I now have facebook and that!
Forget ISIS, forget Malaria, forget global warming, forget Cancer, forget everything you think you know about threats to the world.
These ‘search terms’ below, are genuine search terms. Terms that people have actually, physically, typed into Google and accidently stumbled across my blog. Please just think of the man or woman who has typed some of these search terms in. Realise these are the true threat to the world!
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- dreamt that my ex boyfriend was shitting on himself…and even carried a bucket full of shit not knowing <—– **personal favourite**
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So ladies and gentlemen, Something was keeping me awake last night, was it the the thought of world hunger? the plight of the Panda? or the Double Vodka and Redbull i had before i went to bed? (I find alcohol solves all the worlds problems and eases my very small conscience) And so I got thinking about my blog, had I been to harsh on the people I see daily on my commute to work? Then I thought no, they are shit stains on the underwear of life. But I came to the conclusion that no matter what I write nothing could ever do them the true justice they deserve. So I have collected a few pictures, that i believe accuretly represent a good cross section of the people i get on the bus with, so you can make your own judgements ( I am not usually one to fill this ‘blog’ full of pictures, because frankly I am lazy and can’t be bothered, but I decided I would make an extra special effort)…enjoy
I was with my mate who pulled two girls last night.
“They’re like buses,” I said.
“What?” he said. “Because you wait for ages then two come at once?”
“No,” I replied. “They are like buses.”
Well dear readers here I go again. So my last post may of seemed a little bit like it was an attack on the wonderful form of public transport that is buses, and I suppose in a way, it was. I think maybe I was just having a bad day, maybe I was just annoyed at getting constantly raped by Arriva to ride a cattle shed on wheels, with herpes infested seats (if you are lucky to get one that is). Sometimes I feel like I may as well pull my trousers and pants down and just let the driver penetrate me with the thick end of a baseball bat, until he feels as if I have earned my bus fare, then slowly walk back to my seat like John Wayne. Cramped in like sardines, being violated by a big sweaty man stood next to me, every time we turn a corner, like the trains on the way to the concentration camps during the war, safety in numbers, yeah? Try telling that to 6 million Jews!
However, the bus has been a part of my life for more than 15 years, I have been everywhere on the bus, as much as I despise the bus, (I would rather walk to work, dragging my balls through broken glass, while listening to Coldplay) I need it, like the air we breathe, like water, or like seeing an old person fall over in winter, it is just necessary. Even the smell of piss and stale sweat, which first hits you when you climb on board, is starting to smell reassuring and comforting. Like the comforting smell of grandma’s cooking (if that cooking had been eaten by a cat, then vomited back onto a plate). See I can’t swim. I can’t drive, either. I was going to learn to drive but then I thought, well, what if I crash into a lake? Then I’m fucked! So the bus is the only way I can travel around (apart from helicopter, but apparently they are quite expensive to buy, I have checked)
Being a ‘bus wanker’ means that without the buses, I would not have had some of the amazing times, and have some of the great memories I have had over the years, so every cloud and all that. It is fair to say however, that my relationship with the bus is very much a love hate relationship, Ok mainly hate, kind of like seeing your ex girl friend with a new guy, you will automatically think he is a complete fucktard, but you never know why. In fact thinking about it, he is probably a really nice guy, ah I must ask him for a pint sometime (NB invite fucktard for a pint this Saturday). It can be stressful and I see buses as the main reason I am going grey at an alarming rate, also the reason I have more lines on my head than Gordon Ramsey! (I like Gordon Ramsey and I am pleased to hear that he has a new book coming out, ‘Take Two Eggs and Fuck Off!’)
Everyday I get up, get dressed, eat my Frosties (Frosties are just cornflakes for people who can not face reality!) and get on the bus, and the adventure begins for another day, while eating some pork scratchings on the peasant wagon. This year for Christmas I have asked for 400 packets of pork scratchings. When you think about it they are just the skin of the pig. So basically it’s a pig jigsaw. It would be more exciting than the usual Grey socks my mum gets me each year, its not just Christmas either, oh no birthdays are all about the grey socks too!
Everything I have done has started with climbing aboard a bus, I have been angry, happy, sad, amused, I have been abused on the bus, I have met a future girl friend on the bus, I have been dumped on the bus, I have even been dumped because I ride the bus! Yes that’s right, dumped because I ride the bus! I will go into more detail about that later dear reader. I have seen all walks of life on the bus. I love people watching so I decided to write about a few things I have seen on the bus, mainly because I am bored, and I have run out of polo mints, and its too cold to go buy some more! (NB buy a new coat)
I have spent my life travelling mainly in my home town of Leeds, too and from work, or to friends’ houses, how ever I did once get on a bus in Scotland, surrounded by people who could not speak a word of English, yes, I was in Glasgow!
So let me introduce myself first of all, well I am the youngest of 3, both my parents are older, I am not as young as I used to be, although I am younger than I will be!
I’m a man, a friend to animals land and sea, a handsome devil, a connoisseur of fine wines, and the classiest collection of antique hippos anywhere in the world. I can throw a boomerang if I have to but I prefer not too. I like to ride my pet giraffe around my home town while playing the flute. I am a world class water ski instructor. I do not care about the fashion world although they seem to care a lot about me. I smoke a pipe on occasions. I don’t give a damn about broccoli and I believe all men have the right to self pleasure. My favourite drink is Hairy gay lord. I can never tell people what happened in Middlesbrough one night in June. Babies, bless their soul give me the creeps, sandals on another man have been know to make me vomit.
If I had a monkey I would teach it to sing Justin Beiber songs. Then if Justin passed out on stage again I would be able to save the day by having the monkey finish the concert for him. The concert promoters would probably give me free tickets and promotional gifts. Justin would be so thankful that he might send me an autographed photo and I could sell it on eBay for fifty pounds. I would buy drugs with the fifty pounds. Not for the monkey, for me.
So that’s me. Or is it?
I may have told a few lies there, I think they refer to it as using artistic license… I do actually have a twin brother. Which has lead to what I can only describe as ‘awkward’ conversations on the bus. I have had hour long conversations with people, people who I have never seen before, or wish to see again in my life may I add, about how ‘mental’ the weekend was, and about what time I should meet them tomorrow for that 5-a-side tournament. I know what I should of said really was ‘sorry I think you are getting me confused with the wrong person’ but being the overly polite soul that I am, and not really having the heart to tell them that they maybe getting me confused with someone that looks like me, to save their embarrassment as much as my own, I just sit and nod, and try and cobble something together, that vaguely makes me sound as if I know what I am talking about (that’s how I get through work everyday). I think it worked though, and next week I have been invited to a house party with Roo and Finch. I can’t wait; I may have to buy a whole new outfit and everything!
That happens quite regularly, so it is something that I am used to. I also get the regular questions I imagine twins get, such as,
‘if your brother hurts himself do you feel his pain too?’ no.
‘Did you ever swap classes at school?’ no – he was in the thick classes, with the children who bite their own toes and get distracted by shiny things, how would that benefit me?
I was once out in town, having a few drinks quietly minding my own business (I was not on my own may I add, no one wants to be that guy) and a girl approached me, you know that phrase body of Baywatch, face of crime watch… well this girl had a face of crime watch and a body of Baywatch, if that bay was Skegness in the winter…after a nuclear war, and just said ‘you are a cunt’ (apologies for the language dear reader). I was pretty shell shocked and asked her what in hells bells she was talking about. She basically informed me that she had me confused with my brother, who had apparently ‘humped her and dumped her’ a few weeks previously, such is love. To prove she had the wrong person I had to show her some form of ID, even then I still do not think she was fully convinced of who I was. Such is life. I had to treat myself to a polo and a shot of Tequila!
Of course when you get on the peasant wagon as much as I do, and often on the same route, you do get to know the people you are travelling with whether you like it or not. Not through conversation mind you, because the general etiquette of the bus means, headphones in, if there is a free seat you sit on that, and if you have to sit next to someone, you perch on the edge of your seat, do not make eye contact and never, and I mean NEVER try strike up a conversation, if you do you will get looked at like you have just kicked a kitten in the face. Most of the time I talk to myself, and when I do, I find I almost never disagree with what I am saying! Communication is strictly restricted to quick nods and forced smiles.
That said, I did break those rules once, and made a sort of friend. That morning I had just used a new toothpaste, I can not remember the name, however, it was so minty it gave me an invincibility feeling that lasted till precisely 11.33am. Oh how I wish dear blog I could have given it to my new hobo friend, People with bad breath are disgusting. Fortunately I don’t need to worry about that since discovering free chewing gum under desks.
He must have been in his 40’s and was ever so grubby, poor wretch, he had the kindest eyes I think I had ever seen in my life so I gave him 50p, he thanked me, took another swig of his special brew (a very cheap beer) and a bite out of an onion. We are now on ‘hello’ terms when ever we are on the same bus, which just so happens to be all the time, as he mumbled to me how he buys a day ticket, loads up with cheap ‘beer’ that smells of paint stripper, and cheap paint stripper at that, and rides the bus all day.
Whilst I am sure that he is very pleasant, he is not the sort of person I would usually choose as my friend, he does have a tendency to be miserable and gloomy, and he seems to be permanently drowsy. My guess is drugs, ones that you can not just buy over the counter. I don’t bother with drugs myself because I’m at that age now; I don’t need to. If I want a rush, I just get out of a chair when I don’t expect it. Forget to give yourself a couple of days notice before you tie your shoes. Whoosh! What a rush!
It reminded me of a headline on the Jeremy Kyle show I had seen a couple of days earlier
Jeremy Kyle headline: “Did my mum try to drown me as a baby?”
No – you might not be used to it, but it’s called a bath.
Some facts about my new HOBO friend:
He always has a runny nose
He has a slight smell of TCP, if some had taken a piss in the bottle.
He has surprisingly nice hair (not a grey insight)
Never wears socks (NB buy some new socks)
We have cooled our relationship some what since I saw him masturbating on the back of the bus, to some picture on his iphone (how did he get an iphone??, I miss the days of pay as you go phones, my Nokia 3210 was still the best phone I ever had, indestructible, and snake was the best game ever, I think I scored 910 once!). Speaking of wanking dear readers, I had a friend who got caught by his mum having a little ‘me’ time once, he had his head phones in (no idea what he was listening to, hope it wasn’t S club juniors) and did not hear her enter his room. Jesus H Christ, imagine that, being caught by your parents masturbating…However, the other way round is worse!
On that lovely theme, I was the victim once of a prank while going for my usual early morning bus, I was running very late, so I had to run for the bus and their was a group of children who thought it would be funny to run 2m ahead of me screaming as though being chased…making me appear, to passers-by like some sort of sweaty paedophile, and prompting an elderly man to yell ‘leave the kids alone’. Well played children, well played.
Recently I was watching the news and a news report said that paedophiles are to be educated to control their urges. What a brilliant idea, send Paedophiles to school.
Speaking of bus pranks never start coughing on the bus and make an Ebola joke, it never goes down well, and I guarantee that somewhere on a bus, is a pregnant teenager who thinks that ‘Ebola’ would be a good name for a child.
Seeing some of the rather large people on the bus everyday (when I say large, I mean people who are large for a human, for what is essentially a land mammal, I am talking documentary fat) prompted me to start going to a gym, I hate the gym, we have always been enemies. I used to Whenever I felt like exercise, lie down until the feeling passed, but now, purely down to peer pressure, I get the bus to the gym – I assume the low qualification requirements of fitness trainers means that there is an over supply of these buffed but essentially otherwise purposeless professionals.
I knew a guy in school who couldn’t talk very well and collected sticks, he used to call the teacher ‘mum’ and during break we would give him money to dance. Then sell him sticks to get our money back.
He went on to become a fitness instructor so I view gyms as kind of like those factories that provide a community service by employing people with Down syndrome to lick stamps and pack boxes. Except with more Spandex, obviously.
I myself am fairly fit due to regularly thinking about jogging and other forms of movement, and I once performed a jumping jack. It was unintentional and involved a spider and a bath mat, but still counts. Apparently the advantage of exercising every day is that you die healthier, I am not so sure that matters.
The gym I go is only a low rent kind of place, but charges about half my monthly wage just to attend. In fact I have just come back from their and there’s a great new machine.
I only used it for about an hour, as I started to feel sick, but it’s great: it’s got KitKats, Mars bars, crisps and everything in it.
The gym is not too dissimilar from the bus as it happens. You walk in, it’s crowded, expensive, and full of fat people who do not know what a bath or shower looks like. You can witness all sorts of people there, from all walks of life. Within the gym is a corner where all the fake tanned, tattoo riddled ‘people’ congregate to lift weights all day, people who I presume do not have a job. People who walk around in vests so tight it must make it difficult to breathe, people who are so far in the closet they are having adventures in Narnia. Then at the opposite end of the scale are the weekly women’s fat club, which is like weight watchers, but only a few pounds cheaper. Middle aged women in full make-up who come for a ‘natter’ with fellow obesesians (my new word for a group of obese people, I think it may catch on!). I tend to find they always go for the exercise bike, mainly because they can sit down, which makes it easier to talk to Rita about the menopause and how they are now sagging in places they did not know could sag. The last group I saw, were all in a row, fully dressed in jeans (rather tight fitting jeans) all doing their make up, because they were going out afterwards. What is the point?? You can guarantee come the end of the week, they will be shocked that they have gained weight.
‘I just don’t understand I have been really good this week, I even went to the gym, these scales must be wrong, I demand a recount’
‘ I had a diet Coke with my Pizza hut yesterday, it had salad on it too, I am so confused’
Nothing to do with the fact you love cake then? No the scales must be wrong.
Sometimes you just want to shake them and say ‘Do you know how fat you are, do you? No, you don’t, ‘CAUSE YOUR FACE IS AN ISLAND TRAPPED IN A SEA OF FLAB! I would stab you to death… but I can’t afford to take the two weeks off work!
FATTIES. Take a tip from smokers and stop your cravings for chips by Cellotaping a crisp to the top of your arm each morning.
I have also read a news article that stated childhood obesity is on the increase and Paedophilia is on the increase, which to me just proves fatties are easier to catch.
Why do we applaud people for losing weight? For only eating as much as they need? They got fat for being lazy greedy bastards, I have never been given a round of applause for never being fat, or running out of breath and being all sweaty just for standing up at my desk. Do they honestly need waiters to come over and say ‘fuck off you have had enough’ when ordering 10 large big mac meals? No one got fat by surprise, no one has broken into there house in the middle of the night and injected their lettuce with a million calories.
I do not make other assumptions about fat people though; I do not judge any other aspects of their life. For example, I do not presume that just because they are fat, that they are jolly….a lot of them are miserable. If I see a fat girl, I don’t say ‘she would be pretty if she lost weight’ that is very rarely the case… a lot of them started eating because they had fuck all to lose in the first place.
Having said that it is true that being fat is mainly a female issue, in terms of, if a man is fat it doesn’t matter, we just think ‘fuck it, all bought and paid for’. So I do feel sorry for fat women, however they do always make and effort, a lot of them have lovely hair…anything but jogging.
I did meet my ex-girlfriend down at the gym. We didn’t workout. (Sorry, must try harder)
I have sat next to many ‘large’ people in my time simply grazing on the bus. This morning their seemed to be many people eating on the bus. A middle aged woman was chomping on a tuna sandwich, my homeless friend was chomping into his daily onion like it was an apple (why an onion? If you can afford and onion, surely you can afford an apple, unless someone is giving him onions, but who would give someone an onion?), and a rotund man, who smelt ‘athletic’ was eating a plastic bag full of Cadburys roses, I wondered what had happened to the original box? (Maybe he had eaten that as well), so I popped a polo mint in my mouth and tried to catch a few Zzzz’s. Cadbury man is one of the regulars I was talking about. For some reason he seems strangely attracted to me. Every time I have to stand up, he seems to stand next to me, maybe he loves me, maybe he wants to eat me, and honestly I am not sure which is worse. I have been lodged up his arm pit many times, almost being violated at every aggressive turn of the wheel from the bus driver. I am starting to think that I deserve a prize for being on this bus; oh I would kill for a noble peace prize!
Now having mocked the slightly larger frame, I may sound very hypocritical here, but the bus has served me well as a late night canteen over the years. Often after a few drinks after work, a few turning into several pints (Timothy Taylors Landlord, possible the greatest beer ever invented!) the natural reaction after drinking is to get food! Beer must be made by food companies. It makes you wander the streets at 3 am looking for things to eat. “What’s that, is it moving, get it!! It’s a nun! FRY HER!! FRY HER! Usually this means popping (staggering) into the train station before my last bus and getting a bargain bucket all to myself, with added gravy (KFC gravy is the best) and some how smuggling it onto the bus, while slightly worse for wear, ready to eat on the back seat of the night bus. The problem is however, I get tend to get eyed up by people envious of my bargain bucket, I presume most of the people who eye my bucket up, are on weight watchers. The last time I did this, I ended up sharing it with a 16 year old girl who had just had a massive argument with her boyfriend. So obviously, beer and deep fried chicken brings out my sensitive side! Who knew that chicken could have such an effect?
That is not the first time I have had to play councillor to a stranger on a bus (but hopefully it will be the last).
I sat on the bus for a good hour next to a woman in her twenties, who all the way home seemed to cry uncontrollably, I am not the most sympathetic of characters (you may of already noticed that dear friends), so I told her that her hair looked nice, just in case she had it done, (she hadn’t but it always works) and offered her a polo mint that had been in my pocket for a good few weeks, and had a slight smell of washing powder, but at least it was clean! I know lying is wrong, but if the elephant man came in now in a blouse with some make up on, and said “how do I look?” Would you say — bearing in mind he’s depressed and has respiratory problems — would you say “go and take that blusher off you misshapen headed elephant tranny”? No. You’d say “You look nice… John””
She seemed to be talking (through a mountain of snot bubbles) about how her boyfriend has not text her back for about 3 hours (it could have been 3 weeks, but I did not care enough to pay full attention, I was playing flappy birds on my phone, possibly the most frustrating game of all time, and it requires maximum concentration)… I offered her another lavender scented polo mint, and discreetly put my head phones back in (I felt guilty lying to her about her hair now). If this is how she acted then I am not all that surprised he was ignoring her (and I was thinking he probably does have someone more emotionally stable), I felt embarrassed just in case someone thought I was with her. Women eh, you cant live with them…cant kill them either, such is life. She seemed to cheer up after that polo mint anyway…Hoorah for polo’s! Another good deed done for the day dear friends.
Later in the journey I realised she must of been a vegetarian, by having a look what she bought from her shopping trip to Morisson’s, you can tell a lot about a person from what they have bought, and I noticed that she had in her possession a bag of Quorn Mince, Hence a vegetarian. I hate Quorn mince, why would I want to eat anything that looks like cat litter? I wouldn’t. She must be crazy, all vegetarians are, it’s just a fact of life, like death and taxes. It must be the lack of nutrients from eating grass all day. And it suddenly explained an awful lot. If animals were not to be eaten, then why the hell are they so tasty?? After that, plus the snot bubbles and the slightly unstable emotional state, I tended to avoid sitting near her from that moment on.
You see a lot of love on the bus if you look closely, I say love because when I see a couple on the bus all I see is the woman disgusted that her ‘man’ has made her get on the cesspit with wheels and has not chauffeur driven her round, like the queen (I saw the queen once) while she shops for shoes and hand bags for hours and hours on end. I once had the great pleasure of being sat in front of a couple who, I could tell had an argument because she ended every (short sentence) to him with ‘pig’, rather aggressively may I add. Such is love. Maybe she did not find the right shoes; I know I would be pretty upset too.
I find the secret of a good relationship is spontaneity – you’ve got to be ready to leave at any moment! There are also two ways to go about arguing with a woman and by far the best way is by text while at the pub
I asked a woman I was with once, simple question; I asked her ‘Have you ever eaten pheasant?’ See, it’s direct, isn’t it?! It’s enclosed; it contains everything that needs to be said! And she said a wonderful thing. She said “Erm…” – she thought about it – and she said “Er, not really.” What does that mean? On any level? I mean did you suck it and throw it away? Did someone drop it in your drink? What happened? Was it a speeding car – one lick? WHAT, WHAT?!?!
Or when people break up, they always use a bunch of lines on each other, you know, terrible rubbish lies, like “It’s not you, it’s me, it’s me.” It’s NEVER you, it’s always them! You should level with these people! Tell them! “You know that strange sound you used to hear when you were going to sleep? That was me CHEWING the bed, out of sheer boredom! OOOOHH, how I HATE you, I hate you so much it gives me energy! I have to get up early in the morning to hate you because there isn’t time enough in the day. Please, GO AWAY!” Or that other BULLSHIT: “I need more space!” People never quantify exactly how much space they really need… do they? But strangely enough, it always seems to be the exact same height, depth and breadth as you.
I have both been dumped on a bus, I have also been asked out on a bus. My last girlfriend dumped me because I used the bus… she also once tricked me into watching the film the Notebook which was about geese. Lots of geese. It also had something to do with an old lady who conveniently lost her memory so she could not remember being a whore through out the entire film.
I got chucked once for not having a car and always having to take the bus everywhere, By a girl called Hannah, We lived in domestic bliss and perfect harmony for …13 days, was it her fault we split? Of course it was, she’s a girl.
Women, you can’t even conceive of the notion, that if we have nothing to say we don’t talk, it’s always ‘you must be thinking something’ nope. Or if we are thinking things it’s usually… I wonder if I strap to fireworks to a tortoise it would fly? That is just unimaginable to women isn’t it?
Women have a different system, a thought occurs, and shit shoots out of their front, literally just spunked out of their face. We are men, we don’t need to talk about our emotions, we don’t care. If we get ill, we just take a couple of paracetemol and get on with it, ok we may mention it once, and then we got on with our day. I mean you never hear men whinge about their periods do you? We just don’t go on about it that’s all, I bet you women never realised we had them did you?
Oh look there is a conversation going on in Ghana…let me get involved, always trying to help…more like interfere.
Hannah was a solicitor, so she was naturally slightly up her own arse anyway, you would be hard pressed to find a Solicitor that was not so far up their arse they have started shitting out of their own mouths. 99% of solicitors give the rest a bad name. What’s the best way to stop a solicitor from drowning? Shoot them before they hit the water! We had been seeing each other roughly 6 weeks, but ‘officially’ going out round about 2 weeks. However, I was never her type dear reader. She was a solicitor who drove a new Audi, who hung around with blokes who had traded their personality for fake tan, fake tans – Because there’s no sunlight in the closet! and a Toni and Guy hair cut, along with a very tight suit, and that’s the type of guy she wanted, and that is never going to be me (I cant afford a Toni and Guy hair cut!)
But slightly perversely, she was not the brightest bulb in the box, she didn’t know Scotland had a capital city and she often watched TOWIE and Made in Chelsea (There are some people in this world who deserve to be shot. Apparently E4 have found some of these people, rounded them up in one place, filmed them for research purposes and called it Made In Chelsea). I am convinced watching these shows reduces your mental capacity to that of a cabbage, which would explain a lot about her! Oh she also used the phrase “mega LOLz” yeah I know, I should have ended it right there… I have never been the quickest. So next time you find yourself in court, remember, the only person standing between you and being Tony the stranglers bitch, is someone who doesn’t know Scotland is it’s own country!
These days I tend to try a different approach when it comes to dating and all that Jazz, no longer dear readers am I such a soft touch when it comes to relationships, and its all thanks to buses! Treat them mean keep them keen, isn’t that the phrase? But surely if that were the case, wouldn’t the Jews adore the Germans? Anyway let’s see how it works out for me.
A couple of weeks ago, I accidentally sat next to her on the bus, I say accidentally, because I was sticking to the world renowned rules of the bus…head down, no eye contact etc. I only noticed it was her half way through the journey when I looked up briefly to see who I was sat next to. So I did what all good men would do out of shear panic when they realise they have made a grave error, I pretended to play with my phone, until I got off two stops early! But life being life, as soon as I got off that peasant wagon, I thought of some really witty things to say, something about being as shallow as a puddle I think. I will save them for next time, such wit can not go to waste!
On an unrelated note, did you know that 99% of women kiss with their eyes closed? That is why it makes it so difficult to identify a rapist.
At the same time as I just met Hannah, it was Sport Relief, a big charity event which is televised on TV, showing “celebrities” doing sporty challenges to raise money for some cause or other, I think they raise money for donkeys or children or even orphaned snails, I can not be so sure, I really was not paying attention. I’ve done very little to help charities…i’ve done nothing to help, but I look at charity like this…it’s a pain isn’t it? All the effort, all the making yourself look silly in the aid of raising £13.67 pence, here have £15 just to shut up. It’s true that when it comes to charity many people stop at nothing…. And I am certainly one of these. But while at work someone suggested me and a fellow colleague dye our hair red for charity. I wasn’t really listening and just agreed to it, not knowing what I agreed to (I thought someone was offering me a cup of tea). However panic set in as soon as the Dye was on my head, it was permanent! (I had been assured that it would wash out in 8 washes, it didn’t, and it took 3 months to get rid of) How in gods name have I let this happen? Anyway it was too late, it was done, and by the end I looked like someone who was ready to go out raving at the local gay discothèque, I was not happy and needless to say I got a lot of abuse, especially about my hair looking ginger (I just saw that Harry Potter film. A bit unrealistic if you ask me. I mean, a ginger kid with two friends?)
NB: Did you know that gingers are a dying breed? True, in 20 years time no gingers will be born, I suppose it is for the best really. And did you also know there is a national bully a ginger day? When it is acceptable to pick on all gingers? I don’t know when it is, I could have looked it up but I can’t be bothered, I will up date it later. I have no problem with gingers, (the only ginger that I ever really liked was my first pet Zippy, a big fat ginger cat, and he lived till 22! And at least he could go out in the sun!) Some girls can look quite attractive as natural Red heads. I have noticed that there is no middle ground when you are ginger, you are either horrible or attractive, you never walk passed a ginger and just say ‘they look OK’, nope, it is all or nothing if you are ginger!
As it happens earlier on this week There was a ginger guy using the self-checkout in Tesco and the machine said “unexpected item in the bagging area” and I was thinking ‘Condoms’.
We do a lot of fund raising for charity at work…too much if anything, with the amount of money that I give, I will be in need of that charity money soon. I can see myself on the Comic Relief promotional videos now “this is Ben, and last year the bank refused to extend his over draft, meaning he has to live with using an Iphone 5 on O2, the reception is awful, and can no longer write offensive Twitter statuses as quick as he would like…please donate now, Ben really needs your help, thank you” ill be famous woooo! That plan deserves another polo.
Personally, I think Comic Relief is a big swindle. Some of those kids are fatter than I am!
I do not remember getting any help from children in need either, when I was younger I wanted a snooker table, did children in need get me one? No! It’s all a big con! I personally think Lenny Henry keeps all the money for himself, and pays the BBC to get on television, I can not think of any other way he is still employed!
What bounces and makes kids cry?
My donation cheque to Children in Need
The charity of choice at work at the moment is Alzheimer’s, but apparently my idea of telling them we have already given them money and that they must of forgotten, was not funny (I thought it was, I chuckled to myself anyway)
Because of my red hair, I was often the prime target for abuse from the local scrotes on the bus, the phrase ‘look at you you ginger prick’ was often used, and to be honest it got quite tiresome, I did take offense… I was certainly not ginger, a prick however… yes I suppose that is true.
However it is still not the worst chat up line I have ever heard, that award still goes to the Irish gypsy who said he wanted to “kick my cunt in”, oh such is love.
Here is a little game that I have devised for you all just in case you get bored while reading this (I wouldn’t blame you, there is so many better things to do, why don’t you go watch TV? There are some great programmes on at the moment, have you watched Gogglebox? No… Go watch it, its amazing! There are two posh people on there who are permanently drunk!)
So my game goes like this….
Call the ChildLine number and say ‘I’ve just dialled 1471 and this number came up, who is this?’
2. Operator replies ‘you’re through to ChildLine.’
3. You shout ‘TERRY YOU LITTLE CUNT, NOT AGAIN….COME HERE YOU LITTLE BASTARD”. Before hanging up the phone. And let the fun begin!
There are so many charities these days to choose from (including sufferers of obesity, I kid you not ladies and gentlemen) how do you know who is more deserving of your hard earned money? It’s impossible; do you give it to disabled geese or mentally challenged swans? Who knows? My colleagues are currently trying to talk me into doing a skydive for charity, to send children off to America to swim with dolphins; I am not a fan of heights so it will be a big challenge. It’s the same with flying; I am not a fan at all. It is not the flying that I am scared of, it is the crashing in a big ball of flames that terrifies me; the flying is the good bit!
People say that dolphins are intelligent, and that’s true, but only compared to the retarded kids we have them swimming with… so I will keep you posted on the sky dive (I wont).
Having red hair is not the only time I have been abused on the bus however, insults fly around on the bus all the time. Whether it is Chantelle shouting down the phone at Jayden for fingering Chelsea when they were supposed to be ‘Baes’ (what the hell does Bae mean? As far as I can work out it is the most fucking annoying way to say girlfriend, boyfriend, crush, or any other sort of significant other. Commonly used by ghetto folks, swagfags, and annoying fucktards ) calling him a skank, it happens all over the place. The last time it happened to myself I was being called a stuck up t**t on the peasant wagon for reading (yes reading). Slightly unfair to over look my other achievements, such as breathing, sneezing, blinking and waking up every morning. Fucktard is a word that is under used… in this case it is very apt.
I had a mini debate on the bus once with a toothless man probably about a year ago now, he was the was the type of guy you would see on a crimewatch reconstruction, scary looking, someone you would not want to bump into during the day, never mind a dark alley. I knew he was going to be someone that was argumentative, and someone I did not want sitting near me in case he tried to strike up a conversation of some kind. So I did the usual, what any sane person would do in these situation, I tried to look as inconspicuous as possible and stared out of the window, hoping that he would not come talk to me. However what I failed to realise was that the only free seat on the bus was right next to me, brilliant. He sat down next to me in a rather aggressive manor, everything he did was aggressive. I looked at my phone, messing around on twitter as you do, (In light of recent controversies involving Twitter, it’s best to assume that anything written on the Internet can be used as evidence in court. Piers Morgan fucks children.) Then he started speaking, quizzing me about how Twitter makes its money, and I cobbled something together about advertising, although I don’t think he liked that answer. Aggressively he replied ‘if it was up to me I would charge 10p per tweet, that way they would make a shit load of money’. Great advice there, I am sure the inventors of twitter would love the advice of a slightly mentally unhinged man, that is just what they need! Needless to say, yet again, I got of the bus a few stops early.
I had travelled to many interviews via bus, always making sure I was an hour early. Often without success. When I left University, finding employment was difficult, when I first started looking for employment, I aimed high, I was fresh out of university, ready to take on the world and show potential employers just what they were missing, unfortunately that enthusiasm lasted maybe a couple of weeks, after two weeks of getting the bus into town everyday for pointless meetings with recruitment agencies who had seen a million people like me in the past, from handing out my CV to anyone that would take it, even to people who just wanted something to blow their nose on, trekking round in one of my dads old suits, looking like I was trying to dress older so I could buy alcohol underage, I started to get demoralised. I did get one job a couple of months after leaving university… I lasted till 9.30 am, on my first day, I went to the toilet and never came back. I think it was some kind of marketing firm, who basically sold any old shit they were given from little stalls in the local shopping centre, like those orange women in Boots, telling other people how best to apply their make up.
I should have realised what I let myself in for, when at the interview one of the tasks was to draw a dolphin on a piece of paper.
- I did have a temporary job for round about 2 weeks, that seemed to be filing pieces of paper in alphabetical order and the occasional photo copying, before I was politely asked to leave, for answering the telephone in a high pitched female voice and telling the person calling that the boss was taking a nap in her office and changing her email signature so that it said horse whisperer instead of HR manager.
So instead of earning a living I was sitting in my shed searching the job papers, there did not seem to me many positions for a budding lottery winner. I bet David Cameron has never experienced unemployment, he’s never woken up at 3pm and had a packet of flaming hot monster munch for his breakfast. My mum did tear out a ad in the paper for a cleaner in a psychiatric prison, I politely declined. I started to feel positively negative about everything. I had let myself down, worse still I have let my parents down. In fact I would even go as far to say I have besmirched the Cooper name itself. I have become a besmircher, and no one likes a besmircher. I went through a large amount of Polo mints in those two weeks!
Fortunately it all worked out well and now I am the highest earner in my office, Except on Mondays when I am the drunkest. Although I spend most of the day playing a game called ‘staring at the wall wondering what happy are doing’ and answering calls by either ending each sentence with ‘over’ like I am talking on a walkie talkie then making the ‘kchssssch’ noise or pretending to be a confused Chinese woman. Once, I locked my office door and spent the day nude. To be honest I am not exactly sure what it is a do, I turn up, day dream about having my own private island, and then when it hits 5 I run out of the door and head for the bus stop. Speaking of jobs My cousin’s a lazy bastard – sits around all day doing fuck all, drinking, surfing the internet for porn. Jeez, I wish I had an office job too!
As I was getting off the bus on my first day of my new job, I saw what appeared to be a homeless man shouting and waving his arms, he had in his possession a sandwich, I am not sure what type, I didn’t stop to ask. He was being harassed by a pigeon that was trying to steal his unidentifiable sandwich. As the pigeon flew towards it, the homeless man, through his drunken haze, proceeded to land a punch right between the eyes of the pigeon. The pigeon was spark out on the grass, like he had gone a few rounds with Muhammed Ali, after a few minutes and what must of seemed like a life time to poor beaky (I have named the pigeon Beaky, because he had a beak) I am happy to report, Beaky rather unsteadily got to its feet and flew off, and the homeless man ate his sandwich. Alls well that ends well as they say. From then on I knew it was going to be a good day. To this day it has to be up there with one of the funniest things I have ever seen!
On the bus you always get a free paper in the morning (if they have any left), its not a very good paper, and rather like this blog it is very poorly written by someone who obviously doesn’t like what he is doing and could not give ten shiny shites what people think. Bless their hearts though, they do try and write serious articles about war and famine etc but to be honest it’s mainly about gossip and non-celebrities having their dogs hair done, and if they have a new line on their face or some other utter crap. This morning I noticed that there was an article about Justin Bieber spitting of a balcony. I can’t believe all this fuss about Justin Bieber spitting off the balcony. It fucking shocked me. I was sure he was a swallower.
On that very same journey dear friends two ‘girls’ (use that term very loosly) on the bus seem to be giving blokes marks out of ten for looks. I get a 2. Which according to them means I’m not quite in the same league as the elephant man, but I’m still ugly. So that’s some positive news! Hoorah! Every cloud and all that, Although, they do look like two failed abortion attempts after their mum found out Steve was not their dad after doing a DNA test on Jeremy Kyle. Excuse me while I go cry. You no you have hit rock bottom, when a fat chavy bint asks if you have a girlfriend, and when you say “no” she tells you to take more pride in your appearance! Such is love. It is true what they say Women are like fair ground rides, fucking mental. For now I am more than happy living by myself with my single freedoms. I have learnt some of lives most valuable lessons living alone, when you live on your own you learn Lurpack spreadable, is unspreadable.
The next week I was sat on the bus going to Bradford for some god knows reason, maybe it was some sort of charity mission, we have seen the lengths I will go to for charity…have you ever been to Bradford? If you want to see what down town Baghdad looks like, go visit Bradford, but please, please, please what ever you do, go to the doctors and get all your injections first! The Government have gone way over the top with job cuts, Bradford has been especially hard hit, I’ve just heard three prostitutes have been axed in Bradford already!
sat on the bus, while I was on my way to Basra, sorry I mean Bradford, was a middle aged man sat right in front of me who was obviously watching a porn film on his mobile, it probably would of helped him if had turned the sound off, or at least used head phones, right in front of the whole bus. He was holding his phone with one hand, I could not see what he was doing with the other. It was a pretty grim sight I tell you. Anyway I have noticed that Pornhub titles always seem to lack depth and imagination, yes we know college girl is trying anal for the first time, but what’s her degree in? Her dreams? Her ambitions?
He was sweating like…
a dyslexic on Countdown
a paedo in a playground
a fat man at a buffet
a nun at a cucumber stall
Gary Glitter in Mothercare
a fat bird at a disco
Mel Gibson at a Bar Mitzvah
Vanessa Feltz on a treadmill
Michael Barrymore at a pool party
a Scouser in Dixons
a Geordie in a job centre
a dog outside a Chinese restaurant
a priest at a boy-scout meeting
Fred West’s babysitter
Michael Jackson on a bouncy castle
Hitler at a Bar Mitzvah
a Scotsman at a charity fund raiser
Joseph Fritzl at a family reunion
like a Jimmy Savile in a morgue
you get the idea.
I wish I could of changed seats but alas there was no where to go, I was trapped watching a second hand porn film! Talking of not being able to change seats, apparently there are certain rules when you are on the bus that means, if you are a man in his twenties (which I am, just) you have to be the first one to give up your seat, should anyone who is not in that category require it. Apparently this is just fair, in a equal society, us men in our early 20s to 30’s are just expected to give up a seat, no questions asked, seats which we have paid the most for, to anyone else that wants it, no matter what condition. Now being the reasonable and tolerant person that I am, I accept that if I pregnant woman gets on (even though its her fault she is pregnant) or an elderly person gets on, and they are a bit unstable on their feet (kind of like me after a few pints of Landlord) then it is probably right that I give up my seat, however begrudgingly. However, on my bus there is a regular battle axe that gets on only a few stops after me, who for some reason, only known to her, thinks she is the master of all things bus. We all know the type, someone who has a face of a bulldog licking piss of a stinging nettle.
So one evening, happy to be on my way home so that I could finish off watching Breaking Bad (I had been up till 4am the previous morning watching it, I became quite the addict, and it took me two weeks to adjust to normal society again, I did briefly think about going into the meth business, but I decided start up costs maybe a little to high, I may start saving though so watch this space) the bus was full, but I managed to claim a seat! I was rather smug about this fact, however battle axe had other ideas, and seeing a young(ish) man sit down must of angered this old crow, who preceeded to tap me on the shoulder and ask me to get up, so the woman stood next to her, in her early 30s, not pregnant, no visible sign of disability could sit down, purely I assume just because she was a woman. I don’t understand why women want to be equal when they could be better. That shows a lack of ambition to me. This is why men are better. (only joking ladies)
So I did what all self respecting people would do in this situation, I said ‘no’, put my head phones back in, and logged on to Facebook! I could see the woman who was going to take my seat was clearly embarrassed that a strange woman was trying to get her a seat. So daily me and this feminist Nazi bulldog have our seat battles. And I am glad to say dear reader I am winning 24-5 wooo, time for another polo!
But I find that happens more with the new mums, ahh new mums. The worst kind of bus passenger, people so dull that when they turn around you forget what they looked like, the ones who will bore you with 20 minutes of bullshit about how difficult it is to get a kid into a school, the ones who feel they have a god given right to do, say and sit where they want, because they have a child, and of course as all childless people will know, if we do not have a child we do not understand! New mums did you know Your house is a medley of disgusting smells, there’s nothing to eat, everybody’s wearing bathrobes, there’s no bar, I can’t fuck anybody. Why would anyone come round?
The most arrogant of the human species, it can turn the friendliest down to earth women into complete and utter arseholes in an instant. Bags and pushchairs taking up 3 seats at rush hour, making everyone play musical chairs because your bag of nappies needs a seat too, constant screaming from your little bundle of joy, that everyone can hear apart from the new mum, because after all, being a parent is the most difficult job in the world apparently, and I just don’t understand. What I do understand however, is that we have been having children for thousands of years, and I am sure there was not this much fuss all that time ago. It seems to be a relatively new thing. I am sure it does hurt, however people keep on having children, I got hit in my balls once, and I never want to do that again, so you tell me which is more painful? I blame the invention of Facebook, where you can tell the whole world that your new ticket to a flat screen TV has had its first shit, or you can tell us all how you love your child. Here’s a radical idea, why not go look after your sprog, instead of telling me all about it? Or those people who put ‘full time mummy’ as their Facebook status, unemployed, you are unemployed! It is your child, and if we are being brutally honest, no one actually cares but you! If I am being polite and ask how old your kid is, I don’t need to know in months. “27 Months.” “He’s two,” will do just fine.
He’s not a piece of fucking cheese. And I didn’t really give 2 fucks in the first place.
I have another game for you all dear readers (I should work for Waddington’s!)
Next time you’re on a beer run to your local supermarket, add nappies and baby food to your trolley. When you get to the till, empty your wallet to reveal only enough cash for the alcohol. The look on the cashiers face as you tearfully ask them to cancel the baby products from your bill is priceless!
Are you having trouble finding your kids’ name’s on bottles of Coca Cola?
Then I bet you wish you’d given them proper names instead of thinking you were clever by calling them Lake and Destiny.
Children are very overprotected now, in lots of ways. We’re very nervous about them. You know, people go, “Don’t go outside! Or inside! Get into the cupboard with some spinach!” When I was a child they’d kick you out and you weren’t expected to come back until there were bats!
You ask women, “You know how painful it is? What are talking about here?” And you don’t get an answer, you get anger…and it always starts with the melon…“IMAGINE A MELON!…COMING THROUGH YOUR FACE!…fuckin’ stay there, I’ll get a melon!”
We are going through a period in our office at the moment where everyone seems to be having a baby, which inevitable means that they are going to bring it into the office, its torture, I can not go near it for fear that I may offend the parent, and no doubt that parent will be my boss, which makes it doubly tricky! I find it hard when someone does bring their sprog into the office to not act like it doesn’t look like a potato.
And remember new parents, it does not take that much effort to be a good mum. Remember Katie Price and Kerry Katona have both won mum of the year! I read in the free news paper once that Apparently Jordan and Peter Andre are fighting over which one of them gets custody of Harvey, although I imagine eventually one of them will lose and have to keep him
I was once on a bus in Newcastle, I do love Newcastle (I once got called a puff for wearing a coat in December while I was there) and that was something else altogether. Just the bus on the way up there had fights, between women (orange women), between women and men, and the women and the bus driver, then people passing out in there own vomit, and the men in tight T-shirts trying to split them up, it was a right laugh, but made acceptable because the Geordie accent some how made it less threatening!
That was a pretty eventful weekend it itself, we went camping somewhere outside Newcastle, there were four of us in this tent, in the arse end of nowhere, one friend had drunk three litres of cider (only cost £2.85 though, what a bargain) and he proceeded to throw up inside the tent, and I am talking serious projectile vomiting! So the other three of us had to sleep outside with just one sleeping bag between us (not in a broke back mountain kind of way though, it was freezing). Needless to say we were not happy, so I proceeded to let the tent down and let my sick smeared friend role about in his own vomit all night. The next morning we woke up and had to crawl back onto the bus, freezing cold, but still not quite as bad as our friend, who got on the bus covered in dry vomit. The next Monday at school he still had some of his sick on his back. We have not spoken since!
Other things I have witnessed on the bus that I can not think of anything to write about, or cant be bothered to right about because The Apprentice is about to come on.
- A religious god botherer trying to recruit me to her church while on my way to work – Christianity: One woman’s lie about having an affair that got seriously out of hand.
- Seeing just how far old people can travel on 30p (not worked it out yet, but it seems a long way)
- A woman with a ferret.
- The same woman with a parrot
- A clown with a broken leg
- My next door neighbour kissing a man that’s not her husband
- My old boss dressed as a very convincing woman (I promised not to say anything and so far I haven’t!)
- Man with 2 guide dogs, not really sure why
- Woman having a panic attack
- Man or woman dressed as a Teletubby
- Woman going into labour
- A girl and her dad going shopping too Ann summers, very sinister
“I’ve got a real problem. You know those women you’d give anything for, but you know you can’t have? Well, I’ve got it really bad for one right now. Worse thing is she knows I’m into her and that just turns her on more. I can’t stop thinking about her. But I know, I KNOW it’ll only end in tears. So I told myself the next time I saw her I was going to resist.
Right so, I have been missing for a good while again, and it is simply because I am the king of laziness, I have found myself watching lots of children’s TV, especially Peppa Pig. I especially like the episode where mummy pig, gets all dressed up special for her Birthday. when I grow up, I am going to be like mummy pig. She is very talented and never gets cross, even though her children frequently come home all soiled in mud from jumping in bastard puddles. Her husband is an overweight fool with a serious superiority complex. I suspect she self medicates with quite a lot of wine in the evenings. I am sure parenting is a hard job, However whoever invented a way for mums to get together on the internet is on a par with the person who invented the atomic bomb. They have unleashed a force upon the earth so awesome and dreadful, that it threatens the whole of humanity. Mums should be kept in isolation as far as possible and never given access to social media. We should stop worrying about Trident and seal Mumsnet in a bunker instead of nuclear waste. As we speak, there is a guy in this coffee shop, sitting at a table, not on his phone, not on his laptop, just drinking coffee like a psychopath. But if the truth be told, I have not really had a lot to moan about since my last post. That doesn’t mean I do not hate everything, and that things don’t annoy me any more, because they do. They really do… like feminists, people who walk and text, people who chew too loudly or constantly sniff when they are sat next to me on the bus. Because things like that really boil my piss. Like recently when I got told to give my seat up on the bus for a middle aged woman, by a guy who was lurking around like a big hairy rapist at a coach station. And when I say middle aged, you would expect her to be going on 60 or 70ish. But no, this woman was in her forties at the latest. Of course I refused, which generated a fair amount of staring and loud tutting noises from a woman who looked like a Nazi Julie Andrews; she didn’t get off her arse and move though!
Anyway, all of these little things are not good enough to write a whole blog post about. It would be pointless, I just told you them!
It is hard to be sarcastic and bitter when things have been going pretty well of late. But I knew I needed to write something, so to get me in the mood I punched a kitten in the face and that made me feel much more like my normal self.
“God, she was all over me as soon as I stepped in the door, kissing and touching me. Then she suddenly cools off with no warning. A total cock tease. She’s always dressed immaculately, and today was no different. She was wearing this breezy little floral number, down to just below her knees; minimum jewellery – just a bracelet and a simple necklace. Real classy.
We talked for a bit, and she made us some lunch. Then, as she was clearing away she “accidentally” dropped a knife. Fuck me; she bent down SO SLOWLY, letting out the sexiest little groan you ever heard. As I was sitting there in the chair, taking in the view, all I could think was:
“Shit…if you weren’t my grandmother you would be in SERIOUS TROUBLE right now.”So agony aunts why them… well why not? I hate the filth pigs. I’d love to stuff so much cotton wool down their throats that they would be shitting it out of their arse till they look like the fucking Easter bunny. They are as credible to me as psychics, mediums, Kim Kardashian (so Kim Kardashian’s arse is huge and has a lot of oil… I wonder if America will invade it? Oh wait, my bad, half of America already has), or those weird people who go on about horoscopes; it’s all just a big con. They are the equivalent of a 99p store called ‘Value Bastard’ that sell lighters cellotaped to bottles of bleach. To me, they are making a living off mentally ill people, the metally ill people who write to them. I mean who in the name of sweet baby Jesus would write to them? Well I know… lonely people! I am lonely, and I am always looking for affection, my only requirement would be that we keep the lights off as imagination has its limits. I have had worse of course… my last girlfriend was the poster girl for ‘love is blind’ and my current partner is overseas at the moment so the only intimacy in my life involves a stick of salami and the neighbours dog when Glenda & Frank go out Tuesday nights. Once when they arrived home early due to an argument between themselves regarding Frank’s internet usage, I hid in their wardrobe for four days. I could see Frank using his computer from my hiding position, therefore, I can vouch for his denials to Glenda’s accusations that he was “looking at girls on the internet”. He was looking at photos of her. No, not really, it was men.
Young lonely people tend to be the main culprits. I don’t even see young people on the street anymore. I see youths. You know, how they’re described in police radio reports… slumped S-shapes in their hoods, beside their harrowed dogs and a bin full of burning grannies, all texting each other because they’ve given up on speech, and plotting something terrible like how to make cider out of blood
Often the things that the agony aunts discuss are deeply personal, stuff that you would find hard to talk about in front of friends and family. Yet the morons that write in are happy to let some middle aged woman (who’s only qualification for the role as far as I can tell is being able to read and write) give you life advice. It’s like having Stevie Wonder judge Miss World. In its simplest terms it is basically your nosey neighbour next door who can not keep her big fucking nose out of other peoples business popping over to tell you your tax disc is out of date. Except this time you have the added pleasure of it being published in a national newspaper. I am sure that their intentions are honourable, and that in a past life, the aim of these wank biscuits was to truly help people. There are so many serious issues, which simply can not be solved by two lines in a newspaper column. They will argue that it is just to provide guidance for small personal matters, but its not. People write in about all sorts. Some guy this one time, was so concerned that he had an attraction to children he wrote into a national newspaper, and Deirdre genuinely tried to get him help! Question: Does the new paedophile in town approach the older paedophiles and ask them – ‘Where’s a good place to track down kiddies? Do you know a good place?’ ‘Well, it’s swings and roundabouts, really.’ I will not say his name, because I can not remember, but what I do know is that he was from Wales. Wales is a strange place. Every 20 years or so, anthropologists attempt to coax the islanders from their hostile reception of outsiders by leaving leeks on the beach and waving from boats anchored just beyond spear throwing distance. Sometimes the native’s wave back and the anthropologist’s encouraged approach for them to come close enough to be speared.
The most popular example of mentally challenged (or Jeremy Kyle viewers as I like to call them) being exploited for other peoples amusement in this country is in a newspaper called ‘The Sun’ (I say newspaper; I mean it’s for idiots, or used as a back up for toilet paper). It has a daily column called ‘Dear Deidre’. Deirdre is now a household name in this country like ‘Vanish’. I do not know if the woman’s real name is Deirdre or not, and I do not give a flying goats shit enough to find out. All I do know is that she is a big frumpy woman who has a 1980’s style perm. And the most unbelievable thing about this is that people actually write in to her and ask deep personal questions! (Personally, I just think that somewhere in the cellar of the Sun HQ is a load of 16 year old media studies students who are made to work 12 hours a day with no break, thinking of different ways to word ‘my husband is having an affair what should I do? balls to aspiration, it’s a tosser’s mirage. Oh it is of course anonymous, with the exception that they put there name, age and where they are from in the article. “The next query comes from Armando 30 in Littlehampton” the height of discretion the sun. (As a side note: I love the fact that the ‘photo’ story on agony aunt pages always has fit girls in their underwear. Don’t fat ugly girls ever have problems?)
“I’m beginning to think I’m not normal; I’m still a virgin at the age of 11.
Sally from Liverpool”
There are so many problems in the world today, and most of us have a skeleton in the cupboard. David Beckham takes his out in public. There are so many problems with Britain, and it is such a strange country. I mean you have to be 16 to join the army, but 18 to play call of duty. You can vote at 16, but you have to be 18 before politicians can stop finding you attractive. Like I say, odd. Occasionally you will get some serious questions from people who are genuinely looking for help, and not just to see if they can get in the paper. Often these are teenagers struggling with their sexuality, and struggling with how to tell their friends and family. Of course these kind of queries need a real and deep response, not just a couple of sentences in a newspaper, and then a premium rate phone line to call afterwards. Personally I do not care whether a person is gay, straight, or Australian. I personally don’t think I could be gay… I just don’t have it in me.
Another huge and current issue in this country is the issue of immigration. Everyone has an opinion whether good or bad it doesn’t matter. Everyone has an opinion. I have a mix of nationalities living on my street. Ones English, ones Chinese, ones Indian…it’s like the Olympic village here. But that’s OK.
I am not talking about the big issues in the world, the issues that really matter, the issues that we should all take an interest in, the issues that really affect us everyday, i.e. Terrorism, hunger, disease, immigration (it’s a hot topic in the country, and no doubt all over the world now is immigration, but what can you do? Build a wall around Britain? Who the fuck is going to build it?) I am talking about the crap you read in everyday rags like the Sun, or the free crap you get on the bus in the morning; the one that the man next to you has used to blow his nose (at least he is not sniffing constantly). But why concentrate on the major issues, when Candice from Essex thinks she has caught a sexually transmitted disease off Abdul from the kebab shop, and now can not stop itching and has a burning sensation when she goes for a piss behind the bins. I know A joke about Essex girls, I apologise in advance …
An Essex Girl enters a sex shop and asks for a vibrator.
The man says “Choose from our range on the wall.”
She says “I’ll take the red one.”
The man replies “That’s a fire extinguisher.”
The news is full of disadvantaged people who have problems – they say disadvantaged on the news because they can not say “fucked” on the news. Look at Heather Mills, at one time she was the most hated woman on the planet. I mean if anyone could have used a bit of advice then it would have been her. The only way Heather Mills can redeem herself now is to find Madeleine McCann. Bless her little wooden leg, she is not the only celebrity that could of done with a bit of advice from our favourite old hag Deirdre… Michael Jackson (god rest his soul) could of done with her help, or at least one of her fabulous glossy leaflets (if you call a premium rate number and get put on hold for 30 minutes, she must be rolling in it the greedy bitch). Mind you, he had so many problems that he would have needed her whole range of leaflets. It would be a whole novel. Jackson’s family say AEG and his doctor ignored all the warning signs regarding his health, little tell tale signs that showed he was ill, like his face falling off!
You can almost guarantee that in Germany there are no such things as problem pages….want to know why? Because things work there.
There are so many amusing ones though, and you can only imagine what the person writing in must look like. I imagine it is not to dissimilar to Jackie Stallone, after an acid attack. One that I unfortunately found myself reading was about a young girl who was worried that she was not a good kisser. Deirdre’s amazing advice? Practice on her pillow. I shit you not. So next time she kisses someone, she will expect to smell like sweat and taste like cotton. All I could think of is what that that kiss must be like. I imagine it’s something like trying to siphon petrol.
I phoned the agony aunt this evening incidentally. That’s what I call her anyway – my uncle beats her regularly
“I have trouble making friends, what the fuck is you going to do about it?”
Kids are also a big problem today, an example of this would be when I was at the bus station once, and there was a girl with her parents, she was 11 (I will explain how I know that she was 11 shortly) and she had one of those pink fluffy tracksuits on, ones that look like someone made it out of a towel that has been left in your schools lost property, and now smells damp and musky like an old ladies house. Stitched on the arse it said ‘gorgeous’. The dad came over and for some reason started talking to me (which I hated), he had a strange oder to him and came over smelling like a pissed seaside donkey. He started talking about his daughter, and mentioned she was 11 (see nothing dodgy). I couldn’t help mention the tracksuit she was wearing, and asked if he thought it was a tiny bit inappropriate for an eleven year old to have ‘gorgeous’ plastered across her arse! All he could say was it’s ‘the fashion’. But she was a minger! Certainly not gorgeous! Surely that falls under the trade description act somewhere!
It tends to be women that write into these columns of sorrow. Generally, men’s biggest worries are either getting fat or going grey, either way the solution is the same – diet (dye it). I had a think about what problems I have that I could write to Deirdre about for guidance, however the biggest worry I could think of is making sure that I have matching socks in the morning. Occasionally I do get a little worried when my bus is 5 minutes late, which would cause me to be late for a job that I hate… but to be honest I soon get over that. Sometimes I also here voices in my head, but I just ignore them and carry on killing. I didn’t write a stupid letter to some bimbo.
“I’m leaving you”
Women are the main culprits, it has to be said, for keeping these problem pages going. I mean women’s magazines are just one big problem page. I will never understand women, so sometimes these columns will give you an insight into the warped female mind. All I know is there are only two conditions where you’re allowed to wake up a woman having a lie-in. Either it’s snowing, or the death of a celebrity. It’s basically simple to work out a woman. “What do women want?” As though it’s really mysterious. As though it’s a big deal. All that women want is what anybody wants. You know, friendship and companionship, respect, a certain amount of leadership with submission, and a kind of cooperation at all times, and pre-emptive empathy and you know, general telepathy. It’s no big deal, is it? Traditionally, women have been attracted to uniforms. So it’s not difficult to know what women want. Fascists – that’s really what they’re all after!
How women think is completely different to men. Only a woman can coin a phrase ‘dream cheating’.
When I woke up before my last girlfriend, usually to let the dog out so it doesn’t take a dump on the kitchen floor, I made her a coffee and took it to her in bed whispering, “Time to wake up, you have to get ready for work,” or “Time to wake up, the dog took a dump on the kitchen floor and it isn’t going to clean itself up.”
On one occasion, I whispered, “The police are here. If they ask, I was home last night and you don’t know anything about Mr O’Brian’s cows.”
On a Sunday morning, she woke me up by punching me in the neck.
Thinking that someone was attacking me, perhaps a burglar or an evil doll that had come to life, I rolled away from the blow and out of bed yelling, “What? What’s happening?” she, stared at me from in bed, said, “I had a dream you had sex with Liz McDonald from Coronation Street.”
Groggy, and still puzzled as to what was happening, I asked, “Who the fuck is Liz McDonald?”
“She’s the lady that lady that works behind the bar in the Rovers,” she replied, “I dreamt you were having an affair with her and I came home and she was wearing my clothes.”
“What the fuck?” I asked, “She’s in her eighties.”
“So if it had been someone younger that would be ok would it?” she demanded. “No,” I replied as I dressed, “but if I am going to get punched in the neck because you have a dream about me having an affair, I would rather it be with someone born after the Second World War”
“Like Kate Beckinsale? You love her don’t you,” she accused. “What?” I responded, “I’ve never even met her.”
“Yes, well,” she continued, “You’ve never met Liz McDonald either and that didn’t stop you.”
Making my way out of the bedroom as quickly as possible, I walked downstairs to make a much needed cup of coffee and discovered the dog had taken a dump on the kitchen floor.
I rest my case
These so called ‘experts’ advise people on relationship issues, lots of them are to do with men lying to their partner or wife. The truth is, we all know that relationships are basically apologising for saying something hilarious. Men tell such lies, like when we say you are our best friends, we don’t mean it, and we only say that to make you happy. After all, you can’t have 14 pints with your wife. Men are just simple, when you are born, we have one finger on our nose, the other hand on our dick, you get taller, and that’s really it. But in the main, the general theme is to do with affairs; it is pretty much always an affair of some kind. Some of the things are truly sick, and I mean sick. Sicker than a mouse downing a bottle of white lightening. My girlfriend is always saying I’m a terrible liar. Several affairs and a secret love child says different.
I once read a line from one of these help columns – it was about a woman who had just got married, but her husband was having problems in the bedroom department shall we say. The phrase she used was ‘I have had muggings that have lasted longer than that’. Amazing, truly amazing. Poor guy. I mean what a catastra-fuck for him that must have been. If it’s not ‘arriving’ too quickly when things are getting hot and steamy, then it’s the husband who has problems getting the little fella up. The advice is always drink some wine, relax. But surely the last thing you want is to drink wine? As if being drunk has ever helped a bloke get it up? If worst comes to worst, Viagra is always suggested. What great advice, thanks Deirdre. Of course, this has never been a problem for women, female Viagra has been around for years… its called money.
“My girlfriend asked me to knock something up in the kitchen, now my cleaner is pregnant”
These columns span a range of mainly women’s issues, including problems such as weight. One column I read included a woman who wrote in to say that the ‘problem is she can not stop buying cakes’ and the agony aunt went on about changing her lifestyle, substituting cake for something else, doing exercise blah blah blah. But surely the problem was eating the cakes rather than buying them? Unless I have missed the point completely, there is no harm in buying cakes; it is eating them that will cause you to get fat. But I suppose I am not the expert, and hey, if you were not meant to eat at night, why put a light in the fridge?
To do these columns must be similar to being the GP after Harold Shipman, a piece of horse piss. I once helped an “over weight” colleague with her problems, although she didn’t know it. You know those bath bombs that make the water smell nice, that generally come with a bar of soap in the little wicker basket wrapped in cellophane that people who you couldn’t care less about are given as presents? I once received one as a staff ‘secret Santa’ and it still had a little tag attached with gold ribbon that read “To Sarah, Merry Xmas 04”. This annoyed me somewhat as I actually put some thought into my gift. Louise, who is quite fat, seemed quite over whelmed with her trial subscription to Weight Watchers Online.
Binge drinking features a lot in these columns too. Many are worried about it, and the effects it has on the economy and our healthcare system. The advice is always the same, go seek help. But I think they have completely missed the point on this one. No one ever says anything good about binge drinkers, its like farting in a cheese shop; it’s not the main problem. As a binge drinker I suffer abuse, I have been for job interviews and I know the only reason I didn’t get the job was because I was hammered. They couldn’t see behind the drink, they couldn’t see the real person. Before I go out binge drinking I always eat half a pound of butter. It doesn’t actually do anything … I just make fucking poor life choices. I have recently started drinking whiskey, which is probably due to my age, it turns you into two people: one of you is very nice, you’ll go up to total strangers and say, “Come in, come in, sit down, for God’s sake, have something. Have my bed.” And then you’ll go up to people you’ve known and loved all your life and say, “Get the fuck out of my house! Go on, get out! And leave a tip!” The most dangerous drink is gin. You have to be really, really careful with gin. And you also have to be 45, female and sitting on the stairs. Because gin isn’t really a drink, it’s more a mascara thinner. “Nobody likes my shoes!”, “I made… I made fifty… fucking vol-au-vents, and not one of you… not one of you… said ‘Thank you.'” And my favourite: “Everybody shut up. Shut up! This song is all about me.”
Top (Bad) Deirdre headlines
- Rape Pornography
- Wanking glove
- Weight gain
- Constant googling, ‘does this make me gay?
- Fear of buttons
- Constant fear of cancer
- Dreaming of swimming with dolphins that at best will feel complete in difference towards you
- Tutting at the news
- Books pretended to read
So with all this in mind, the reason for this post is simply this… over the next week I am going to set up a new blog, and twitter account in the pretence that I am a budding therapist called Jen. I will be encouraging people to tweet/post there problems to Jen. Jen will then give them relationship advice, or what ever it maybe, in the only way Jen can. Any replies will be responded to and posted on my blog; keep posted, and let the fun begin!
(I promise it will not just be “she was ugly and fat anyway, I don’t even know how you could kiss her”)