"Celebrity" Big Brother 2012...

Ooooooooh, who is going to poison my televisual enjoyment for the next few weeks....

First on comes an irritating Julie Goodyear, AKA "Bet", in a blatant wig held on by a leopard ears headband, then the 11 chinned and aptly nicknamed "Fat Hev", who arrives looking like a high priestess from the Church of The Everlasting Pie.

A panic stricken "Fat Hev" chasing an ice cream van.

Fucksake, am I really going to be subjected to this for THREE WEEKS??

Next along, some annoying Yank bellend calling himself "The Situation". What an utter wanker of a man. He's got the boat of a dustbin man and he's wearing Ugg boots. The situation he's encountered is a sandwich between two of the most nauseating beasts ever to hit British television.

The ever shrieking hyper gay Brian Dowling, then presents one of his batty comrades, Julian Clary- who happens to be wearing what looks like a car crash between a camp acid hallucination and what an epileptic needs to see to start violently fitting.

Predictably, before the house turned into a morbid alchemy of beasts and gays, "Rhian", the token Barbie slut, arrives. She's apparently only famous due to the fact that a lanky showbiz fella from Bolton got caught sending her pictures of his cock. Naturally, she's as bright as coal and will provide us all with many valuable insights over the coming weeks.

Better hide, Harvey.

Considering we've not long celebrated the anniversary of last year's riots, it comes as no surprise that one of the people seen carrying a widescreen out of Currys on Tottenham High Street has entered to house to give it a bit of an urban twist. Presenting: Harvey from So Solid. Given his group's name, how long will it be before Clary gets the wrong idea and the rapper gets raped? Short odds on that one.

I'm genuinely praying for someone remotely interesting, or bitterly hated, to enter the house. Sadly, the show isn't called "Little Sister" so I doubt we'll see the latter criteria filled with the likes of Gary Glitter. I'm truly devastated Dog The Bounty Hunter isn't going in. I could see him accosting Harvey with the legendary advice "There ain't no ice in paradise, bradda". What a shame.

Housemate number 7? Samantha Brick. Who the fuck is she? She's been to "Maga-luff" apparently. What a coup to get her on the show. I'm sure she'll add a unique blend of fuckall to the house.

Next up: Prince! Sadly not the ribless, self fellating "Purple Rain" singer, but some sap called Prince Lorenzo. Sounds a lot like a pizza. I'm sure Fat Hev agrees and, with slobber dripping down her vast, gravy soaked cheeks, has already started planning her initial attack.

As the house fills with random idiots, the Albert Square reject and her Corrie counterpart are busy getting to grips with their secret task. The entirely innocent until proven guilty (legal aid) Harvey is lured into the glutton's close quarters as she feigns sadness on Big Brother's command. I'm genuinely concerned for his safety. Thankfully, the baying predator doesn't include Ackee & Salt Fish in her diet and skulks away to continue her pursuit of the pizza.

Time for another housemate- an executive brass called Danica. Looking very much like something to roll out of a Berlusconi "Bunga Bunga" party, she wastes no time in saying hello to her new housemates as "The Situation" furiously bashes one out, safely hidden in the shadow of Fat Hev.

The hungry housemates appear to have ordered a kebab. Oh no, it's not Mehmet from the Elstree branch of Kebabish Cottage, it's the next addition- a judo fella called Ashley with a head greasier than a KFC bin lid.

I'm seriously underwhelmed at this point. Seriously. Not that I was ever expecting a spectacular, unless they happen to throw in an armed and enraged Raul Moat or a totally wankered Gazza, I fear this might turn out to be a massive yawn fest.

Whoopti fucking woo. Here comes the former Bucket Clunge Grannies panelist, Coleen Nolan. Shane Ritchie got fed up with her and, coming from that irritating muppet, she's hardly the tonic we need to liven it up. I'm certainly not in the mood for dancing, that's for sure.

My head is hurting and it's not made any better by the next arrival, another gormless executive whore, the gaunt Jasmine. Swearing a few times to add credibility doesn't do it for me. I imagine that's who Fat Hev will use as a toothpick after finishing with the pizza.

FINALLY. Someone with some pedigree- Martin Kemp. A Gooner, singer of "Gold" and, arguably, the saviour of this programme. The house goes quiet in the presence of someone with more than a grain of personality.

Impeccable taste in perms - and football teams.

Julie Goodyear and Fat Hev have been given the next twist in their secret task. Beef it out!! In an exciting development, acting skills never displayed on television come into play and the hideous duo stage a mock argument. It ends in Bet hurling a glass of drink into Fat Hev's face. This is particularly impressive as the victim fights her insatiable desire to gleefully lick the liquid off her chops. She succeeds and the façade is complete.

A relatively amusing end to the introduction of this years gallery of "celebrity" freaks. Let's hope for some half decent bloodshed in the next few weeks.

My Midnight Seaside Adventure!...

Where the hell do I begin...

The next station is Westgate-on-sea. I've been walking for about two hours straight and now the morning people are looking at my suited, bleary self like I'm mad as a sack of rabid lemmings. Last night I fell asleep on a train that ended up in RAMSGATE. What chaos... But that's only the start...

Some hours ago, myself and a few colleagues attended an industry awards ceremony in Leicester Square, free drinks, all the usual malarkey. We indulged, but didn't go bananas. Sadly, my company didn't win an award, but it was a nice shindig all the same.

We departed the venue and went to rendezvous with our remaining colleagues who were just packing up a company conference event that coincidentally took place the same day. Apparently, to our entirely sober colleagues- our awards gang were already a bit smashed. But nobody told me!

As a new bigger bunch, we walked to a pub, sank a couple of pints then headed for LaPerla, a Mexican restaurant with a great bar in Fitzrovia- on my recommendation.

On arrival at the restaurant's bar, we were greeted by Patrick, the massively overzealous, but friendly, Canadian bar manager who I had met on several previous visits whilst working in the local area. He's a sound enough fella and properly adores ice hockey. The margaritas flowed and we didn’t waste any time in enjoying the trappings of the establishment. In our merry state we struck up a conversation with Patrick about ice hockey and I spoke some fluent bollocks about how much I loved his favourite sport. In celebration of our common ground, the Canuck decided to award myself and my workmates with a little treat.

From behind the bar, Patrick produced a "special little something" for his "ice hockey buddy". His reward happened to be a very rare, potent motherfucker bottle of agave spirit.

It went down easier than a crackwhore at a Charlie Sheen house party. And that's where things got a tad blurry....

My spontaneous WingChun dancing and Arsenal songs were clearly a bit too awesome for the venue and we collectively decided to move on- yet I individually decided, like a good boy, to go home and left the party to get my train from Charing Cross.

The next memory I have is looking up at the train's LCD display telling me the next station was RAMSGATE. It's gone midnight. What the sweet Jesus am I doing at the seaside?! It dawned on me that I'd been asleep for at least an hour on this warm, cosy train.

Wondering aimlessly like a fat man through Holland & Barrett, I thought a quick stroll down to the High Street might give me something to do for the five hours before the next train arrives to take me back to civilisation.

Ramsgate is not an opulent location. For starters, the name conjures up very unwanted thoughts of buggery- and that was most certainly something I wanted to avoid during my stay. Secondly, these seaside folk only see a man in a suit when they tune into their daily episode of Jeremy Kyle. Actually featuring on the show to obtain free paternity results constitutes a significant local achievement. It didn't bode well for me..

The only open pub/club/dive was starting to chuck out their customers and it took the best part of about 18 seconds before a trio of pissed up web footed scumbags decided to have a dig at me because of the suit.

"OI DICKHEAD! Do you work in a bank?! Are you a banker?! Or just a masshhhhive WANKER?!?" the trio's leader slurred (or something along those lines) loudly in my face.

"Well, bellend, you and your two lovers have probably never been in a bank, so how did you find that out- your social worker?" I replied (or something along those lines).

Needless to say, the banter had gone sour and matey's only remaining option to save face was to try and give me a slap...

His slow motion delivery of a drunken windmill punch amounted to absolutely nothing, other than a cheerful punch straight back in the chops. He fell over.

Bandit two and three looked gobsmacked that this random fella in a whistle outside their local had just managed to get the better of their leader and decided seek an instant revenge. After a bit of a scuffle, they hadn't got very far either and our dancing attracted the attention of the seaside law enforcement, who gleefully arrived to separate us and send us on our way.

My night wasn't going very well. I sat in a bus stop wondering what on Earth I was doing in this utter shithole, freezing cold and getting attacked by local mongs.

Sitting back pondering my fate whilst I stared out into the darkness of the sea, I get a tap on the shoulder from a dishevelled teenage girl.

"We've ad trouble off those arrrrs'oles tunoight too" the girl said in her best pirate accent as she stood with shoeless her mate. "And, Tina's broken her foot and needs to go to hospitaaal, but the police won't take her".

Ambulance perhaps?!? They explained that a paramedic did actually visit earlier, though refused to answer her pleas, telling her she was absolutely fine. I wasn't entirely convinced there was much wrong with her, apart from perhaps a bit of a gene pool crossover when she was conceived, but at 1am it was a conversation - and I humoured them.

'Kaaaffee' or whatever her name was, started crying that she needed to go to hospital immediately and, as I had zero to do in the locality and was getting bored shitless of their moaning, I decided I get them a taxi.

Queen Mother Queen Elizabeth Hospital is in the absolute middle of nowhere in Margate- the middle of nowhere and despite the harbour scum running around mindlessly drunk that evening, it was completely empty. Not only does it have a fucking ridiculous name, the staff are idiots and it wasn't long after I'd seen the two Vicki Pollard clones into triage was I set upon by the jobsworth wanker of a security guard.

This grey haired plank couldn't have been a day younger than 70, yet felt harassing yours truly was well within his ability and he decided to have a pop at me for lying across a few seats in the waiting room, trying to get my first sleep of the evening.

"I'm sorry sir, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave. This waiting room is for family members and those waiting for treatment. It's come to my attention that you are neither of these and I must ask you to leave" the almost antique muppet droned.

The time was half past bastard freezing o'clock in the morning and the very last thing on my mind after somewhat of a palaver of an evening was to obey this pathetic excuse for a man and stand outside in the Arctic coastal winds whilst I waited to see if my project of saving that young lady's life was going to come to fruition.

I replied honestly "No mate. I'm doing nothing wrong here, it's icy cold outside and I've paid my last tenner on Earth to make sure the girl getting treated, in there, made it to hospital- so I'm staying put."

Clearly Herbert or Norman, or whatever this walking power trip happened to be called, didn't like the fact I had no respect for his authority and said he was going to call the old bill to remove me. Brilliant! That would actually come as a right touch, I'm totally brassic, have no idea where the hell I am and a lift to the station would go down a treat. "Go and call the police then you mug", I said before getting comfy again across my five seats.

As I drifted off to the sound of a 1998 episode of Midsomer Murders on the waiting room telly, Judge Dredd returned from behind the thick reception glass to deliver his next spine tingling threat.

"That's it sir. I've given you enough warnings and I'm now going to be forced to remove you myself".

Being half asleep and wondering if this irritating mosquito might just go away, I thought I'd show him a compromise and wait in the porch area, in the warm, yet away from his precious waiting room territory. He followed me out and bizarrely tried to shunt me out the door, which failed miserably.

"Look, Batman, it's fucking freezing outside, I've done nothing to you or your establishment and I'm legitimately here as I paid for the taxi for a patient who's currently getting treatment. Can you fuck off?" I shouted as his pointless pushing was really starting to piss me off.

"RIGHT, THAT'S IT!", the grey haired warrior squealed whilst grabbing my wrist and trying the classic neighbourhood watch jitsu manoeuvre of twisting my arm behind my back. It didn't work; I twisted away from his deadly technique and pushed him off. This was starting to get a bit moody. I decided against ironing him out as my lift from the old bill would inevitably end up taking me to entirely the wrong type of station- especially as this was all bang on camera. I wasn't here to cause trouble anyway!

Finally, Frank Drebin gave up his futile attempt to rough me up and scuttled away to apparently call the plod once again. They must have been so bored of this buffoon, relentlessly crying wolf the minute an innocent pinstripe came into his beloved waiting room. What a massive, pointless wanker of a man.

Shortly after the fracas, the two young vagabondettes emerged out of the A&E doors and it was time to make a move. "Cheers mate", I waved sarcastically through the reception glass at my new friend. Finally I could start making my way home.

We left the hospital grounds, I said goodbye to the two girls and attempted to follow their vague directions to Margate station. It took about 30 seconds before I gave up and reverted to the trusty old maps app on my iPhone. I felt a sense of victory walking along the sea front and arriving at the station in the blinding early morning sunshine. I knew I would soon be out of this shithole, never to return ever, ever again.

(Written on the morning and during the day of June 22nd following my adventure the night before, only able to post today due to lack of internet access)

I've had enough of Blogspot...

Infuriating settings on Blogspot's epically shit iPhone app mean I can't edit and finish drafted posts because they are written in CODE.

I know diddly fuckall about this matrix nonsense and I'm not about to start learning now.

There's been a whopper of a post sitting on this app that I've been keen to publish, yet the bastards in the colourful houses at Google (who I'm pretty sure run Blogspot) have made it painfully awkward for me to get it out.

Anyway, apologies for the lack of posts, I'm close to renaming the blog "Less Waffle Than a Sudanese Anorexia Clinic".

I will, and this is a promise, get scribbling soon and make my long anticipated return with a grating abuse of someone famous, perhaps a parody of some persuasion or maybe just a good old rant with a Coggblog twist.

For the meantime, whist the dregs of society shit themselves with joy as a flicker of fire rolls through their decrepit ghetto streets, I hope you're all looking forward to the international school sports day as much as I am (gauge sarcasm)- it's going to fuel much mockery on my part.

Back soon.

Egyptian April Fool's Day...

I'm sitting here starting to write this whilst we wait on the runway ready to take off from Sharm El Sheikh airport. It's been a great holiday but I'm absolutely convinced the concept of April Fool's Day is not lost on the Egyptians.

As we looked up to the TV screens, anticipating some form of delay, the departure status had changed from On Time - to DEPARTED.

WHAT THE FUCK?!?

Naturally, panic set in as we have no clothes, very little holiday money and no Bedouin mates down the road that can put us up in their tents.

Missing the flight home equals an epic fail.

Upon asking Mohamed, Ahmed, Mohamed, Mohamed and Hisham, the most detailed reply we recieved was "ten minutes". We had been beside gate 7 since we arrived and only flights for Manchester and East Midlands had departed from the other gates- surely the bastards haven't changed the gates and left without us?

Finally, as some Egyptian airport officials (who looked as formal as Royal Mail postmen) arrived at our gate to signal our departure, it dawned on me that we're clearly being made champion mugs out of as the victims of their April 1st gag.

As you've learned from above, I made it on to the plane. But my April Fool's torment doesn't end there.

Because we arrived at check-in early, we were granted the choice of whether we preferred two seats either side of the aisle, or a window seat and a "sandwich" seat sat together.

My usual luck is in, I've ended up in the sandwich seat.

And when I say sandwich, I mean one fucking mental sandwich.

To my right is the girlfriend, sleeping gracefully in her window seat, blissfully unaware of her surroundings and for all intents and purposes having a lovely flight.

Now comes the actual horror of my remaining neighbours.

To my left is a woman I can only describe as a planet. Her GUNT is what she is resting the fold down tray on. Really.


She has demolished an entire packet of the Egyptian version of Rich Tea biscuits and now continues to wade aggressively through a double club sandwich / Pringles combo she purchased from the snack trolley.

And she reeks of sweaty piss. Splendid.

That's just the first of my fabulous jetsetting neighbours.

The "couple" in front of me, consist of what is best described as a fat, Arabic George Michael and his 6 foot 2", redhead, TRANSVESTITE companion.


I had seen this mammoth brute in the airport some half an hour before boarding my flight. What immediately stuck me as bizarre was why a man with a face as rugged as a North Sea lobster fisherman and hands like JCB buckets happened to be wearing a leopard skin dress- holding up quite a sizeable pair of clearly fake tits.

Grotesque. And sitting in front of me nibbling its boyfriend's ear.

Furthermore, this double act of beast and keeper have relentless coughs. Oh I do love a cough in a confined space. There's nothing I quite like more than some horrible freaks generously spreading their diseases in a closed environment. Delightful.

I'm thrilled and elated to let you know there's one final humdinger of a neighbour in this assortment of my travelling company.

Now, I've certainly not got anything against people with learning difficulties, or the disabled- I could probably blag the latter with my digit deduction. I'm glad they get the chance to holiday like the rest of us, see new things and enjoy a break from their normal "9-5".

However, I'd really really really rather the inquisitive chap in front of me to my left, stop staring at me.

I'm in row two, though certainly wasn't aware the front row was reserved solely for trannies, their rotund chaperones AND the mentally impaired.

The latter of the trio has consistently locked his eyes on me over his right shoulder, whilst dribbling and occasionally clapping, and I'm starting to get slightly jarred by it. If it wasn't for the clapping I might have thought he was dead.

This is very off key. (and a photo is, even for me, inappropriate).

By the grace of God- the drinks cart has been round. Hopefully my purchase of 4 cans of Stella and 3 brandies will provide me with the lullaby I desperately need to survive the remaining FOUR AND A HALF HOURS IN THIS FLYING DUNGEON.

Otherwise I think I'm going to get out here.

Thanks Egyptians, your April fool's gags have gone down a treat.

t*ttenham twins 2

As I haven't posted in a little while, I thought I'd revisit one of my favourite previous blog posts (click here to view) with some new additions:

Or perhaps...


But Arsenal have a classic too...



If you can think of any better please give me some suggestions on the More Waffle Facebook Page.

More Chins Than A Chinese Phonebook...

America is famously the arena for insanely fat people. Not only is the morbidly obese welcomed - in some cases they are CATERED FOR.

A recent story caught my eye- well it couldn't help catch my eye, it was almost everywhere I looked- featuring a very fat man, in a Las (Johnny)Vegas restaurant so aptly, or ironically, named, "The Heart Attack Grill".

The unnamed fatso had to be rushed to hospital after suffering a cardiac arrest while eating a 6,000 calorie 'burger to die for'- You couldn't make it up.

No, you really couldn't. You'd need 86 rashers of bacon and about a herd of cattle.

This multiple chin beast had ordered what is probably perceived, in famine stricken Ethiopia, as a year of food. The menu in this gaff consists of "Single", "Double", "Triple", and "Quadruple Bypass" hamburgers. The hospital themed restaurant has waitresses entitled "nurses" and takes orders, otherwise known as "prescriptions", from the customers AKA "patients"- or as we'd know them, proper fat bastards.

The paramedics must have thought someone was taking the piss:

"Hi, yeah, is that 911?. We've got a patient here who nurses understand has had a recent quadtruple bypass" they would exclaim.

"He's suffered a cardiac arrest after eating a 'burger to die for', can you come at once??.."

"Erm, how's about you stop fucking about and making a mockery of our service? Over". The ambulance staff would reply (in a yank accent).

However, the emergency medical personnel did rush to the scene and, upon arrival, stretchered out the lard swigging customer, believed to be in his 40s, into an assisting Arctic lorry- only for the wheels to burst and his rampaging gut to spill out on to the pavement.

Owner Jon Basso was naturally sympathetic, "The gentleman could barely talk. He was sweating, suffering."

"I actually felt horrible for him because the tourists were taking photos of him as if it were some type of stunt."

HA. You felt sorry for your newest Mount-Burger-Kong whilst you charged a few excited Japs $15 per photo -oooooh, I detect such sincerity. Last year the restaurant ran a promotion offering a free meal to any customers weighing over 25st -Gillian Mckeith would shit herself with angst.

Alas, it's not only America...


Simon Stocky, who can't be named for legal reasons, got stuck last year while trying to exit from a shop in Manchester City Centre. The svelte doughnut addict only wanted to come in to buy some XXXL hats for knee warmers - but was thwarted by the store's preposterous 1.5m doorway. The gravy sweating kebab hunter explained:

"It was like something out of a comedy program. Like Porridge or something. It was like Father Ted. Only with me... and a door... and without priests or the Irish."

Now let's get something very very clear here big boy.

First of all, despite it being obviously top drawer comedy, in Porridge, they were locked up and didn't get the chance to ransack their tuck shop of Cadbury Creme Eggs to the point of gluttony.

Secondly, I'm Irish and I know they endured an awfully long famine, which reduced their national average weight to nearly nothing. Don't start picking examples out of genuinely thin people to justify your gargantuan girth and resulting failure to escape out of Topman, you fat fuck. Maybe if you removed the preservatives and additives from that statement you might start speaking sense.

The next statement is also as calorie drunk as the last:

"I was mortified. It was like a horror film. It was like being at the circus. My lawyer expects that I could get thousands, which is a lot of money. Then I'd be rich and that would be like Dynasty or Dallas or something."

Yes, circus. An entirely appropriate classification for a consumer of your circumference. The only thousands you should be getting is with the hundreds on your 99,999,999p flake, delivered by an Olympic sized fleet of specially designed ice cream vans. In a further injection of truth, the nearest you'll be getting to Texas is Dallas Fried Chicken on the High Road.

He went on to make this chubby conclusion:

"You'd think they would make the doors in these shops normal size, instead of really thin. It was a disaster waiting to happen. And it happened to me when I got stuck in the doorway."

The only disaster, my spherical chum, will be if you happen to plant both epic thighs down simultaneously, therefore putting the poor people of South East Asia through another suffering cycle of quake and tsunami.

As you can get a strong range of grub delivered to your door, my advice is, stay the fuck at home.

Houston - We Have A Problem...

This morning I awoke to the news that pipe licking 80's superstar Whitney Houston had died. In fact, when I posted a Facebook status mentioning the above, my friend Tina called me and asked:

'What's crack got to do, got to do with it?'

Unfortunately, Tina- a great deal.

In emotional scenes outside the Beverly Hills Hilton, where the body of the songstress was discovered at 4pm local time, many people were seen in floods of tears, claiming how much she touched their lives and how sorely she'll be missed.

Well, mainly the crack serving community of Los Angeles and her newsagent, who had ticked her 800 cans of Red Bull.

Initial reports described Houston was found in her hotel bathtub with prescription sleeping pills nearby. However, later information came to light she had actually drowned after underestimating the true power of Matey bubble bath, which consumed her in millions of soft, fruity fragranced bubbles.

The entertainment industry is in mourning for the adored music legend, with actor Charlie Sheen being one of the first make a tribute:

'Boom, crush. Night, losers. Winning, duh. It's a big shock, obviously.' he stuttered.

'She was a great friend and a talented smoker. Wow, that woman could melt some stones. I remember she used to call me in the middle of the night and say "Oh, I wanna smoke with somebody. I want to feel the pipe heat with somebody. Yeah, I wanna smoke with somebody, somebody that can keep up with me". Then we'd be on the gear for days'.

As well as her music, which earned six Grammy awards and 22 American Music awards, Houston had success in Hollywood, most famously with the 1994 smash hit film The Bodyguard and also 1995's Waiting to Exhale.

The latter aptly named after Houston's apparent inability to understand the rules of the 90's smoking game 'Taxi', which lead to her slamming mammoth tokes that she kept inhaled for up to 7 or 8 days- ultimately forming the core of her insatiable crack appetite.

Needless to say, Whitney Houston's memory will live on in all our hearts.

A Return Ticket to Being an A Class Wanker...

So it appears the legions of this country's most annoying travelling wankers don't just move around on National Rail between Kent and London Bridge. In fact, they're everywhere - and in gloriously high numbers on the Tube.

When I'm travelling I travel FAST. I walk fast, look for the fastest route and, at every available opportunity, I ACCELERATE.

Like a crippling disease, there is one group of people who ruin, not only my own, but my fellow commuters' chances of catching anywhere near the next train:

Suitcase walkers.

These progress devastating weak bastards, at best, need to be thrown head first down an escalator.

Like walking a terminally ill chihuahua or another small rat like canine, they inconsiderately tow along their minuscule boxes at a stoned snail's pace - and by handles long enough to scratch a man's arse on the moon. This is utterly inexcusable and really deserves nothing less than the electric chair.

Another fury evoking activity of A class wanker commuters is people who sneeze or cough into the raw air - or their pathetic 'hand cones'.

Making an open hand cylinder does NOT, even vaguely, correspond with the government guidelines of 'Catch It, Kill It, Bin It' - and I don't want any of your filthy germs.

How about I put a hand cone around the nozzle of a pipe pumping out deadly nerve gas, then shove that in your face? Will you rapidly perish in shaking agony or will you survive, safe in the notion the trusty hand cone has prevented the spread of the toxic chemicals?

You'd be fucking dead. Cover your face properly, you horrible bastards.

My last gripe (for now) involves the gormless subway rats that, during the peak of rush hour, get to the front of a gigantic ticket barrier queue with no money on their Oysters or the wrong tickets.

It makes me grit my teeth to dust. Any sane and sensible human would check their balance before wading into the massive, yet these twats have a look of surprise on their faces similar to the look someone would display watching Pat Butcher brake dancing in a mankini.

At that hour the only reasonable course of action should be a trapdoor opening beneath them, introducing the cretinous mugs to a pit of furious cobras. Area cleared, delays avoided. London and, more importantly, me happy.

And people wonder why travelling on the Underground makes folks angry?

Rent Me Out: Starring Wen-Jing Ho...

"Paddy, Paddy, Paddy. What have you let yourself in for?", I muttered when I first set eyes on Beijing's 'Sloppy Ping-Pong Ball Champion 2001'. There she stood, grinning like a Cheshire cat, fully in the knowledge that she'd had more come ups than an Ibiza nightclub dance floor, trying to innocently portray her eligibility as a credible participant on ITV's Take Me Out. Oh HO HO, we were soon to discover the truth, splattered (pun very much intended) all over the newspapers.

Wen-Jing Mo was, in fact, a dirty cock guzzling whore and, by freakish sex worker magnetism, it turns out her date, Aaron Withers, was also a dirty cock guzzling whore.


Let the Gigolo, meet the hustler! They got on like a brasshouse on fire.

It beggars belief that ITV didn't perform some form of background checks to ensure the integrity of one of its flagship programmes. Even the simple question:

"Have you at any time gobbled shaft for a quick buck?".

If they had, the following controversy may never have happened.


The newspapers ran a story that told of Wen's claims Aaron 'manipulated' her into bed after pairing up for the show's reward trip to the Isle of "Fernando's"- which sounds very much like a red light establishment in itself. I doubt, massively, there was any manipulation of any sort. With both adept at putting out for pocket money, in Wen's case reportedly to buy a loaf of Hovis and pay her council tax, I imagine the only discussion was a negotiation on rates.

Wen farcically went to on allege that she had used the £3,000 per WEEK she had earned taking bullets from businessmen strangers to put herself "through hairdressing college" before "taking a job in the property sector."

Well she was most certainly used to taking jobs, that's for sure.

The total she apparently saved over six months on the game would have come to an astonishing £72,000. Hairdressing college?!? Was she personally trained by Nicky Clarke? On a private jet to Monaco?? I think it would be more sensible to interpret the crafty slut's recollection as:

"I splashed out some serious wedge on the entire Gucci summer catalogue, snorted about 50 grams of coke a week then put down a deposit on a buy-to-rent flat in Hackney Wick".

Sadly, in the usual recap on the previous episodes' dates, they didn't show the rentboy and the smut vendor haggling over sexual favours, or, in fact, any of their date. Rumour has it that Aaron fell asleep and Wen left promptly with his wallet- provoking a violent altercation between himself and a West Indian crack addict pimp called "Street Daddy".

ITV are continuing to investigate the incident.

First Class Ticket to Being an A Class Wanker...

What is it about these grey, mundane wankers who ride the National Rail?

I get on a busy carriage, there's one seat free between the 6 section they're sitting on and they close up their ranks like a primary school to a surprise visit from Gary Glitter.

What do you think people are going to do, you grim faced commercial pricks, not sit down? Just because this mug with his Inspector Gadget jacket happens to be playing a giant game of solitaire on his iPad 2, does not mean he has exclusive rights to the arm and shoulder territories of seat 3b.

Never mind the knees.

MOVE YOUR FUCKING KNEES. Someone is trying to get to the vacant seat, this is not final stage of Krypton Factor and neither are your pinstriped legs a climbing frame that I should have to manoeuvre to beat Cliff from Halifax to this week's trophy. Absolutely, infuriating.

When someone happens to blow their nose, out of necessity - not mirth, it's not a spectacle, the person is not pulling a chariot of burning elephants through their face and it does not require any of you gormless dickheads to look up from the pages of your City AM to address the occurrence.

Additionally, the 'Brompton' folding bike owners need to be put through at least a month of water boarding for leaving their twisted metal obstacles in front of the doors. If you want to cycle from home to work- DO THAT THE WHOLE WAY. Don't piss off the entire remaining commuter community by leaving these treacherous antipersonnel devices lying in wait for an innocent civilian to impale themselves on before 8am- you neon clad, trend sucking, selfish cunts.

So, if any of the above descriptions match your behaviour- heed this warning:

The next time I travel by National Rail I will be armed with an arsenal of Ginsters Pies, fresh out of a 1000 watt microwave, that I will open and slap the molten contents across your faces, forever maiming you for your heinous rush hour crimes.