask "Got a number for snus mate, got a number for snus?" then wait patiently for a shady character in a Golf GTI to pass a tub out of a tinted window. Not happening.

If, despite all my preparations, I do run out, it's goodbye sunshine- hello rage. Once, when I was awaiting the delivery of my new stock from Sweden and hadn't had a snus for about six hours, I was walking through a local shopping centre as a collection worker for an abandoned donkey charity stopped me right in my tracks to ask me for some change. I replied pleasantly: "Change? I'll change the appearance of the next donkey I see by setting it on fire and bring you the charred corpse, you horrible cunt." She was 12- but it was quite plainly obvious I was in no mood to be generous.

So if you're heading through Sweden any time soon, in the spirit of (donkey) charity and goodwill, please bring me back 10 tubs of General White portion snus and I will most gratefully refund you the cost upon delivery. Cheers.

Sunday, 20 March 2011

I Am (Apparently) Not A Stuntman...

About 18-25 drinks. A blend of London pubs on a stag night adventure. Beer. Spirits. Mixed beery spirits. Spirity mixed beer. Green stuff with taurine. After a very fun initial rampage through Wapping and then Whitechapel, I remember not very much at all. The vague memory I do have is the night bus driver shouting at me for making sick-like noises then kicking me off the bus. "Where the fuck am I?" I thought, as I literally swayed myself off the bus. All I could see was houses. I found another bus stop and realised I was in Hainault. Brilliant, I'm in England. I swayed my way down the road towards the station and found a closed cab office. As I had no battery on my battered phone, I used a phone box which appeared to eat the first four pound coins until it started working. I must have sounded totally ruined but the nice man said someone was coming to get me. Yipee. The cab arrived about 14 years later and I was delighted to be sitting in the warm - but it only made me more battered. I didn't know which way to tilt my head but it was guided by which way the car turned, like I was feeling G forces in a fighter jet. Luckily, very luckily, I live on a gated estate. Even in my supreme levels of drunkenness, I conjured a cunning plan to evade the driver and avoid having to pay the fare (I didn't have more than 87p anyway). I got through the gate but, in my ultimate wisdom, let Sergei come through after me. I must have totally snailed down the road away from the driver cos he didn't chase me at all - but I thought he was! He started shouting "Hey! Hey!" and I thought I better leg it quicktime or the geezers gonna switch. Running in between the blocks, I thought I could hear him coming after me so had to speed up. Rather than just run down the 5 steps in front of me, I decided it was critical to my hasty escape to absolutely launch myself, at the greatest possible height and speed, into the air. Dropping from about 10ft, I landed on my ankle, smashed my face and performed a stunning double diagonal roll. Some tekkers are baaaaaad. Absolutely broken and fucked from the impact, blood coming out of my hand and ankle ruined, I pulled myself off the floor and hobbled off round the corner and into my block. Mission accomplished, ta ta Sergei. Unfortunately, as I woke up on the floor wearing a defrosting steak & kidney pie and hugging a loafer, I realised that I'm not actually a stuntman and I'm in 11 shades of pain.

Sunday, 6 March 2011

An Open Letter To Mr Lately...

Dear Mr Lately,

You have come into my shop, now, 17 times. Your dishevelled appearance and pungent stench of "skunk" is not only distressing to myself, it is off-putting to my customers, even rastafarian Duncan, a patron of many years. I felt it necessary to write to you and officially inform you - you are now BANNED from the shop. It beggars belief that you cannot accept we do not stock, or have ever stocked, the 1992 trance mix "Pulse and Thunder". Naturally, your relentless pursuit of this unknown track aroused concern from my staff and we were forced to investigate your identity, hence this letter.

Are you actually the biggest buffoon in the history of air and food? Did it not cross your mind at any stage of your life, perhaps 1992, to create a copy of this alleged mix, for your own personal use? This strikes me as rather bizarre, Mr Lately. The suspicions of myself and some of the staff members are that you do, in fact, have multiple copies of this imaginary track and are using my shop for some form of cheap self-satisfaction. On that note, if you are seen within 100 metres of my shop we will be forced to call the police. Glenda, my sales assistant you recently assaulted when she laughed at what we now know is your vague and ridiculous name, has acquired a taser and she is most willing to use it - a taste of your own pulse and thunder if you will.

Additionally, it is shameful exploitation to send a girl of 14 on your pathetic marketing errands. We gathered she was your daughter by her equally dishevelled appearance and, rastafarian Duncan explained, her consistently red eyes were a sure sign of cannabis abuse. Disgusting, Mr Lately.

Your daughter is also banned.

With no regards at all,

The Proprietor, Haggle Vinyl.

Thursday, 3 March 2011

Arise: Sir Charlie Sheen

Words cannot describe how much of an epic legend Charlie Sheen has become in a fortnight. I'd fucking knight the fella and name a leisure centre after him:

The Sir Charlie Sheen Leisure Centre,
54 Caincrack Cresent,

Sheen says "I'm tired of pretending I'm not special. I'm tired I'm pretending I'm not bitching a total fricken rockstar from mars". Aptly put Mr Sheen, you are indeed special and nobody can deny you are bitching a total fricken rockstar from mars - how foolish of us to presume otherwise. He then went on to mention "Yeah, I am on a drug, it's called CHARLIE SHEEN! It's not available cos if you try it you will die, your face will melt off and your children will weep over your exploded body". (I've always wondered why my gran went madder than a gaggle of rabid geese when she polished the oak table in the front room, they need to put some warnings on that shit.) This came in the same statement of intent that he is going to sue CBS for $300 million following the firm booting him off his show. Outrageous. How dare they sack the man for merely being more buzzing than a kicked hornets nest for 26 hours a day?

I'd quite like to lock up Mr Sheen, Gillian McKeith, Frank Bruno and Kerry Katona in a dungeon with only magic mushrooms, meow meow and buckfast tonic wine as their only rations - wonder who would come out alive? On recent performances, my money's on Sheen. Whilst Bruno brutally raped McKeith for her snatch seasoning and teabag stash, I could see Katona's involuntary twitching rendering her powerless to Sheen's "fire breathing fists". As Bruno stood triumphantly laughing at his new bag of fishy oregano taken from McKeith's redundant corpse, his guard would be down - allowing Sheen to launch his venomous spit into Bruno's eyes, killing him instantly in a hallucinogenic nightmare and ending the melee victorious.

Saturday, 19 February 2011

2,000 Insane Women, Me and Barry Bulsara

I have a nipper on the way. This means I face an unrelenting pressure to fulfill certain "obligations". One of these is attending the supreme agony of the Baby Show 2011. It's a trap. It's like a mouse taking the very tasty cheese, only to find its spine has been spread like philadelphia on a fat bird's rivita by the rapid strike of a metal bar. Within 18 seconds of arrival, I had a crack squad of ninja hypnotists accosting my woman with offers of a visit to the Apeekaboo Imaging Specialist Midwife 3d/4d ultrasound clinic, just a snip at £120. Then we get pounced on by the Baby Sense, Baby Reflex, Baby Rug, Baby's First Calender and Baby Blooms cartel of mind capturing hustlers, who are asking for a street value of anywhere between £50 - £1000 for their services. For the love of fucking Christ. Naturally, the bird is well and truly intoxicated by this web of sinister lies and I'm having to prize these parasites off my wallet with a broken, sterilised, Avent, newborn to 3 months, bottle. It dawns on me that the only way I can escape this mob alive (or financially solvent) is to bribe my pregnant companion with gifts - so she can speak in hormonese to get us pass the guards.

I did have some rebel allies around me. Whilst the ladies discussed the delightful benefits of the SnoozeShade and Buggy Tug product line with one of the stand's fleecer extraordinaries, I exchanged glances with another fella who displayed a look which read simply as "HELP ME". Like men lost in the desert, all round me I could see dads and dads-to-be spotting flashes of heavenly Sky Sports News on the horizon - only to find it was a tragic mirage and quietly sobbing to themselves. Without a shadow of a doubt, I was overcome with joy that 4 o'clock had arrived and the voodoo wizardry of the charlatan sales army was wearing off on the missus. My escape was on the cards!

Just before I left, I nearly decapitated a toddler with the box of my exciting new bottle sterilising kit. His unhappy dad was a fella who had an uncanny likeness to that nutter, Barry George - who obsessively called himself Barry Bulsara (the real name of Freddie Murcury) and was accused of murdering a famous newsreader. That left me thinking - skaramoosh, skaramoosh - did he kill Jill Dando?

Tuesday, 15 February 2011

2012 Olympricks: Welcome To St.Ratford

What an exciting time. I was reading about how much the Olympricks is going to cost - £7.301 BILLION. What the fuck. I know Stratford well and you can't polish a shit, or despite what some people say - roll it in glitter. The one logical end result for the Olympic Park will be to build a KFC Ultrastore. This is the only thing that can possibly be accepted as a "legacy" for the local community. 7,301,000,000 one piece snack boxes. Stratford shopping centre makes a closing down sale at the Chernobyl branch of Netto look like a Camilla Parker-Bowles supermarket sweep in Harrods. There's a fish stall. There's a phoneshop. And, thank God, there's a Poundland. It's heads, shoulders, knees and ghettoes. Knees and ghettoes. Keep your eyes on the teef and a hand on your mouth. It's heads, shoulders, knees and ghettoes. Knees and ghettoes.

I am actually looking forward to a few events. Particularly the ones that showcase our local, homegrown talent. The 400m Handbag Relay (stiff competition from the Romanians), Archery featuring the Crossbow Cannibal on day release and, obvious gold chances, the Shooting- it wouldn't be Stratford without a dumbdumb bullet whistling past your face. Naturally, we can't forget the Paralympricks - although it'll be quite tricky to get races started when all the wheels get nicked within a heartbeat of parking on the start line. Equally challenging might be the Aquatic events, it's hard enough to swim with one limb without having to negotiate a skip full of exhaust pipes, an upside down Ford Cortina and two rusty shopping trollies. Best of luck with that folks.

Monday, 7 February 2011

Sunday, 6 February 2011

Toilet Humour

Apparently it's a faux pas to use the ladies when the gents is out of order.

I'll set the scene. We have two individual, sectioned off, bogs on the shared office landing at work, one gents, one ladies. On Friday, having had two coffees in the morning (and the night before a Nepalese curry), I literally started having contractions and had very little time to reach the WC before certain disaster. Upon my emergency arrival, I see that the gents is "Out of Order". There is only the ladies, que sara, this shit is serious. I would have expected a neat and tidy set up, not piss all over the seat - there's one myth dispelled - but I made my swift spruce, went into labour and gave birth to a rather unlucky Barry. Thank the lord above, the relief was golden, but the following aroma was not something to savour. A bitter, haunting scent that would have made a sniffer dog want to retire. Drying my hands, chuckling at the horror that would meet the next poor soul upon entering this box of woe, I thought it best to get the fuck out as quickly as possible.

I opened the door to see not only one lady - but an entire squad of women from a completely female PR firm based on the same floor, all queuing after returning from a long and boozy lunch meeting - and all desperate to use the facilities. The first woman looked at me in surprise then darted into the toilet as I made my rapid escape. As the door closed she gagged so loudly that it snatched the attention of her colleagues, who all glared at me in utter disgust. When the wave of stench hit them their faces displayed a look of alarm and distress normally reserved for finding a slaughtered litter of puppies - and I was the executioner.

Lesson learnt - apparently it's a faux pas to use the ladies when the gents is out of order - even more so when you're dropping radioactive bombs.

Monday, 31 January 2011

Bitter About Twitter

I'm actually so fucked off with Twitter I've given up with trying to fix a feed to this blog. Had enough. Fuck it. Can't be bothered. Some prize computer geek wanker is probably laughing at my constant stumbling around, tell you what mate, go out and get a bird, do some exercise and choke painfully on your fried chicken you sweaty, lazy cunt. Choke.

I'm actually bitter about Twitter. Very. It looks all straight forward - can't be that much of a challenge, linking one to another? I can link books together by gluing the outside back covers making a superb double novel or sellotape a few remotes together to make a master multimedia control device. That's some straight forward, top notch engineering. But putting a Twatter feed on my blog - fucking impossible.

SO, Mr Twatter, step forward and fix my shit, or perhaps throw yourself into a pit of angry scorpions. Both will make me feel better.

***IT TOOK ME FIVE DAYS*** ------->>

Friday, 14 January 2011

Crazy Horses (What A Morning)

I woke up this morning after a savage sleep. Not two hours solid as the bird's cough kept waking me up. As much as it amuses me, when she coughs really badly it sounds like the horses noise in "Crazy Horses" by The Osmonds, it pissed me right off trying to get some kip.

So waking up, after just about getting into a half decent sleep following the skillful placing of a pillow over her face, I angrily put a foot out of bed and stood on a plug. It was fucking agony. If you have ever stepped on the three prongs of a plug you'll know - it butchers the flesh. Reacting to the trauma of the plug incident, I instantly sprung my foot up and air-stubbed my toe on the wall. I'm in excruciating pain, two household booby traps within 18 seconds of getting out of bed, livid. Going into the kitchen, I hungrily manhandled 4 Petits Filous and tried to start maneuvers to get out the door.

I got to the station, running very late and had to sprint for a train. Normally I strategically pick a nice spot that I can read a paper in without getting civilians in my personal space. Not today. I dash into a gap between the door and this bird, fatter than Omlette off Lee Nelson's Well Good Show and with a (hairy) face like the broken dreams of a hundred orphans. The arrangement of this beast's profound gut means I cannot move, just simply stay in the same position, wedged between it and the door - both of us unable to look away from each other's face - for TWELVE stops. We entered a torturous psychological battle. The Juggernaut sneezed and couldn't bring a fist full of sausages to cover her mouth. I'm gritting my teeth to dust as the train gets into my station - thank fuck for that.

Stepping off the train felt like I had just come out of a very small cave with a Kodiak bear. Fresh air, no bacon sweat, lovely. Gratefully skipping up the stairs I got accosted by the ticket inspectors, no probs, I've got my ticket. No I haven't. The miserable bastard is standing there demanding some form of evidence I've paid for my journey and for all of my searching, no ticket means a £25 fine. What a GREAT start to the day.

Monday, 10 January 2011

Angry Gun Ninja Ladies

Came across a news article on the cheerful al-Shabab terrorist organisation banning mixed-sex handshakes in Jowhar, south Somalia.

Their bit of a "crack down" also included banning music. Adding to a culture where using a thumbs up is considered obscene, it's probably not going to be my number one holiday destination this summer. Especially considering what the vast majority of Brits are like abroad after a shandy or two, patting one of those gun toting Somlian shenobi Sheilas on the arse whilst asking for a dance to a poolside ghetto blaster - could very much land you in some hot water. Think I'll stick to Devon.

Friday, 7 January 2011

Making Parrots Look Healthy...

Feeling marvellous - and looking so good I've been banished to sleep on the sofa so the bird doesn't catch my sore throat / cough / bad attitude. I can't help but see constant groans of sickness in about every status update online and going on the tube is like walking down a corridor of the damned. Maybe I was the only person actually giving a shit by putting a scarf over my face on the filthy wagons of London Underground. I blame the scumbag caaaants sneezing into the air and coughing up their shit without a care in the world. That pisses me right off. When I went to Cuba, when the world was shitting itself about Swine Flu, you got off the plane and got scanned by a machine to see if you were giving off crazy heat, which meant you were probably quite under the weather. Lets do it on the tube. Scan every wheezing, spluttering and sneezing commuter - if they're warm, lockem up. No more scumbags spreading their shit on public transport, problem solved.

Saturday, 1 January 2011

Snappy New Beer! 2011 Here We Go!!

I'm sitting here drinking champagne round the bird's mum's house after a high octane evening of babysitting, swearing at the aggy staf(the loudest fucking dog i've heard all year, especially when you're trying to keep a one year old asleep upstairs) and some random parody of a Chinese takeway. The bird retired about 18 seconds into 2011 leaving me to rapidly hammer through the remainder of my gifted beers and now I thought i'd get on here and type some waffle about the last year. I recently installed some bollocks app on Facebook that turned out to be quite funny. It's called "My Year In Status' 2010"- thought it might be worth a mention so here's my picks of last year: