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.