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.

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 Facebook.com/Coggblog, 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.

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.

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.

Constructive Rage...

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.

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...