The End is nigh!

Forget ISIS, forget Malaria, forget global warming, forget Cancer, forget everything you think you know about threats to the world.

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Jens Got Problems

Dear Deirdre

“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.

Nice idea.”

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.

Dear Deirdre:

“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.”

Lad

Lad

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?)

Dear Deirdre

“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.

dddddddddddddddddddd2 dd ddddddd

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

Dear Deirdre,

“I have trouble making friends, what the fuck is you going to do about it?”

20120606-135114

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.

Dear Deirdre,

“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.

Dear Deirdre,

“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”)

Aston-Villas-fans-letter-to-The-Suns-Dear-Deidrie-agony-aunt

Things my girlfriend has said this week….

“She only blinks with one eye” “Erm I think she’s winking bedders” 

” Lou Bega sang ‘mango number 5″

“the Sopranos is about some Mexicans”

“What’s the plural of Doritos?”

Me: “it’s @brianblessed”  Her  : “is that the fish finger man?” Me “no Bedders that’s captain Birdseye” 
“Why did they never make Titanic 2?”