I was just sorting through my work email there and came across a couple of quarantined emails with rather interesting titles such as the following:
Paris’ Sperma Imperium: Piss-fluten plus Arschficken & Schlucken NON STOP!
How touching that some kindly soul felt that I would benefit from these resources and have the courtesy to send them my way.
I am in the process of trying to buy my first house, despite the fact that we are apparently either in, or nearly in a recession. To be honest, I think part of me is motivated to become a homeowner just to spite all those media arseholes who insist on shrilly repeating the phrase ‘credit crunch’ like a choir of learning-impaired parrots every time I switch on the TV. Fuck ‘em all.
Anyway, so I’ve spent the last few weeks being inducted into the joyous world of estate agency and conveyencing, and frankly – I’m not impressed. For anyone who has had the joy of ever buying a house, you will also be aware of the multitude of fees which are attached to this process, levied either by vacant-eyed estate agents who talk too loudly down the phone and whose vocabulary appears to be entirely made up of words like ‘okey-dokey’, or by silent and faceless property lawyers who you never actually meet, but who manage to suckle at your leathery wallet-teet for as long as possible, eventually leaving you shame-faced, withered and penniless in your new property.
I don’t mind providing payment where payment is due, but I can’t help but wonder why I need to fork out a grand for some sneaky legal ponce to manage my communications for a few days. Last time I checked, I was still in full command of my vocal chords, and I’m pretty adept at using my fingers to press on a keyboard when required. So if the opportunity were to arise whereby I would need to say: ‘I would like to purchase your property, if you please’ I feel I would be fairly well equipped to make such an offer. I can certainly hold a conversation better than my tedious mortgage advisor, Jacquie, who seems to have acquired her job by accident, and has little more communicative ability than a doorbell. Despite this, she too is extracting the princely sum of £500 for doing precisely fuck-all on my behalf.
The final addition to this band of merry scroungers is the surveyor, who is yet to sink his claws into my cash, but who is, no doubt, waiting noiselessly in the shadows, drooling in anticipation at the thought of charging me £400 to climb up a ladder and look in the loft. Heaven forbid I should suddenly grow a pair of legs and eyes and manage to look in the loft myself. But I suppose even if I did master this Herculean feat, there’s no way I would be able to recognise a damp wall, because that requires the x-ray vision that only surveyors appear to have.
So why am I complaining and not selling privately, which would allow me to bypass these noxious middle-men completely? Mostly because I am lazy, and also because no doubt some other weasel would come along and get my money another way. You might be using the self-service checkouts to buy your shopping in Sainsburys these days (if you can avoid the temptation to shatter the screen with your fist when it doesn’t beep after endless attempts to scan a cucumber), but notice your shopping is still just as expensive, despite the fact you’re doing all the bloody work yourself. No, I reserve the right to get my shopping scanned by Maureen, and my letter sent on my behalf by messrs Reid, Giles and Wank, and just hate them all secretly from afar.
I’d like to formally apologise to the person who searched for “small woman pissing in WC” and ended up on this blog. Unfortunately there is nothing for you here.
Am I the only person who thinks that Daniel Craig’s pout not only makes him look like someone who tried to get off with a hoover, but also completely detracts from anything else which occurs in a film whenever he is in shot.
I know that pouting is supposed to be sexy, but (as illustrated above) there’s a fine line between sexy and doing an impression of a bird with a small beak. And he’s not the only offender. Accompanied in this bizarre facial paralysis is the woman off the Specsavers advert where her and her boyfriend have supposedly taken too many mushrooms and have a bit of a freak-out during their afternoon boat trip. I’ve never known mushrooms to cause labial expansion, but whatever she’s taken seems to have given her the most ridiculous pout ever. Thankfully she seems to have kept a small hole between her enormous protruding lips with which to whistle/ eat twiglets/ sip whisky through a straw:
Keira Knightly is also someone who springs to mind who thinks that pouting makes her more desirable, when in fact she just looks like skinny scrubber with constipation.
What Keira wouldn't give for a healthy jobby
Apparently, Keira Knightly herself agrees with me:
Knightley recalls, “The big thing was that I was absolutely banned from pouting [whilst filming Pride & Prejudice]. The director and crew would be on permanent pout watch. Any sign of my pout and they’d scream at me, ‘Pout! Pout! Keira, pout alert!’ I honestly don’t do it to be sexy. I do it when I’m concentrating and I sort of puff my lips out. I always think it makes me look kind of constipated.”
Yes, Keira, you’ve hit the nail on the head. So why not stop doing it? Or perhaps looking like you are forcing out a shit all the time will make the rest of the world think that you’re a serious and gritty actress, rather than a coat hanger in a wig.
Clearly Keira doesn’t really think she looks constipated. Of course she thinks it makes her look sexy, in the same way all pouters think it makes them look sexy. Sticking out your lips and making them look wet and flushed with blood is supposed to be reminiscent of a sexually aroused vagina – subconscious or not. Fair enough, but what I can’t work out is why does the guy playing the supposedly rugged and manly James Bond walk about with an expression like an engorged lady-part? I hope he remembers to brush his teeth thoroughly.
I’ve always wondered what it’s like to be a man, specifically, what it’s like to urinate like a man.
What I’m thinking of is this. Suppose you are a guy, meeting for the first time someone for whom you have a great deal of respect, for example, Sting. Things are quite tense and awkward, and you’re really trying hard to impress him – after all you’ve followed his career for years and rate Fields of Gold as one of the best albums of all time. You make chit chat, skilfully avoiding all mention of tantric sex, and complementing him on his quirky choice of outfit. However, you’ve drunk rather a lot of non-alcoholic punch and so excuse yourself politely and head in the direction of the men’s room, accidentally standing on the back of Trudi Styler’s ratskin coat as you do so. But then Sting decides he needs a tinkle too, and starts to follow you into the WC… and THIS is where things start to get foggy for me. I find it hard to understand how one can fail to be embarrassed by the fact that both you and Sting are suddenly standing in close proximity to each other with your cocks hanging out. Only moments ago you were jovially sharing a bread roll, and yet now you inhabit a windowless bathroom together, forced to extract and manipulate your most private of appendages in plain view.
For women, obviously we have the cubicle to protect our dignity, although this does not mean that similar awkward situations do not occur. There is something about the construction of the average toilet cubicle which appears to give it the acoustic properties of a megaphone. There is nothing more disconcerting than meeting your boss in the toilets, and having to go through the ordeal of hearing her noisily pissing in the next door shitter, being forced to visualise with a sinking heart a picture of her in a half-crouch, stockings at half-mast as she grunts and wipes herself frantically with a wad of bog roll. Yeesh. God help you if she’s middle aged. Apparently women of a certain age suddenly lose all inhibition when it comes to toilet etiquette, and won’t hesitate to play a merry symphony on their arse as they lower themselves on to the toilet seat next to yours. Try visiting a swimming bath changing room toilets on ladies’ OAP day. It’s like busy shipping lane during foggy conditions.
I don’t want to give the impression I am a prude, or that there is anything wrong with sharing bodily functions with other members of the public. In fact, I am often silently delighted to hear a stray toot emanating uncontrollably from a nearby toilet stall, provided I am not aware of its originator. It’s the idea of being next to Sting and having to witness him actually holding his cock in front of me (Sting’s cock!), and then continue polite conversation as if nothing has happened between us. It is this which is so utterly problematic for me. In the same way that I find it hard to focus on my boss’ PowerPoint presentation just seconds after listening to her squeeze out a turd, I think I’d have to reconsider ever reaching for ‘Ten Summoner’s Tales’ without having a brief and unpleasant shiver of disgust at the thought of Sting, with legs slightly apart and cock in hand. Staring directly at me.
Now the BBC has ‘drawn a line’ under the whole prank call thing from last week, I wonder if Ross and Brand will be placed on the Sachs offenders list…?
It was announced a few days ago that the government has decided to start educating children about sex from the age of 7:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/education/7684810.stm
To be honest, I don’t think this should be a problem as long as: 1) there is no practical exam; and 2) the teachers don’t use Claire Raynor’s Body Book as the standard text book. I say this because I have first-hand traumatic experience of this book – which is intended to educate young children on the ‘facts of life’, including sex, growing old, love, death etc.
Essentially, this 1978 book can be conveniently purchased by embarrassed parents and handed to a dungaree-clad, jam-fingered infant in order to avoid mentioning anything remotely connected with fornication, ever. Just so you can be on your guard, here is the front cover:
You’ll notice immediately that the children pictured have no clothes on, so as soon as your parents hand it to you, there’s no going back. I can vaguely recall this moment (I must have been about 8 or 9), and I remember being pretty delighted by the presence of a penis on the front cover. In hindsight, I think my parents, as well as trying to educate me, were mostly trying to satiate my growing desire to see a real live willy. I seem to remember I had, up until that point, been pretty flagrant (and unsuccessful) in my attempts to ambush my older brother when he was getting undressed or going to the toilet in order to witness whatever it was he had that I didn’t.
So I suppose the Body Book was my parents’ desperate attempt to protect my brother’s dignity, but I still can’t forgive them for exposing me to such gratuitous examples of nudity and sex in the presence of a range of domestic animals. If you glance over the page below, you can perhaps understand why this book traumatised me, and also left me with the impression that our pet cat, Pickle, played a much more significant role in the household than I had initially assumed:
I think you’ll join me in agreeing that the penis pictured above right is strikingly different from the one shown on the front page. The front page specimen is more the sort of thing I was anticipating during the many hours concealed in a wardrobe or under the bed, secretly lying in wait for my brother to get naked. Had I been aware of the disturbing nature of my quarry, I may well have returned to the recently forsaken a la Carte Kitchen, or to Barbie’s newly converted pink mansion-cum-brothel, but unfortunately, this so-called children’s book put paid to that.
I am sure my parents felt very pleased with themselves when I suddenly left my poor brother alone and ceased talking about my formerly favourite subject of willies completely. Claire Raynor certainly removed the need for anyone to educate me further in this area for quite some time. But little did they know that I was secretly and deeply affected – perhaps I still am - forced to inform a hushed circle of my wide-eyed little friends about the frightening truth the next day at school for fear that they too may unwittingly come face-to-face with an erect adult penis.
Plus I was completely unable to look Pickle the cat in the eye ever again.
Check out Sarah Burge – the person who has spent the most money on plastic surgery to date:
In total, she’s had about 100 operations to change her appearance. Perhaps one day, surgeons will perfect their ability to expand her tiny pinhead, and she will be complete.
Is it me, or is there a media conspiracy to make me throw myself under a train?
Every single time I do anything – and I mean anything – I seem to end up being involuntarily updated on the current appauling state of the FTSE 100, or reminded that we’re already in a recession and that no-one has a hope in hell of ever buying or selling anything ever again, or that some snivelling, pin-striped, cockney tosser from canary wharf has just dispatched his wife and kids with an axe because he’s lost £15million on the stock market. No doubt we should all follow the example of Jean from Tyneside, who has recently taken up prostitution and pawned her children in order to stay on top of her gas bills. Otherwise, well… we’re fucked. In this way it seems that every single news story these days is cunningly interwoven with not-so-subtle prophecies of impending monetary ruin and despair with an apparent intention to make the situation even worse by turning everyone into a financial spastic, lying prone and dribbling without two pennies to rub together.
Did people have to put up with this incessant forecasting of doom during the Great Depression? I very much doubt it. When you’ve burned your last dining chair and have started greedily eyeing up the succulent limbs of your youngest child, the last thing you want is some dreary wanker with a semi in a suit gobbling nonsense about how financially fucked we all are and how things can only get worse. During the Great Depression there may have been widespread unemployment and destitution, but at least 1930s paupers didn’t have to contend with the BBC’s pack of half-wit, bug-eyed financial commentators who seem to spend 24 hours a day broadcasting fatalistic alliterative drivel about how everyone in the entire world is skint and could possibly die of starvation in the next 18 months. What makes it worse is that the BBC has harnessed all manner of technology to ensure that their message of misery gets transmitted straight into my aching earholes whenever I gain consciousness in the morning. Would I like to be given the bad news by podcast, radio or just plain old television? Perhaps it would be easier to inject it into my temple and allow its icy message to slowly obliterate my brain cells intravenously…?
I shouldn’t focus all of my anger on the BBC – they’re not alone in this. What about GMTV? Officially the UK Broadcaster for Dullards and Pikeys, and spearheaded by that useless, balding twat, “money man” Martin Lewis, GMTV is going for the monumentally irritating approach by ensuring one of its mindless, floppy-eared gonk presenters mentions the words ‘credit crunch’ through a loud speaker at least once every thirty seconds, and that Martin Lewis himself gets my home number so that he can badger me to sort out my finances with the help of his ‘credit crunch-busting tips’. No doubt the aforementioned Jean from Tyneside has received similar guidance.
This morning, I was heartened to hear on the news that the Beeb are apparently making a concerted effort to perk up their negative news reporting before people start to set light to themselves. That posh-arsed 50 year-old schoolboy presenter and his pregnant fag-hag co-host barked in earnest that they had spent ages on a story which was intended to ‘lighten the mood’. Personally, watching a toothless factory worker from Wigan (which, you’ll be delighted to hear, has a superb history of unemployment), holding a pitchfork and mumbling that he found 50p down the back of the sofa (which is currently being repossessed), is not my idea of ‘light hearted’. May I suggest directly to the BBC that you broadcast some shaky footage of me inserting a substantial hollow tube up Robert Peston’s rectum whilst attaching it to an industrial hoover, then scooping out his eyes and feeding them to a blind-folded, castrated Martin Lewis, begging for his life.
Perhaps then you might lift the national mood a little.
