One thing that really twists my sack are the pits of despair and revulsion of the supermarket. Being quite clued up on the mentality of the chain of thought within people I can see the supermarket’s attempts on controlling us and when it comes to getting brain washed by them… trust me… I fall for it just as much as you do and this one particular time I was manipulated so bad a packet of bacon cost me twenty quid.

When I lived in the hell of Brocklesmead I was lucky to a certain extent because I literally had everything I needed on my doorstep, including a supermarket. So one day after a particular potent smoking session I had the fattest munchies and went to make a sandwich but when I went to the kitchen all I had was bread, so off I trotted to the supermarket dreaming about a bacon sarnie… which was all I wanted.

So I stroll into the supermarket and headed for the bacon and as sure as a bear shitting in the woods there was the bacon and I was happy. But then they start fucking with me because right next to that are the sausages, so I’m thinking ok cool, a bacon and sausage sandwich sounds good but it’s missing something… eggs! so off I doodle and get some eggs, then not soon after I’ve got a fucking basket and I’m filling the bastard up with beans, frozen ships, pigs in blankets, black pudding and the bloody basket is getting bigger and bigger until I’ve pretty much got everything I need to fill my arteries up with globules of fat and kill me with cholesterol.

Another thing that grips me is the way they manipulate your shopping routines, in effect forcing you to buy shit that aint on your shopping list. When you go to the same shop time and time again you learn where everything is therefore shopping becomes quick and simple. Well these cunts don’t like that so what they do is move all the bastard shit around so that you spend hours looking for what you bloody want and you find yourself in parts of the bloody country that you didn’t even know existed and in the process your filling your basket up with shit that aint even on your damn list.

Another thing I hate is why they can’t give you a fucking plastic bag that you can open with minimum effort, whether it be the big bags at the checkout or the little bags you use to buy a single bloody onion. You end up licking your fingers and looking a total Pratt for hours as you try to find the end with the opening in. I find myself watching people and laughing as they fight to get the bags open as the cashier is throwing packets of ham and bottles of milk down the belt at them, and the poor sod fighting with the bags ends up having a nervous breakdown as cashier relentlessly launches more and more items down the runway with an angry queue behind her all tapping their feet and spitting at her as she struggles with the bags.

What is it with women that have to pay the exact amount with the right change? Sarah is one of the worst for this and really bothers me no end because those few extra minutes she spends rustling through her purse with a million bloody pockets in could be better spent escaping out of the supermarket and back to reality. She’ll rustle through tons of change and old receipts from two years ago, pulling out gym membership cards and coupons trying to find the mysterious penny that she knows is in there somewhere. I’m pointing to a bloody twenty pound note that she has safely ensconced in the front of her purse that’s more than enough to pay and she starts moaning that she don’t want anymore change… I mean fuck… the giving away of the change is what she loves the most so why not get some more back for next time?

You know those special cashier areas that are especially for people with ten items or less? How many of you have stood there policing the rule? I’m always sodding doing it! I stand there sneakily counting the other customers baskets of shit, throwing daggers at anyone that has one item more than they should and proper getting pissed off by it. I really do get annoyed and I can feel my collar burning as the cheek of a little old lady as she tries to cheat me by squeezing through with eleven items.

I just guess I’m not cut out for shopping, these days Sarah leaves me behind, but one things for sure… I might start shopping online in future.

When you break your life down to specific moments what you get are very unique moments of memories that you will never forget, milestones of time that helped create what you are today… turning points if you will. You won’t remember them all obviously but the really good ones will never leave your memory and some may even taunt you for the rest of your life where as some will most definitely haunt you without remorse.

I was sitting watching Frasier last night pondering as to my next post and it dawned on me that despite you all knowing me on humor aspect, nobody knows what created the miserable moody git you are following loyally… in this post you get a brief run down of the memories I have and be honored… this is the first time I’ve shared most of them… here are the first three of nine… are we sitting comfortably?

My First Psychological achievement…

I and my friends used to hang around in the park at Latton Bush getting absolutely rat assed every Friday night like clockwork and the one good thing about this town was the fact everyone else was pretty much doing the same. I remember us meeting up with a group of girls we didn’t know and we drunkenly tried chatting them up as well as a fourteen year old can possibly do, with all my efforts focused on a girl called Nicole… I watched and suffered as all my best lines bounced from her shield of amour and she was really playing hard to get.

Now I was quite savvy back then and having a degree in psychology now I can look back at and think fuck me I was good. Nicole basically spurned my advances a second time and I walked away with a battered ego but being nice about it… I simply said

“okay no problem… I’m going back to the others… I’ll talk to you later.”

and the funniest thing was I actually meant it and I rejoined the group.

Ten minutes later she sends her mate over and her tackily under dressed comrade gives me a bollocking for upsetting her. Basically cutting out the shit… by girl law I was supposed to flatter her with loads of attention all night and keep trying it on with her because the reward was to come later when she was a bit more drunk. What I had done was turned the girl’s rules on their head and she didn’t like it and from that moment on I realized what fun it was manipulating peoples minds for my own entertainment and gains. Nicole was the reason I sat psychology and she was also the reason my middle finger smelt of crab sticks and was covered in moisture wrinkles when I went home.

My first C word…

I was at school and sitting with a bunch of over riled kids, I myself must have been about eight or maybe nine when Dean, the trappiest of the group called me a Cunt! I wasn’t phased in the least and to me then it was just a normal word, and what a fantastic word it was too, CUNT! I was saying it all day in the playground and I was proper pleased that I had learnt something totally new and I couldn’t wait to take my new favourite word home with me.

That evening I sat and watched M.A.S.H with my dysfunctional brethren, my dad playing with his vulgar jungle of nostril hair whilst rocking in a silly rocking chair that he was so proud of. My new word begging to be used and I was looking for the right moment to proudly use it and show my parents that I really get on well at school. "CUNT!" I said sharply and proudly at the dog as he farted a silent biological gas that only a dog can do and get away with acting surprised.

I remember it all going into slow motion and the father sprang to his feet dragging me to the bedroom whacking me with the dreaded bath brush… I remember sitting there for hours of solitude with a sore ass, head and back wondering what had happened. The next day at school though was good, because I made up for it by learning a new word to impress them… the word FUCK! I couldn’t wait…

End of a tyranny…

You know that scene in Return of the Jedi where they destroy the Death Star, the Emperor gets bunged down an intergalactic plug hole and Darth Vader snuffs it at the hands of his own son… well you know that celebration they have at the end with all the Ewoks and the parties all across the galaxy… that’s exactly what it was like when our Father fucked of and left us after a chain of events that changed our lives for the better.

The abuse of a drunken fuckarse was finally at an end and it felt good, mum moved in with her great new boyfriend and my brothers along with myself were left to develop our personalities as we saw fit. The world was a better place for us and no more being beaten with a bath brush, no more drunken abuse and relentless bullying towards me, no more abuse towards my poor mum… I was very proud of her the day she ended it and despite us having a few teething problems at the start with her new fella we eventually became proud of him too, he makes our mum happy and he’s a good man… our old man was that bad that my baby brothers even tried suffocating our father as he slept off a drunken state of alcohol induced evil, and boy did I get pay for that despite not even being there at the time.

Having worked with some proper cases of supreme lunacy at the hospital, it’s very rare that I’m surprised by any kind of lacklustre and banal behavior of any human being. I’ve baby sat dementia patients, druggies, drunks, psychotic murdering teenage girls and even Jade Goody at one point. But nothing compares to the lunacy of the Michael Jackson fan.

Now I don’t mind the fact they support him through thick and thin, I remember being a fan of Ted Bundy at one point and I actually met a guy at the hospital who thought he was Ed Gien… But Michael Jackson? Why? Okay I agree that his earlier music such as Billy Jean, Thriller and that particular era are great classic hits, but why follow him all the way to god knows where to offer the support at a trial he’s most probably rigged anyway?

Now most of his fans claim that it’s only because his famous that he gets “picked on” by the media dogs and money hungry parents, now that to me is bullshit… When your famous and rich, you get caught with Class A drugs in your kitchen and Class B drugs in the bathroom… this fucker got caught with Class 4C in his bedroom and when he got fingerprinted it was probably the first time his fingers looked black in nearly 20 years.

Another thing that shocks me is that you even get Michael Jackson impersonators, this is odd to me simply because in this country we will never see a Gary Glitter impersonator ever again… so why is it right that you get someone impersonating this old plastic kiddie fiddling schnauzer. Surly it could be seen as bad taste or even sad in some circles, I think impersonators should all be stretched over a barrel and horse whipped with cable flex anyway for having a talent and using it to copy someone else.

But the bizarre thing is their unflinching loyalty to their weird idol… here is a man that has diary full of boys with the combined age of a play station 3, he’s been nicked more times than George Michael taking a piss and yet these bizarre creatures stand by him all the way claiming he‘s innocent… Why?

Another thing that makes my teeth itch are his kids, he’s turned his kids into bizarre and creepy clones of himself, shrouding them in silly masks to keep their identities secret from the big nasty world. Right, firstly who gives a fuck what the poor little weirdo’s look like, I don’t even know their bloody names. All I know is that he’s paid some nurse to have his kids so people think he likes women, and I still don’t believe it for a sodding second. And this may sound a bit harsh but he aint the best person to rear a child despite how well he apparently does it, so the prosecution evidently claimed.

Some of these fans even claim that they would trust their children in this oddballs hands, I mean seriously… who in their right mind would let a man suspected of norking children in a sleep over look after their own children. It would be like asking Cruella Deville to look after your Dalmatians while you pop to the shop and buy some sulphuric acid for your kids to play with.

How do we know Michael is guilty? Several children have fingered him.

When it comes to women I am incredibly fussy yet at the same time I have no fucking standards what so ever, despite that mere sentence being a vast contradiction in itself it’s also as accurate as I can get it. A woman can be forty fucking stone with more beard than Noel Edmunds and I’ll still rag it if she had a perfect pair of trotters, yet at the same time I don’t worship feet or go giggedy giggedy goo at the sight of bare feet.

It’s really odd on the premise that a decent set of walkers is important to me yet at the same time bares no sexual preference or indifference to my sex life. So what the fuck is going on in my head to be so stringent on the one body part that’s most neglected and most loathed by women?

Foot fetishism, foot partialism, foot worship, or podophilia is a pronounced sexual interest in feet. It is the most common form of sexual preference for otherwise non-sexual objects or body parts. So that being said how comes I don’t fall into that category but yet if a woman has manky feet despite how well toned, sexy and gorgeous the rest of her body is, I would run a mile in just under thirty seconds.

Part of me has been thinking about this my whole life and I have kicked myself on many occasions where I have blown out top quality looking women because she has feet like a walrus with athlete’s foot. I have only come up with half a possible reason yet bizarrely I can’t say to myself yeah that’s right, spot on son… because I really don’t know.

What I came up with is that maybe if a woman looks after their feet that it means they look after the rest of their body ten times over, therefore it being a sub conscious test of female hygiene. Put simply if a woman trims back them awful razor nails and takes the time out to paint them that it means that the chances of her having a good clean asshole is pretty much a dead cert.

Another one of my pet hates is women that don’t cut their toe nails, again this aint sexual and in my mind it’s completely justifiable. There’s nothing worse than lying in bed with a girl with major talons big enough to snatch mice from a field, I absolutely find it disgusting and hurts. Being 6 foot plus most women are normally half my size so when they cuddle up and sleep, their nasty nails rip the shit out of anything below the knee and I have scars to prove it.

Now this is where it gets confusing, they can’t where socks because I find a good pair of feet sexually attractive… I know you’re confused and trust me so am I but the thing is I don’t worship feet as described by the term “foot fetishism”… I just find them attractive and at times if they look just right they can get a girl bent over and topped up. Now you know why I’m confused as to the nature of this foot curse… If I had a proper fetish I would be happy because I can categorise myself accordingly, but as it is I’m stuck within an odd limbo where I aint got a tube a glue as to what’s going on with the foot thing.

There has been the odd occasion where my bizarre foot craziness has done me good, take Sarah for example. When I first met her she was shy at first but turned into a proper trappy bastard, she literally would kill any woman that so much as spat in my direction and she was bossy from day one and she really was not my type at all… but she has an absolute cracking pair of cute feet and I started seeing her purely based on that and within a very short space of time I was in love with her and now I cant imagine my life without her… so that said if I didn’t have a weird foot thingy I would never have found love.

I guess I will never know what the hell is going on as far as women and their feet go, but despite all the people I have turned down for manky trotter syndrome I can actually thank my affliction for securing me the little cute gobby bastard that I love dearly.

Up until a year ago I had always wondered what the American dream was all about, everyone goes on about it like it’s one of life’s little awards to be American and all that and I just got curious. One breezy cold summers day me and Sarah, along with a few of her family actually went to Florida which had me more excited than an Essex girl at cock sale because the furthest I’ve ever been was Spain, so jetting to the other side of the world was a new experience and we were determined to enjoy it.

So there we are sitting down waiting for 600 tonnes of metal to magically float into the air with us strapped securely inside, Sarah buzzing off her tits and my sphincter gasping at for air and trying to chew it’s way through my boxers. The captain reassuring us in his own friendly way that we are only going to be in the air for twelve hours, 12 FUCKING HOURS! It takes a second for a nut to fall out or a wire to short itself out and my mind is going overtime. I sat there and worked out my chances of survival before we had even taken off and I was shitting it to say the least, I worked out that we would be in the air 43,200 seconds with each approaching second having the possibility of death tagged to my toe… I was bricking it big time.

We eventually crawled into Philadelphia as promised twelve hours later and I was a tad confused. I was always shit at geography but even I knew Philadelphia sounds nothing like Florida, so I asked the missus and she cheerfully told me that we had to get on another plane from Philadelphia to Florida… ANOTHER FOUR HOURS!

So there we are walking around Philadelphia while we waited for the next flight in an Airport that looked exactly the same as the one we left twelve hours ago, so we decided to pop outside for a smoke. We found the exit and stepped into a whole new world and fuck me the heat hit us like brick wall. Now this is going to sound incredibly stupid but the thing that shocked us the most is that how “American” the place is, yes I know it’s America but I wasn’t actually expecting it to be exactly how it is on TV for some bizarre reason.

Me and Sarah just gazed around us in a sweltering heat that had no sun, yet strangely the sky was littered with thick black thunder clouds. It looked like a winter in England but felt like one of our hottest summers. We chugged away at our fags as yellow cabs sped past, movie sounding police sirens echoed in the distance and armed police nodded at us as they walked past. It was a totally surreal experience and it was definitely a whole new world, but inevitably it was time to jump back on the wings of death for another four hours of total shit your pants flying and I weren’t looking forward to it in the slightest.

14,400 more seconds of potential death awaited me and I was pissed big time, not only that but nobody told me that the flying bucket of bolts had a light on the bottom… as we started to fly through the fucking Florida storm complete lightning bolts cracking off left right and center, the lights on plane lit up the clouds we were flying through and thought we were on fire.

"It's okay, it's Florida's Monsoon season" I heard someone say cheerfully, how the hell was that supposed to cheer me up. If by some chance of a miracle we did survive we will then have to spend the next two weeks dodging hurricanes, flying cows and ending up under a house in Oz.

Eventually we landed and after fighting our way through the barricade of questions and eight foot tall armed police guarding customs we ventured on to the streets of Florida… at 3am in the morning!

Things from this moment on just got stranger... I'll continue this post very soon...

Before I met the woman my eating habits consisted of eating either at me Nan’s or what ever pile of shite I successfully managed to nuke in the microwave without it turning into a burnt out house‘s sofa. Going out for dinner just weren’t something I did, the closest I ever got to a civilized meal was buying a kebab after a piss up of blood, alcohol and a series of love bites after playing pull the pig.

Eating out for me is atrociously expensive for the simple reason being that when I go out to eat I choose what normally is considered as the top meal. I wont choose shite like Cod and chips, Sausage and Mash and crap like that because I can cook that myself and it defeats the idea of eating out in the first place. I choose Mixed Grills, Lasagne's and anything that contains lavish helpings of dead animal flesh… a vegetarian I totally aint.

I like menus that basically cut to the chase, here’s an example of a dish taken out of a Witherspoon menu and how much bollocks they talk…

Now basically what it roughly translates into is Pie and Mash, the rest is a desperate attempt to get the piss heads eating their over priced warmed up meals. What in Jesus’ sandals is a Portobello Mushroom? More importantly who gives a flying fuck? A mushroom the last time I looked is a mushroom, them silly little things the gnomes sit on while fishing. “Slow cooked farm assured British beef?” Roughly translated it means “reheated pie made in England but don’t worry it aint got BSE!” (or mad cow disease to the data inept)

Another criminal of talking total bullshit is McDonalds, but they do it with images rather than words. As you can see from the cracking evidence I have so generously supplied, a simple thing such as a cheese burger is blatantly sold to us under misconception and total criminal false advertising. The cheese burger on the left is a promotional picture of a cheese burger from their shit website, I got it from their website so they couldnt sue me for slander… the rather shit image of an exhausted UFO on the right is the actual cheese burger I bought in McDonalds… sinister fuckin wankie shit criminals!


Subway… eat fresh! Right I’ll stop them there… two things… it aint fresh and I know that because someone I know works in one. The processed meat savaged, salad slopped roll you eat from a Subway is FRESHLY MADE not fresh! My little insider informed me that the rolls are frozen and heated up to order and the fillings are always a day behind to save waste, so in effect if you walk into a Subway and buy a roll when it opens you will be eating the shit from the day before… so help me out here guys… how is that fresh?! Bit of a trading standards issue there and misleading the customers me thinks.

There are places I do like obviously, Wimpy is very under rated these days and their burgers are like heaven on earth. Chinese restaurants are top notch and because their menus are incredibly simplistic, no bullshit and have more variety meaning eating at them has the benefit of never getting boring.

If I had my way I would have Chinese every night, a greasy bacon sandwich for breakfast and some lovely raw wet pussy just before bedtime with a cup of hot chocolate or a Horlicks… but it don’t work out like that and luckily for my now shrinking waist line I’m pretty glad.

One thing that I have often wondered though… does pussy juice have calories? If so I think I now know why I’m a fat fucker… because it aint the food I swear!

There’s one thing on this banal existence that everybody dreams of catching after years of chasing, and that’s the rather deadly feeling of love. The bizarre thing is that it’s actually reciprocal love that people want and pray for, to be loved back unconditional and through all life’s little stabs in the back.

Now everyone that’s been in Love knows that Love aint unconditional and that Love don’t make life worth living, it turns your life into an emotional roller coaster that will give you some happiness a day at a time. It could make you want to take a million pain killers and hope your death is as painless as possible, leaving behind shattered hearts and bitter loved ones because you opted to end your own suffering.

I’m not saying that Love is a bad thing, in fact far from it… Love feels good and it helps you twitter away on life’s merry coil. But it does have a habit of turning you into a rather odd shadow of your former self, a paranoid gullible emotional nightmare as you try to hold on to your loved ones with a deadly grip that can only make them slip away. Take me for example, I used to be an easy going, totally trusting and wonderfully laid back guy to go out with and I still am to a certain extent, but since getting ruthlessly dumped I’ve noticed a few frayed edges in my own mind that I’m fighting against because I know it just aint me.

Constant Communicational Pest

One of the things about me is the fact that I can hold a conversation with a duck and still make it intelligent and amusingly cultured, so a text from me aint abbreviated and contains enough substance to warrant a reasonable reply.

Take Sarah for instance, she is the blatant opposite and eventually I had to back off with the texting because it was driving me and her nuts. I assumed that because you love someone you don’t mind talking to them because after all that’s what communication is all about. But Sarah finds it hard to hold a conversation by text unless it’s a conversation she has either started or has a lot to say about.

There’s one thing in this world that really annoys me more than Lionel Blair and that’s the text response of “LOL” or “YEAH LOL”. Its fucking rude, shows a persons arrogance and shows very little interest in the present conversation, and not forgetting total contempt for the person your talking to... so coming from a loved one it amplifies a hundred times over and it makes me think that the “loved one” just don’t find me interesting.

Now luckily I have accepted that some people just cant text and I’ve vowed to myself that I’m not gonna get my head in a screw with texting any more because this world is full of much better things to stamp my feet at… Timmy Mallet being one of them. At the end of the day if someone don’t respond how I want them to then that’s fine, forcing a conversation from someone that aint interested aint gonna work and I realize that now and from now on texting will be limited to two or less sentences or mirroring the person I’m talking to… hazzar… I feel better already!

Is that the Green eyed Monster?

I’ve never really done jealousy but sometimes it rears its ugly head and I deal with it and stamp it down, mostly without Sarah realizing which is a far cry from the way Sarah copes… her jealousy when triggered means I sleep on the couch and the dog gets my space in the bed.

In very small doses jealousy can be a constructive and a good kick in the ass to realize what you have is precious and worth giving it a hundred percent for. If Sarah showed a bit of jealousy every now and then in relatively small doses then the I could live happily without the whole texting shenanigans because any doubts and fears are being fixed in another form. Before she dumped me I had to take medication for a problem that I aint gonna go into details about but sufficed to say at sent me off my head and as paranoid as fuck.

Obviously there’s no smoke without fire and despite her not actually cheating her behavior and sneakiness towards the end did give the impression that she was getting cocked somewhere else, but my meds made me think about it so intensely that I could see her getting fucked by guys so vividly that when I shut my eyes it was like watching Dutch porn.

I’m off the meds now out of choice, apparently they are essential to my recovery but at what cost? Losing the person I love? Don't think so, I would rather suffer in silence... I’m sacrificing my physical health for my mental health quite happily and I’m a better person for it. To me my mental health is more important because the paranoia was so deep rooted and tormenting, to me it felt like my whole relationship was lie. Now I only get the odd twinge at jealousy that can only be described as a slight niggle, a million times easier to cope with because it’s been and gone within moments. As a result I am suffering some really strong physical pain for fifteen hours in every day but it’s a pain that I would gladly take instead of twenty four hours of spirit crushing and relationship destroying jealousy.

Love at the end of the day is a gift that much is true, but it aint a bed of roses and like everything else it has some serious bad points. But not knocking what I have or have had I embrace it now and fight the fight at one day at a time… If you try and do more then love will grind you up and spit out out your teeth…

Love is a very happy and precious gift… but it’s also ruthless, unforgiving and can bring on some serious mental issues… so if your gonna love… be careful… relying on another person for happiness and completion is against the rules of God… so I’m told!

Scott

Every month us guys have to suffer the indignity of having our hair cut, this little chore is pure boredom in a can. It doesn’t matter how early you go you’re guaranteed to have at least a queue of six in front of you.

I once stood outside the barbers waiting for it to open and I was blatantly the only one outside, opposite there is a newsagents, literally three steps in front of me. So I looked at my watch and with a full ten minutes to spare I decided to go into the newsagents to buy a paper. Buying my own paper is part of the ritual of getting your hair cut for sole reason of sanity. Once I forgot and I had to read the magazines they had and I was shocked to realize that recently the Titanic sunk, so from that moment on I decided to buy my own boredom cure.

So I went in and bought the Daily Sport, good paper that… full of good factual stories and plenty of nipples. So literally thirty seconds later I step out of the shop with my eyes rolling in tits and I look up, the fucking barbers opened a full seven minutes early with a poxy queue of ten hairy wombles waiting in front of me. This was not a good start, now I had the complete asshole and to make matters worse the only person cutting hair was the happy emo.

Now there’s a very valid and scientific reason I buy the sport, it’s not for the tits I promise you. The happy emo despite being a right royal conversational pest always comments on the fact that I buy the Sport, to which I always answer

“it’s the best paper in the world, do you want me to leave it here when I’m done?”

Now the trick is you have to read it so all the old farts can see, but not read… it works every time and it’s a trade secret to jumping the queue when it comes to the barbers. What you do is lightly scan all the boob filled pages so all the farts can see them, and believe me they will be looking. Just as the barber finishes dicing up the bored sod in the mastermind chair, close the paper and roll it up and put it beside you. This is the important bit; if you let it go someone will take it so keep it rolled up and by your side until the barber calls for the next victim. Now watch as all the farts within your immediate area let you go before them, now normally I would leave the paper behind but it’s entirely up to you, there are no rules that say you have to so it’s entirely up to you.

Now I don’t know whether it’s just fate or maybe an act of God or something, but I always end up with having my hair felt up by the happy emo. Now this guy aint a bad kid, I don’t dislike him or anything like that, I just don’t want to indulge in idol chitchat with someone that I rarely see from one month to the next. He asks me the same questions every single bloody time and it’s almost clockwork…

Not working today? Where do you work? Is it good? Is the pay good? Blah blah

Now I make a game out of it simply by changing my job every time I get my hair cut, and he responds with a full conversation every time and his gullibility is fascinating to me to say the least. This last year I have been a training Astronaught, dustman, front bench spokesman for industry, model scout and MP for Billington upon sea (which don’t exist) now either his memory has the attention span of a Goldfish with avian flu or he’s a secret android hair cutting alien from bettlejuice… I’m yet undecided.

Life would be a lot less annoying if I could be a hippy or even a skinhead… but I love my hair and it’s a necessary evil I have to suffer twelve times a year. Dammit!

I am the proud father of a little boy called Rocky; he's loving and docile, pretty fucking lazy yet always eager to play with all the other boys and girls. Yet bizarrely all we get is dirty looks, people running away from him and snidely sneering at him as we walk proudly with our baby.

Okay so you've probably worked out by the title that our baby boy is a dog, but that's exactly how we see him, as our baby. When the missus originally picked him from the pet shop we had already decided to let the dog pick us, I don't agree that a dog should be picked based on merit and breed. A dog should always choose his own owners in order for the all important bond to be formed.

As we walked through the Perspex animal prison we saw many many sad wet nosed faces, every one of them deserving a better form of life and needing a future of love and loyalty. If we had the space and money we would have bought them all without question, well Sarah would have anyway.

As I stood exchanging pleasantries with a Grey Parrot that had a better grasp of the queens English than my alcoholic brother, the choice was made. I looked round and there stood Sarah, up against the clear plastic wall with a little black fur ball up on the Perspex wooing his new mum. Our new baby had chosen his mum while all the others slept, played and dismissed her as just another face like the many others they had seen before.

Sarah was now in love with the "baby boy" that would change our lives for the better, yet at the same time tip our routines on their head in spectacular puppy fashion. I walked over to the crude plastic container that imprisoned our boy wondering what breed it was, determined that it didn't really matter as long as Sarah was happy... Poodle? Pomeranian? Cocker Spaniel? Chow Chow? Chihuahua? All very common choices amongst the girls and suddenly I began to get nervous at the idea of having to walk a dog in pink bows and glittery bling collars.

As I saw the little black fur ball it dawned on me in true Sarah fashion that she was about to blow my expectations clean out of the water... and I saw our boy for the first time up close... and I nearly shit in my boxers.

It was a damn Rottweiler! I knew from that moment I was gonna be in big trouble, it was a puppy now but these things grow up big, fucking nasty and with more teeth than the entire Osmond family. I was more scared of Sarah's mum than anything else, I had just single handily been accomplice to the complete devastation of the perfect home that her mum was rightly proud of.

It's been eighteen months now and Rocky has grown into the most loving, loyal and perfect friend that Sarah has ever had. The two of them go absolutely everywhere together and she has not once slacked off from her responsibility as a "mother" and I'm very proud of both Sarah and her mum of the job they have done on bringing up such a potentially lethal killing machine.

The one thing we didn’t expect would be narrow small mindedness of the public, people literally cross the road to avoid Rocky. To me that’s a blessing in disguise because you all know I can't stand sharing pavement with people I don't know... but Sarah? She takes it very personally and gets upset every time it happens... and it happens alot!

Today for example we were at Canvey Island for the day, soaking up the sun, sand, sea and pollution on a nasty summers day. Rocky was just being himself and being very vocal (he barks at people to say hello believe it or not) and this totally fat fuck that looked like he has had sausage and mash for breakfast everyday since birth took offense. Sarah got upset and walked somewhere else taking Rocky with her. Now Sarah never tells me when someone has started for the reason being I tend to get a bit flustered and say something, which in turn normally turns into DIY tooth extraction... hence the secrecy... but why get offended? It's not our fault he's bitter at that fact that he's never seen his own cock sinse puberty and his missus has a face like slate layers tool bag... fuck off!

Having Rocky has made me realise one thing, to pigeon hole a dog based on breed is in fact just as racially wrong as assuming that a black man will steal your stereo, an Irishman is automatically stupid or that all Welshman shag sheep. Okay so all the French are still selfish stuck up arrogant cunts but lets face it, they always will be. But I for one am proud of our baby boy and couldn’t give a shit in a wind tunnel at who’s scared or who’s offended by him, he’s our baby boy Rottweiler or not. And here’s a message for those ignorant shits that are scared and offended by him… if you see us coming, don’t expect us to move… if you don’t want to come near our boy… then cross the road and look both ways… because we couldn’t really give a shit!

Scott

I hate my town of Harlow and avoided it for the last ten years successfully and without shame, my girlfriend lives in another town so when we go out it's always a rather pleasant excursion beyond Harlow's city limits. Recently however, to make an effort I have agreed to shed my irritating fear or Harlodlions and just grin and bear it for the sake of the missus, who luckily for me... loves Harlow!

The place aint all bad obviously, it's pretty much the unofficial centre of Essex with tons of nightclubs, bars, shops to make any woman swoon and tons of other shit I aint noticed. But when you've lived in a town as long as I have you end up knowing every numpty and misfit the town has miserably got living there. A walk through the town centre for me is a gauntlet of muppets that stop me for a chat when I blatantly for one aint interested and two, totally have no idea who they are.

As miserable and rude as I may sound on here, in the flesh I aint got the heart to stop someone mid sentence and say

"sorry mate, your fucking boring and I don't know ya"

... instead I will stand there and suffer the droll of a conversation that inches itself along on half forgotten memories and people we once knew.

Harlow aint the best place either for my kind of people, most of the town has an average of twenty two kids per family, the fathers proudly walk around in public with a can of special brew in one hand and an Iceland bag of ready meals in the other. The mothers are either teenage track suited double buggy pushing nightmares of pavement hogging mayhem or they are withered middle aged mums carrying bundles of shopping like an Arabian donkeys.

What the town is famous for is what we call "the Dregs". The Dregs are a nickname for those individuals who sit around the town all day drunk, poncing hard earned change of passers by using intimidating means, robbing the elderly and stealing what ever aint nailed down. Now their bullshit don't work on me or my brothers, but it works on mostly those that want to get away as quick as possible and it makes my teeth proper itch. Those horrid words

"alwight bruv, got a spare quid?"

...which loosely translated means

"give me a quid or I'll either fucking pester ya or mug ya"

I mean why a quid? If your gonna ponce and beg why round it up to the pound? Surely saying something like...

"Excuse me... do you have change for the phone? PLEASE!"

...would surly have a better effect with a more profitable outcome, saying the word please would definitely make me consider giving him maybe a five pence... but a whole quid? Fuck off! Fucking Skanks... I hate em.

Another annoying thing about Harlow is the fact that every nobhead or shaven headed youth seems to own a Pitbull, they say that owners look like their dogs and its bloody true down to the letter. Why a Pit-bull? You might as well have a shark on the end of the leash. You walk past one with your football and the little four legged set of dentures has grabbed it and run off...

"Oh it's ok... he wants to play... "

...the owner chirps proudly, oh that’s well and good, but what the fuck am I supposed to do with a ball coated in snot, ripped to pieces and as flat as German woman's chest... do me a favour Pit-bull owners, it's not big owning a Pit-bull and it's not cool, do you know why? Because every chav has one... so pretty please... with sugar on top... walk your fucking sharks on a common somewhere else!

I suppose that really it aint the town, it's the cock ends that live in it... which I'm afraid I can't change so I guess I'll have to live with it... for another 33 long and tiresome years.

Scott

Okay so you know my name and all the rest of the nonsense, but if your still lost you can view my profile here. I have an odd habit for seeing all those little niggles that come from being a human on this rather torturous existence we all claw our way through. Some say I'm over pessimistic and others say I'm a right miserable old git, but what people fail to realise is that it takes an extreme sense of humour to spot these bizarre things in the first place.

Me and the missus have this thing, we sit in a car park in a car obviously and make a game out of what we call "wrongun watching". Basically what we look for are people that act naturally, you see they don't know we are watching and they are misguided into thinking they are alone. It may sound like a totally odd version of train spotting, but trust me... it's as funny as hell.

We've seen it all, people scratching their asses then sniffing their finger, picking their noses and eating it, dancing to their iPods crazily and shit loads more. You see people when they are alone are literally the people they really are, and that's what I like... I like people unmasked and unashamed of what they are.

That's why my rather bizarre outlook on life is the way it is, we are constantly hiding behind manners, tidiness and an appearance that's chosen for us by what we are told looks handsome and beautiful by the media.

Take Victoria Beckham for example, we are told she's fit and gorgeous because she wears snazzy clothes, designer labels and hand bags made out of orphaned babies; yet we assume that she is sexy because of where she is in life and that she's on TV and in the media. But in all honesty she looks like a blow dried corpse.

I'm beginning to wonder if she even exists, maybe she's some bizarre wax model that her daft coloring book eating husband, created to accompany him to photo shoots and shit. He dresses it up, sprays her make up on with a water pistol and says to the press "hey guys, take pics of me and me bird!".

I've never seen her in real life, and to be honest I will die happy knowing that I've never shared the same slab of pavement as her. But the reason I think she doesn't exist is the photo evidence that's shoved in our faces every time we open a news paper... every fucking photo of Hound dog Thicktoria Beckham is exactly the same as the thousands before it. What more evidence do you need?!

That my friends is what this blog is about, it's a tool to stop me winging and raving at my missus... an outlet of rage and frustration at that fact that there's far less deserving people out there with more money and better lives... I'm pretty happy with what I got... my woman especially... but she deserves her own post that I will write another time... so until I can be arsed to write another post... I bid you farewell... and as Frasier says "I wish you good mental health"

Scott