Wednesday 23rd December 2015

Caffeine Shampoo.

What the fuck is that all about?
You may as well just pour coffee on your head, surely?
Cold coffee though. Hot coffee would burn your scalp and then you'd have to sue yoursen.

They say you have to hurry cause it's moving fast.
I should think so. It's full of caffeine.

Monday 4th May 2015

It's the 4th of May.

T'interweb has been inundated with all sorts of Star Wars shit, but as I'm not a sad cunt I'll not go there.

Just watched the film Lucy.
What a crock of shit that is.
If you've not seen it then I'll not ruin it for you other to say that I have just wasted an hour and a half of my life that I'll never ever get back.
I also wasted £6.99 of my hard earned cash, but that's a different moan for another day.

Can't believe the last time I wrote on here was 14th February.
Valentine's day, if you're that way inclined.
Another bastard waste of money.

I drove from South Yorkshire to East London this evening.
Driving down the A1 I saw signs that told me that there were delays on the M11, between junctions 9 and 10.
Plenty of time to clear, I thought.

A14 was OK. Weather was a bit shit, rain and cloud.
When I left South Yorkshire the sun was out. I'm wearing shorts, it was that fucking warm.
Get south of Grantham and the weather's shit.
Who said that it's grim up north?

Anyhoo, hit the M11 and sure enough all the fucking 50mph signs are lit up.
I'm sure they do it just to fuck people off.
The traffic got a bit heavy and so I was bracing myslef for a huge delay.
You know, trying to pretend to myself that there's nothing you can do about it so you may as well just sit there all calm like when really you just want to punch some fucker and scream CUNTS at the top of your voice.

Before too long I could see blue flashing lights in the distance.
Traffic on my side slowed down but I noticed that the opposite carriage was still free flowing.
Which is fucking typical.

As I got closer to the flashing lights I saw it was two police vehicles, on the hard shoulder, on the opposite bastard side.

The entire fucking hold up was people heading south east rubber-necking what was going on but the people heading away from London couldn't give a toss.

I suppose they are used to it.

If course I didn't look to see what was going on but I did notice that one of the vehicles was the armed police.

I hope some cunt got shot.............

Saturday 14th February pt2

‎We're in Wetherspoons, slumming it again but hey; the beer is cheap, and I had to climb the many stairs to go to the little boy's room. 

It ain't that little and men use it, but that's not the point. 

There was a bloke in there standing at one of the stones having a wee and sending a text on his mobile phone. 

What a cunt. 

But what is worse is that he had a very old flip phone, one of those with a tiny little screen and only a numerical key pad so you have to press each button multiple times to get the letter you want. 

All I could hear was beep beep beep beep as he pressed the keypad. 

So matey, you a a proper cunt, and I'll explain why. 

You're a cunt for using your phone whilst having a piss. 

You're a cunt for using your phone while I'm having a piss. 

You're a cunt for having a phone that is from the Ark. 

You're a cunt for leaving the keypad tones on and making all those beeping noises. 

All in all, you're a proper cunt...............

Sent from my BlackBerry 10 smartphone.

Saturday 14th February 2015

‎Do you know what I hate, what really fucking annoys me?

Quite a lot really, but I'm talking about something in particular. 

People who walk on the right when the signs say "Keep Left" and people who stand on the left side of an escalator. 

I'm primarily talking about train and tube stations I suppose, and obviously the tube stations are in London but the train stations are everywhere, and in particular in-between the tube stations at places like Bank, Kings Cross etc, where you need to keep left for a reason. 

To stop all the fucking idiots rushing around everywhere and colliding into each other. 

I often travel from East London to Doncaster on a Wednesday afternoon. 

For those of you who have never left your village, or even your street, then stop reading now cause there will be all sorts of words you don't really understand, like train and tube and DLR. 

The Docklands Light Railway, for those who don't know, is a very slow moving roller coaster that goes round the east of London without drivers. Or maybe midget drivers, as once reported on www.thespoof.co.uk

Anyhoo, I go from East India, which is a DLR station not part of a fuck off great big country, ‎to Bank, which is a large, multi-platform station where you can travel on many underground lines as well as the DLR and not somewhere to deposit or withdraw money. 

Fuck me longways people, keep up, do I have to explain everything?

From now on, if you don't understand something the Google the fucker. 

Bank, as I just said, is a large station and you have to walk about a bit to get from platform to platform. 

You have to use escalators. 

Many many other people are doing the same thing. 

I then catch the Northern line to King's Cross which also involves a bit of a walk about‎ and more escalating. 

I don't have a lot of time to do all this and have to (a) walk quickly and (b) walk up and down the escalators. 

So my fucking point is, keep to the bastard left whilst walking around the corridors and stand on the bastard right on the escalator to allow people to walk up the left.

Sent from my BlackBerry 10 smartphone.

Sunday 1st February

Pinch and a punch and all that bollocks.

Don't you just hate it when you want to give someone money and they don't seem to want to take it.
I mean, I am already giving them money every month, but I want to give them more.
But only in return for something.

My better half told me not to, told me they were shit, told me their customer services was crap.
I should have listened to her.

She ain't called the better half for nowt.

Anyhoo, I'm talking about Vodafone, the shower of shite.
I was eligible for an upgrade so I went to the shop in town.
I really fucking hate going to town cause the lifts in the car park take about half a bastard hour to arrive and then by the time they do arrive so have around thirty other people who all need the lift.

So you have to stand there for 30 minutes, getting agitated, and then you have to squeeze into a little metal box that groans down the one floor to the middle of Debenhams.

You might wonder why I don't just take the stairs.
"Run down the stairs you lazy cunt", I hear you shout, "it's only one floor."
Well I can't, cause the bright bastards in the shopping centre have shut them off, made them emergency stairs only.

So, after getting all agitated waiting for the lift, and then getting all sweaty in the lift with 36 other people, I finally get to the Vodafone shop, choose the new sparkly funky shiny handset I want and go to one of the desks.

All going ok so far, the assistant gets the handset, apologises as they only have it in black (do I look like I want a white fucking phone?) and starts to take my details.

This is where it starts to go wrong for the fuckwits that are Vodafone.
I don't mean the woman in the shop, she was ok, friendly enough and she was only doing as the computer said. And in this case, the computer said "no".

Why? Why? Because I have the phone on a business account, registered to a limited business at that.
This means, obviously, that I cannot get an upgrade in the shop, I have to do it on-line or call customer services.

Well fuck calling anyone, I'll be on hold for 3 fucking hours listening to shitty music and a message telling my how important my call is.
I know it's important, that's why I made it.
It ain't that fucking important to you though Vodafone, is it, otherwise you would answer.

So I go on-line.

"You are wasting your time," the better half tells me, "their customer service is shite"

I went on line on 24th January and, almost immediately, got a reply.

HA! Ha ha! Shite customer service eh, a reply almost immediately. How is that shite customer service?

Well it was. It was shite.

It was an automated email reply from a 'do not reply' address telling me that my enquiry had been received, was very important and would be passed onto the customer service team. I was to expect a reply in 48hrs.

Two things, Vodafone, two things.

Firstly, who the fuck did I send the email to in the first place if you are forwarding it onto the customer service team? Why not just give me the email address of the customer service team in the first place?

Secondly, where is my reply, you cunts.
Saturday 24th January to Sunday 1st February is a little longer than 48hrs, even if you take out the weekends, which I shouldn't have to do as your shops open at weekends.

So it's been over a week and you haven't replied, even though you claim my business is important to you.
Not important enough to let me get a better handset and pay you more money than I already do though, eh.

Hurry up and get in touch, ya bastards, so I can cancel my contract and go with EE, or O2, or someone.

Saturday 31st January

‎Short but sweet. 

Just watched the advert for some Warburton bread product that is supposed to help you lose weight. 

You fucking well walked around for the entire length of the advert without taking a bite of your sarnie you wanker, so you're gonna lose weight if you don't eat owt aren't you, ya cunt.................

Sent from my BlackBerry 10 smartphone.

Saturday 24th January 2014

How to Park Like a Complete Wanker

Well I'm sat sitting here on a Saturday night watching shite on the telly. 

Total and utter shite. I really don't know why I'm watching it. 

The shitty fucking shite programme in question is "Take Me Out" and, whilst normally crap, is even more so tonight due to the fact that there is a 'posh' bloke on it called Archie. 

I used to be called Archie, many years ago. Allegedly due to the fact that I looked like Archie from Emmerdale Farm. 

This was back in the day before they changed the name of it from Emmerdale Farm to Emmerdale. 

They changed it to make it more appealing to non-farmers apparently. 

And Archie, from Emmerdale Farm was a lot cooler than Archie from Take Me Out. 

As an aside, I used to go out with a girl called Emma Dale when I was younger, so there's a connection too. 

Sent from my BlackBerry 10 smartphone.

Friday 23rd January 2014

‎I was on the DLR one day last week, in fact I was on the DLR four days last week and it was this week (or this last week) so I'll start again. 

When I was on the DLR this ‎week just gone, there was this bloke standing near me. 

Big tall bloke he was, probably about six foot five, however that's irrelevant so I'll not mention it, and he was messing about on his phone. So engrossed he was that every time the train pulled away he nearly fell over. In fact, every time the ‎train braked he nearly fell over. Same thing happened when the train went round a corner. Or over a bump. He nearly fell over a lot. He was like a drunkard, a right drunken bum. All he had to do was hold onto one of the fucking handles, but no; he had to mess with his phone. 

It made me wonder what was so friggin important that he couldn't bear to stop using his phone with two hands. Important work related emails maybe (he was dressed like he had an office job), illicit text messages to a secret slutty lover perchance, keeping contact with estranged kids?

No. The fucking wanker was playing American Football. Not even proper football but the yank version where they go out all padded up like pubescent teenage girls on a first date. 

Twat nearly took the whole carriage out with his indiscriminate lurching. 

I was glad to get off intact.

Sent from my BlackBerry 10 smartphone.

Wednesday 14th January 2015

Why me?

Just got on the train at King's Cross, going to Doncaster, and the fattest bloke you could imagine is in the seat next to me. 

Not only is his right thigh oozing onto my seat, I cannot put the central armrest down as his arms are too flabby to fit in his own space. 

I did think, as I walked toward the train before I boarded, that the fucking thing was listing. 

I hope we don't have too many left hand bends to go round. 

Not only that, but he hasn't stopped talking on his phone yet. 

And, for fucks sake, he is going to Doncaster. 

‎Not surprisingly, he is looking at South American Steakhouse (La Vaca, currently) on his laptop. 

I bet they fucking dread it when they see his considerable bulk lumbering along the pavement toward them. 

I can just imagine the panic, trying to turn all the signs to 'Closed' before he enters and eats them bastard dry. 

‎The bloke across the aisle had his music on so loud you could probably hear it whilst reading this if it hadn't been for the ticket inspector woman telling him to turn it down. 

He's too old for "My Sex is on Fire" anyhoo. 

And now my tablet won't play videos. 

Could train travel get any bastard worse?

At least the woman opposite has just finished her sudoko. 

Nothing for it, I'll have to put some King Kurt on.............

Sent from my BlackBerry 10 smartphone.

Monday 12th January 2015

‎Watching some football over the weekend and it made me realise again what a miserable life these ‎Premier League footballers have, poor souls. 

The 'expert pundits' made a few references to the number of games coming up over the next few weeks. 

I know I have blathered on about this in the past but hey, here we go again. 

Apparently some of the teams have to play 21 games in 11 weeks, which of course equates to an average of just under two games per week. 

Don't forget that these games they play last all of 90 minutes so it's a hard slog. 

And they get paid a pittance to do it. 

You gotta feel for the fuckers, 180 minutes of 'work' a week and sometimes they only get three days rest in between each hour and a half's exertions. 

Poor poor bastards, all for thousands of pounds a week. Or tens of thousands, or hundreds of thousands in some cases.

You may not realise it, but 21 games over 11 weeks adds up substantially. 

It's about 31.5 hours of work. 

More, if you add on added on time, of which there is often about ten minutes per week. 

All for a few (mostly more than a few) grand a week. 

Poor, over-worked fuckers. They must be stressed right out. 

This morning I left home at just after four o'clock.

In the morning. 

I drove 165 miles and then worked from seven o'clock until twenty past six o'clock. 

Tomorrow, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday I will get to work at seven thirty o'clock and work to around six or seven o'clock. 

Except Friday, when I will leave work at around three to drive the 165 miles home.

I'll do that for 48 weeks of the year, some weeks more.

That equates to about lots more than the poor football players and I get considerably less in a year‎ than most (if not all) of them get in a week, and they get the summer off. 

But do I want you to feel sorry for me?

Do I fuck as like. 

Just wanted to get it off me chest. 

I had a bad experience with my contact lenses and haven't worn them for over a week, but I'm bored writing about them so that'll have to wait. 

Just go about your business, but spare a thought for the poor football players of this world. 

Sent from my BlackBerry 10 smartphone.

Sunday 11th January 2015

Well I never said I would do one everyday, did I?!?

I managed to get the lenses out eventually.
If you don't know what I'm on about, look back through the previous posts, all will become clear.
Clearer than it looks when I am putting those shitty bits of plastic in my eye.

That's one of the problems you see, I have to wear glasses or contact lenses to be able to see properly.
When I am actually trying to put the fucking things in my eyes I am wearing neither glasses nor lenses until the moment I get them in.
Ergo, I cannot see a fuck.

Anyhoo, once I got them out, I had to put them back in again, to make sure I wasn't just a jammy bastard first time I suppose..

That wasn't so bad, but once I got them in guess what I had to do?
Yup, take the fuckers back out.

I think I said earlier, I was having a 45 minute appointment.
Maybe I didn't, so maybe I'd better tell you again, or if I haven't then I suppose I'm not telling you again, I'm telling you for the first time.
Either way, I was having a 45 minute appointment.

That's three quarters of an hour.

Three quarters of an hour turns out to be not long enough for me to get two poxy little pieces of flexible plastic into my eyes, take em out, push them back in and then extract them again.

I came out of the fucking opticians like I wake up on a Saturday, eyes all bloodshot.
The worse thing was having to get the optician to take the bastards out for me.

I just watched the darts final.
Now I aint a huge fan of the darts, but it was quite exciting.
£100,000 was the first prize. A hundred grand.
My missus reckoned that wasn't very much. I disagreed, stating that I wouldn't mind it for chucking a few mini arrows.
She said she meant that compared to other sports then it wasn't much.
It's still a lot, other sports just get too much.
That's not just my opinion, it's fact.

So I had to go back to the opticians the following week (and that's proper use of the word so, not just some poncy fucking americanism (apologies to my american friends, I must say ever-so sincerly))

This time I managed to get em in and get em out. Fuck knows how I did it, but I did.
That means I am now allowed to wear them unsupervised.
It's a bit like an initiation, but what made me laugh was that none of the assistants, or the optician, wore lenses. They all wore glasses.

That should have told me something.

I never though this would be a multi-parter (lenses, I mean) but it's turning out to be.

Gotta go, it's time for bed.............

Friday 9th January 2015

‎So, why the fuck do people start every fucking sentence with the word so. 

I have recently been to Specsavers. 

Took me a while to find it (ba boom, tish) but once I did I got a trial for contact lenses. 

So, I went back after a week for my training session where they tell you how to push the plastic fuckers into your eyeballs and then how to scrape them off again and then how to wash the fiddly bendy see-through bastard discs of Satan‎ in a 45 minute session. 

Well, that's what they are supposed to do. 

So, I was shown how to put them in and, after holding my finger very close to my eye I had a go. 

The lens ended up in my eyelashes, on the table, stuck to the end of my finger, but eventually I got them in. 

Then, I had to take them out. 

This basically involves holding your eye lids open whilst stroking you eyeball.

More later...............

Sent from my BlackBerry 10 smartphone.

Thursday 8th January 2015

‎Well it's a Thursday already and I'm on the train heading into London. 

It only seems like yesterday that I was on the train heading home. Probably because it was. 

When you get on a train and the journey is going to last from 0623hrs until 0812hrs, one thing you don't want is for two pricks to get on at Grantham and talk about Chicken and Mushroom pies for rest of the bastard trip. 

I couldn't really give a fuck if it caused consternation at Marks & Spencer, nor do I care if some twat in the office called James has a better phone than you. 

‎Who the fuck invented contact lenses?

Who the fuck thought to themselves, "I'm weary of these cumbersome spectacles resting on my nose, I shall devise some small pieces of plastic to push into my eyes". 

Fucking things. 

Oh, and it ain't hard to put your phone into "vibrate only" mode either. It's on the bastard table in front of you and it lights up every time something happens.  

I don't need to hear your fucking annoying tone everytime you get a LinkedIn notification. 

How do you make a Mushroom Risotto 'contemporary'?

Fucked if I know, but that's what they are talking about now. Something to do with Pecorino. 

One of them reminds me a little of that twat Ricky Gervais, both in looks and annoyingness. 

Maybe it is him, this could be a sketch from one of his shitty shows and it's just as unfunny. 

Maybe it's being filmed right now. 

There would be some irony there, me filmed in the background of a crappy Ricky Gervais shitty show blogging about how shit Ricky Gervais' shows are. 

More on contact lenses later, maybe............. 

Sent from my BlackBerry 10 smartphone.

Let's Have Another Go

‎I'm gonna fucking crack this bastard if it kills me...............

Sent from my BlackBerry 10 smartphone.

See that last line, the one just above this one?!?
Fuck me I'm a genius................

Testing a new way.

Thought I'd start the blog again, but I'm fucked if I can log on using me tab.

So, figured out I'd try to be a clever bastard and try it via email.

Fuck it, I'm off for a tab..............

ps: just tried to send a post from my Blackberry.

It's not turned up yet so maybe I aint as savvy as I hoped.

Fuck it..................