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.

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.

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.

HAPPY CHRISTMAS. XXX

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.

Regards,

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??

Coggmas Advent Calender: 1st Dec

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