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*** ------->>

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.

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.

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.

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:

G'day Ashes!

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

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

More Hammered Than An Auctioneer's Desk

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

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