One of the many things that women just don’t understand and that’s that us men are doomed from the birth, we have been selfishly born with a second conscience and we share our mortal bodies with another egotistical and more powerful entity… the penis! Despite us being rumored to be able to control the ugly beast from down under, in reality it’s much harder (no pun intended) than it’s commonly claimed by our women.

As soon as we awake in the morning the bloody thing stares up into our nostrils like the spear of destiny until we take him for a piss. It’s the first thing we scratch and it’s the only true friend a guy is garunteed to have by his side through thick and thin. On the flip side however it gets us into heaps of trouble, it doesn’t have complete control over us obviously, but theres definitely some scart leads linking us together somewhere.

Because of my boy I’ve woke up next to hung over walrus’s, slept with chicks that have boyfriends the size dinosaur shits, been caught wanking at work in the toilets and been rumbled by teachers sneaking around the girls dorms on school trips. He is in no better use of the term… TROUBLE! Even now at the grand old age of 33 the fucker lands me in it with the trouble and strife… romantic dinners, night time cuddles and quality time gets gate crashed by the obtuse and ignorant bastard.

He even turns sex into a game of death for the women, completely ruining the job he’s perfectly built for, it’s litterally impossible for the little minger to lose weight. I could diet for months and lose four stone every where except there, he’s like a little plug in pest that won’t fuck off until I get my mid life crisis. All I hear are screams of “it’s too tight” “it hurts my stomach” “it’s uncomfortable” and other clichés of maybe an overly tight woman. I mean for fucks sake the little tyke aint porn star big or nothing, he’s just a fat fucker that obviously far too over zealous. As soon as the women agree to sex he hacks into my mind making me take back seat, sometimes I swear I’ve heard it say “Watch and learn! Watch and fucking learn!”

Another thing about the pocket pest is the fact that he is deliberately awkward, he tries his best to really get on your nerves by trying to embarrass you as much as possible or failing to engage when you really need him to. The classic case is when your sitting on your own or just about to get in the bath and the fucker is all proud, not erect but a good solid size that makes you proud of him… I’m sure you know that feeling guys.

Now why can’t the little fucker do that when we are getting changed in a public changing room or when your date pulls him out for the first time? Oh no, he would rather pull a fat one on when I’m sitting on a bus, or when I’m at the gym or playing squash. Why don’t cock’s work when your drunk? What’s the point? The one bloody time he’s guaranteed to get action with any form of woman, no matter how rough or frightfully rank she may, the little annoyance is permanently out to lunch, if your lucky he’ll pop back for a couple of strokes but it aint long before he’s nobbed off again.

What I don’t understand is that why if they have such a pivotal role is sex, why are they created so damn ugly? They are as attractive as a shrunken pensioner’s leg, an organic foul looking roll on deodorant with attitude. How women stick them down their throat is far beyond me and despite how wonderful it actually is, I would rather have my head sewn to the underside of Alladin’s magic carpet than put a cock in my mouth.

I guess I’m doomed to suffer with my cock to the day I die, it’s one of them cases where you can’t live with them and you can’t live without them. As much as he is a bane on my life life I would certainly be lost without him and if he ever did fall off or stopped working, I would have to take the pills and end it… when the sex is taken out of life all you are left with is work… fuck that!

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.

Being me is never easy and the one thing I want in life is an easy life, it’s not that I’m lazy or anything like that… I’m talking about women. Poor Sarah had no idea what she let herself in for the day she asked me out because I do get my fair share of admirers and normally they are either unhinged in some way or just blatant horrid pond life. This month I’m involved in a complicated three way game of death between my girlfriend, my best friend and her friend the crazy lesbian.

This week Sarah has had the misfortune of meeting Kerry, actually it’s okay they get on great and no doubt they will end up good friends. There’s only one tiny problem… Kerry is hell bent on getting me and Sarah into a sleazy three in a bed romp along with a scary collection of rubber cocks and industrial vibrators capable of hitting at least an eight on the Richter scale.

It’s all very well and good and I can hear you guys shouting at me from here, but Kerry is like a totally obsessed sex fanatic and self proclaimed expert. She makes wads of cash in the States on “business holidays” with her husband and EX mate of mine, Steve… making PORN! So the idea of jumping into bed with a woman that knows more tricks than Paul Daniels with a copy of Playboy TERRIFIES me. Plus to add the fact that this bird has had some seriously big cock too is even more intimidating because I’ve only got half an inch and a dozen wrinkles and that’s in the warm weather.

Kerry at the end of the day is my mate and has been for nearly twelve years, she’s trained me on all forms of sexual tricks ranging from oral sex, dildo action and even kissing so I’m eternally grateful as is the permanently happy girlfriend… the only problem is that now after all these years of sexual training Kerry has decided it’s time for my one on one exam and Sarah is about as pleased as John Prescott with an empty fridge.

Now as if matters aint difficult enough there is Candice, this vile ex lesbian and bisexual monster of ego and slaggism has the disability of not being able to shut her legs properly. She has been a pain in my ass for almost as long as I’ve known Kerry and she shows no sign of letting me live an easy life either.

Basically the problem is I’m the only guy that’s ever said no to her, I aint gay or nothing it’s just that one… I like my girls bigger than her, two… she’s got the mankiest feet I’ve ever seen (which is very important) and three… she has the attitude of a schizophrenic seagull on a diet of steroids… so her chances are below zero anyway.

Now Candice is good friends with Kerry and Candice has told Kerry that she will seduce and fuck me under any means necessary… so Kerry being Kerry has told Sarah, and Sarah being Sarah is now shopping in Homebase for the biggest fucking chainsaw she can find so she can perform the worlds messiest and most painful vivisection.

Sarah is taking it all very well I must say, she knows I don’t encourage it any way whatsoever and I’m sure if she thought there was a problem I would have woke up without a cock ages ago. But my life is always complicated and it’s always either lack of money or too many women trying it on with me… why cant it be too much money and lack of women… now that’s an easy life.

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...

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!

Back in the days of no internet guys used to have an unwritten bonding ritual that was porn swapping. The idea was that we used to raid our parents bedroom for any suspiciously blank labelled video cassettes in the hope that they were secretly hording a stash of porn, but unluckily for us our Dad was as boring and as righteous as a strip of garden decking.

He bizarrely tried to convince us that porn created rapists and sexual deviants; yet unbeknown to him at the time of his rather grand speech, we already had our own collection that we were swapping with other kids and their parents.

By today’s standards the smut was pathetically pitiable, with cheesy story lines and plots as shallow as a walnuts’ swimming pool. But that was the most appealing thing about it because it meant every now and then someone would always come along with a better one, and once copied we could use it as a bargaining chip to get a whole heap of more smut from everyone else.

One of the things our group could always be proud of was the fact that we used to travel to London specifically to buy our smut; our titles were always up to date with the latest stars and hardest scenes. This always gave us the edge because when a newbie joined our group with their cum stained videos we knew ours were always better. This was ideal for us because we used to run copies off and sell them for fifty quid a throw making us more cash than a drug dealer.

Then the internet came and ruined our rather fruitful business of our smut dealership, and we were a mixture of pleased and pissed at the same time. We were pissed that we lost out on so much money, yet pleased that smut was to go through such a dramatically awesome change for the better. Suddenly all the plots and cheesy soundtracks vanished and all the stars suddenly went from making love to hardcore slap happy bitches.

Now the grot seems to be about MILF’s getting rooted by gargantuan pensioners legs, teen whores that can shove a dick the size of a baby’s fore arm where the sun don’t shine and pretty faces getting a chin omelette from a group of desperate faceless men. The word hardcore doesn’t even fit smut these days, a chick with two kidney crackers in her butt is part of standard run of the mill filth… so what does the future hold for smut? How can it get any better? I don’t know for sure but I for can’t wait to see it.

The thing is with smut these days thats also good is that the production companies that knock it out normally cater for a wide selection of erm ... tastes I do believe the word is. Back when we was knocking the grot out you got a VHS and it was pot luck what you got on it, it weren't deliberate but thats how it was, a kind of blind date with your crap VHS. Most of the companies these days though do tend to hire the usual typical bimbo kinda chick which is okay if they are new to biz and you like that sort of thing, but hows about some fat chicks? Not overly fat but normal like... or is it just me?

Some say the internet was created for smut… but I think very differently… I say the smut was created for us… or more precisely… ME!

As most of you probably learnt in primary school life is all about natural selection, survival of the fittest and more importantly the food chain. For those who don’t know what the food chain is the chances are you can’t use a PC anyway, but if you’ve been lucky enough to stumble upon this site out of button bashing and blind searching then I’ll explain.

The food chain works on the sole rule that there’s always a bigger fish. The easiest way to think about it is think of it as a ladder, every step of the ladder has a different creature that is food the one above it… For example you have rodents on the bottom, sniffing around minding their own business then WOLLOP, snatched by an Eagle or Buzzard and scoffed, the Eagle and buzzard will be on the next step up. That’s how the food chain works, and that’s how life is. We humans are pretty close to the top as we pretty much butcher and eat anything. Above us are things like sharks, crocodiles, alligators and John Prescott.

Food is an important way of life for me because I’ve been dieting for three weeks and can think of nothing else, I’ve sampled in the last three years delights of many sorts… huge greasy mixed grills, cheese on toast as a daily lunch time ritual accompanied by crisps and chocolate muffins ect. As a result I ballooned to a whopping twenty three stones, and it caused me a whole heap of trouble.

I’ve had sleepless nights of un comfort as every position I laid in I ended up laying on another belly I didn’t even know I had, all my clothes ripping and straining as I tried to squeeze two buses into the ass of a pair of jeans as well as health issues I aint going to mention. But the most important issue that upset me the most was the fact my girlfriend admitted she just didn’t find me attractive anymore and I was devastated.

Knowing this I decided to lose the weight and I succeeded, I lost two stone in three weeks just by cutting back and being a good boy. All is now rosy and my clothes look good again and more importantly the girlfriend now finds me attractive again, more so now than ever and to be honest I’m finding it hard to keep up with her. Don’t get me wrong I’m as happy as a guy that thought a cat that had shit on his pie but it turned out to be an extra large blackberry, but I can’t help feeling that I’ve been cheated in some way.

Why is it that women rule the bedroom? Why do they decide when we have sex? Why do they tell us when we are fat and un attractive? Have any of you guys ever told a girlfriend that they are too fat to find attractive? Trust me, for those of you that haven’t your doing bloody well at making your life simple because I tell you now relationships are all about confusion and double standards.

To tell a girlfriend she is fat or that she could do with losing a couple of stone is like putting your cock in a blender a night before your honeymoon. Luckily for me I love my ladies big with a bit of meat, but I have my limits, my ex was lovely when she was big but inevitably she piled on the pounds and it got to the stage where every time she bent over she had more burger in her knickers than I had sausage so the all day breakfast eventually went sour.

But getting back on subject I was so heart broken at the missus not finding me attractive any more it got me thinking, what gives a woman the right to judge a guy when if the tables were reversed it would be a total crime against humanity as we know it. I told my ex she was too fat, she told me at the start of the relationship that if we didn’t find each other attractive anymore we would be honest and grown up about it… and she was… she denied me sex, went anorexic, lost a shit load of weight and started fucking my mate.

The bottom line is guys is you have to do as you’re told and not do as she does. If she puts weight on you gotta deal with it because insulting a woman’s weight in mental abuse. If you put weight on and she has to sleep with you that’s physical abuse to her. If she goes off you then it’s your fault for eating too many cakes, if you go off her then you’re a man that doesn’t deserve her in the first place. If you cheat on her then you’re a dirty hound dog that needs hanging from the nearest tree, if she cheats on you then it’s your fault for not showing her enough attention. If she don’t find you attractive anymore then its your own fault for letting yourself go and eating sausage and mash for breakfast, if you don’t find her attractive then you’re a shallow waste of space in the middle of a mid life crisis. You can’t win fellas so don’t even try to.

Back to the food chain thing and with a few re adjustments you see our rightful place, we men are under women and that will never change.

Scott

Whilst reading MSN earlier it prompted the Grey matter into a serious deep thought... Where are they now? Basically it's a ponderous wonder at where the icons from the movies in the eighties and nineties vanished to, normally the stars of one hit wonders.

Britain has an especially critical eye on the world of movies due to the fact that after the United States we are next inline for the suckers of a big Hollywood flick, resulting in our opinions mattering when it comes to decapitating the careers of the Hollywood star.

Every now and then I will think of someone and add a post... can't promise you when and to be honest I'm so used to moaning about things, this kind of post is a bit off side to say the least. But true to my word the first fallen star is a hero of mine... not sure why these days, but when I was a kid he was the coolest...

Mark Hamill

This guy is a classic case of what the fuck happened to you, but after a little bit of research you realize that this fella is far from dead. You all know him from the original Starwars, he was the pathetically and socially challenged Luke Skywalker. Now I'm a great fan of the movies themselves and I've done massive back to back runs of the movies with my mates and all kinds. But Mark is still an embarrassment due to the hammy portrayal of his Skywalker. I aint gonna slag him off because at the end of the day I grew up with this guy as my hero, long before I learned that you don't get anywhere in life unless your the bad guy.

These days though he plays the voice of the Joker in the Batman Animated series, which blew me sideways because the talent he plays the Joker with simply blows his poor and cringing attempt at the Skywalker thing clean out into space. As my childhood hero though I have to say he still has it, but not as Luke Skywalker... but as the Joker... the joker is much cooler...

oh and he kills people too which is alot more entertaining... hazzar!

Scott

More than half a million Poles have entered the UK since we stupidly joined the EU in 2004. In fact I remember the build up leading up to one of Labour's biggest and monumental cock ups since the Millennium Dome. Now I don't normally do politics, but this topic for me is why half my friends are begging to some nob cheesed socially retarded stuck up cunt every two weeks for a few pennies that they claim is Jobseekers allowance.

I didn't want to join the EU, I don't hide it and never claimed otherwise because the one thing that this country used to be great for and that was it's freedom of speech. But now it's all gone crazy, I can't fart in English now in case it offends a Muslim or insults a Kosovan. In 2002 I got a EU questionnaire which claimed to give me my shout and get this "my say" on whether or not we go into the EU. So I filled the form out basically saying I would rather have my bollocks sewn to a prize winning greyhound ten seconds before a big race, and everyone I knew did the same... and I mean EVERYONE!

A year later it was decided by Tony Cockend Blair that we were going into the EU based on the public wanting us to do so. How was this possible? Everyone I knew was dead against the idea and all my new friends now are still spitting teeth over it... how did they come to the conclusion that it's what we wanted? It's all communist bullshit and I for one don't vote for any fucker on voting day, they can knock on my door door as much as they like with their smarmy smiles and their posh banners. It don't work for the Jehovanobs on Sundays so it won't work for them either.

Basically what the government didn't realise that this once great country's equilibrium was to suddenly get unbalanced to ludicrous proportions. Finding a job was never easy, even before the EU but it was possible, but a month or so on the doll and you had a job. Now there are true Britons on the rock n roll for months on end, some even years. The balance of life is is that your born, you work and you die... the available jobs generally is enough to cater for the work force of an entire country because that's how it is... it's called balance.

What the cock munching politicians have basically done is opened the flood gates letting loads of monkeys in that are willing to work for less than the British, and every company out there sees a profit and thinks that true British people are just too plain expensive to employ. Take Dyson for example, he shifted his whole vacuum empire to a country that eats cats, dogs, sparrows, spending their whole day driving around on second hand mopeds... why? To make even more money! But now companies don't need to do that, they stay in the UK but hire the Polish instead.

My opinion is that we need to get all these blood sucking vampire dumpling eaters out, it's not a racist slur, I have nothing against them in the slightest. But if our country is to survive this depression that we are in because of the recession, it's only fair that some sort balanced is restored. Our country is dying because they are earning the money and sending it home, if their cash is not being spent in this country then its being syphoned out of the system... and the last time I looked that was called money laundering... or am I wrong?

Fight for Britain... get our asses out of the EU before end up the subject of World Wide Appeal, or some half arsed American Liveaid showing videos of our children covered in flies and begging for rice, our women walking the streets with jugs on their heads and the poor Beckhams are forced to live on just two million quid a week... tragic! . You may laugh, but in a hundred years time moving at our present state and we are gonna be quite literally... fucked!

Scott

Daytime TV at the best of times is total shit, but some programs are in a league of their own when it comes to the pants award. Richard and Judy got a gong on my old blog because not only are they as boring as trying to read the daily Telegraph in the dark, but they are seriously ugly to boot. They both remind me of two decaying haystacks in a field in the middle of winter. Their constant bickering and trying to talk over each other in true husband and wife fashion grates my back teeth to the point of severe toothache, which I must add is pretty much more appealing.

Deal or no Deal is another travesty of banal entertainment, where Noel ring piece Edmunds plays a double role of the twat in the jumper I gave to charity and the elusive and fake Bwanker. Why? I had to watch it three times before I could work out the whole concept of the game, leaving me feeling pretty fucking stupid too. Is there anything in the rules of the game that says you can't open your own box at the start? I would, at the end of the day if you only got a quid in your box that's still a profit margin of 100%.

Bargain Hunt?! Why is that interesting? There are things in life that nobody should ever admit to, one is that you find David tango Dickinson funny and entertaining and the other is that you shop at boot sales. So Bargain Hunt is pretty much dead on the water in my books, and it being on the water is too good for it when it should be six foot under. It's not a complete loss however, what I would like to see is the interview with the pissed off person that sold them the shit in the first place. Imagine selling someone a piece of tat from your car boot for 50 pence then seeing it fetch 50 quid on TV... fucking priceless!

Loose Women! AAAAAARGH! I remember being slapped by a girl at school because I called her loose, I wern't lying either, it was like fucking a bin liner but these days a being called a loose woman is some sort of compliment. Perhaps one day the term Fat Slag will have girls gushing! One of my main gripes at this poor attempt to entertain single mothers and divorces is the absolute sexism and desperation of the league of witches that present it. It was okay when Kerry Katona was presenting it because I could just stare at her tits, but now the presenters have the combined age of a supermarket trolley collector. I understand that it is aimed at women and I totally agree I shouldn't be watching it in the first place, but sometimes, just sometimes the TV remote in just out of reach and I have no choice but to suffer.

Home and Away and Neighbors... Despite being two separate programs I am going to slate them both at the same time because one, they are Australian, and two because they shamelessly copy each other. I'm not racist in the slightest and to prove it I used to have a black Newfoundland dog and I used to know a bloke from Wales so racist I ain't, but fucking Australians really boil my spuds. They hate us English people and they don't even try and hide it, which is bizarre because the reason they are over there in the first place is because we caught their great great great grandads stealing knickers off some poor English woman's clothesline.

Back to the shows in question... if any of you watch these dire if foolhardy strains on the intelligence you will notice that their plots almost run parallel to each other, and I say plots very loosely... If they were made in this country they would be called Crossroads or Elderado. I have never watched these intentionally and if one thing can lift me from my armchair to change the channel the old fashioned way its these dire travesties of Australian TV!

I could gripe about TV all bloody day but I won't, theres plenty of shite on during the day that I can post about another time. Trisha broom neck Goddard being one of my larger pet hates and she rightly deserves a post of her own. I have however sat down and thought about why day time TV is so crap in the first place, and I have a theory... the government deliberately do it make people get jobs, because lets face it... getting up a chimney and doing a twelve hour shift scraping the brown carpet left on the bottom of a public toilet is a hundred times more prefable to the spirit crushing and mind numbing TV any day.

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