Religion

As my Mother so succinctly put it, if they see this bugger [Tony Blair] invading Iraq as an attack on their country then them being in this country in mufti [i.e. Not in military uniform] planting bombs is the same as being an enemy agent. If they catch the buggers they should hang them or they should be shot, at the Tower of London.
She said the same thing about the Irish; hence she doesn’t speak to David. “Guilty by association” she calls it and I can never figure out if she means him or me.
Not that I agree with her sentiments in either case but, from some of the things I’ve heard said today peoples stoicism and resolve may not be as strong as the Sub-Standard would have us believe.
Something to think about is this, whenever one sees any kind of terrorist attack perpetrated by a religious fanatic, a “leading figure” from the opposing [for want of a better word] religion trots out the tolerance speech.
Tolerance I agree with, religion I think should be banished. We can see to the edge of the universe and yet people still follow this fukin god hokus pokus.
Do they believe in Santa Claus? No, a complete con.
The Easter Chick? A cheap [cheep] trick.
Notice those two examples pertain to a religious, albeit Christian, festival.
What about the monster under the bed then? Well, before you are either old enough to know better, or brave enough to look under the bed, you know that that monster is real.
But then comes the day when you bite the bullet and look under the bed. Monster? All gone away!

Sidney Hounds theory states that religion = monster under the bed.

It should be something you realise is a load of old shite before you leave primary school.

Lookalikes

Do you remember the advert for the Economist with the guy taking his seat on the plane and finding himself sitting next to Henry Kissenger? The tag line was something like “If you’d read the Economist you’d have something to talk about”.
My delightful older brother, whose company I had the pleasure of on Gay Pride day was heading back home to all the delights that Leeds has to offer [good fish & chips, evil suicide bombers etc] and found himself sitting opposite Alan Bennett on the train.
Alan Bennett is my literary idol. Alright, for a lot of his stuff it helps to be northern, but I don’t care, I think he’s great.
Now although my brother is quite well read, he’s no that “up” on AB.
“Did you talk to him?” I asked
“No” came the reply.
“Why ever not, what a missed opportunity!”
“Well he did ask to borrow my paper but it didn’t go much beyond that. I thought he was David Hockney and I know bugger all about either painting, swimming pools or gay men so I thought it best to keep schtum. It was only as we got off the train at Leeds and I heard somebody ask him for his autograph that I realised who he was”.

Burk.

Talking Bollox

You can call them lots of things, I call them crocodile tears.
I am of course talking about Ken Livingston.
How the man can stand in front of so many people and mouth the platitudes that he did is beyond belief.
With the exception of Hitler, whom I don’t remember personally, I cannot think of any one person under whose direction so many Londoners have died or suffered.
Just because Ken wasn’t driving the lorry that knocked down the cyclist doesn’t mean that he didn’t cause the death in the way that sitting on the bus with a bomb killed the commuters.
He also wasn’t driving the bendy bus that trapped the scooter rider nor did he detonate his explosives on the tube.
He wasn’t driving the taxi when it did a U-turn on Regent Street when it hit the pedestrian.
Nor was he riding the bike through Russell Square that killed the pensioner.
Shall I go on?
Under his direction the various forms of traffic, and that includes the traffic that travels on foot, in the whole of this city has been forced into a form of combat, the like of which cannot have been seen since the Romans threw people into the ring at the coliseum with wild animals.
Traffic signals have been re-timed in favour of road traffic.
In many places you cannot cross the road because of the railings confining you to the pavement. Hence, You, Me and everybody else has to try and cross the road in the eight feet of gap, four hundred yards up the road from where you want to cross.
Not only are you funnelled through a small gap but also you are in the direct firing line of the most deadly killer on the road, the motorcycle courier on his bike. Why oh why do motorcycles get to sit at the front of the queue, in their own specially demarcated box?
Why are HGV’s permitted to enter the city at any time of the day? What happened to the proposal to do things “Amsterdam” style and only permit HGV’s to enter the “Congestion Zone” between 3.00am and 6.00am? [Hence many, many logistics companies [and their customers], prior to the congestion charge hokus pokus beginning, looked at night time deliveries.
How come our glorious Mayor [Mare!] didn’t permit the Met to push the Public Carriage Office to clamp down on driving without due care and attention? Why is London Taxi International [the only company in the world allowed to supply London’s “Black Cabs”] still given the specification that their vehicles must have a turning circle of 30 feet? [So that they can do a U-turn in the narrowest street].
Whose bright idea was it to order a fleet of 18-meter long busses for a city with the narrowest most winding roads?
What happened to the busses that were actually designed by the transport operating company that used them [that would be the routemaster]? You couldn’t get your wheelchair onto it without help thus incurring embarrassment and humiliation for the thousands of wheelchair users who use the busses every day [TfL now recon about 15 wheelchair users per day use the busses] Watch this space for the bendy Boeing 747 with dodgy access ramp.
Where did the potty idea come from for cycle lanes? Holland, probably. Have you ever seen the cycle lanes in Holland? They are not demarked by a line painted on the road, cutting down the width of the existing carriageway. It is a separate roadway in itself complete with its own traffic signals etc.
How come the Met are tasked with tackling mobile phone thefts [it’s your property, look after the fuking thing, it it’s so valuable stop leaving it laying around!] when they could be enforcing the Road Traffic [cycling] Act 2002 or the Parks & Open Spaces [Bylaws] 1936 with regard to cycling on the footpath?

I could go on but you get the drift.

Gossip

Sunday, a day of rest, the Lords day and all that old poo.
Sunday for me means festering in my pit all day except when I have to work. The joys of being able to lie in bed holding ones dick [I was going to write “holding your dick” but it may be construed incorrectly] and staring at the ceiling or, perhaps, reading the Sunday papers.
The Sunday papers for me are the Torygraph and the Malicious on Sunday.
My beloved David has gotten into the habit of getting up first, schlepping all the way to Tesco [immediately next door] and waking me gently with my Sunday breakfast in bed. This consists of either a chunky KitKat or King size Twix and the papers aimed at my head from the bedroom door.
Twat
After knocking together some coffee type liquid he comes back to bed and also reads the paper.
Yesterday things went as per usual, clunk to the head with the Twix, bleary and confused re-assembling of the papers, spilling of coffee and tipping over of ashtrays etc.
Then, my whole world collapsed. He was sitting in bed reading the News of the World!
I am defiantly my Fathers Son, and he wouldn’t have the NotW in the house. And neither would I.
It’s not the content, it’s the lack of content and the worthiness of what is lacking.
“What the fuk have you bought that shite for?”
“For the gossip.”
Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but I always thought that gossip related to shite talk about people one knows [one, again, I’m starting to sound like Melvin Bragg].
Who gives a toss about Becks and his whores of the coke addiction of the stand in presenter of Albanian Third Division Football on Sky Sports 34. Well, by the look of it lots of people.I know I can be a bit of a social spaz but, please, am I missing something?

Baggage

I heard this yesterday and thought it quite prophetic.

“Rucksacks are the caravans of pedestrians”

It was just as I buttonholed some dozy Spanish bird who had staggered up to the first floor of the bar and was just about to attempt the ascent to the second floor.
“Do us all a favour, love, put your bag in the cloakroom”
“Why”?
“Because it’s a bit big to be wandering around with inside the bar don’t you think”?
“Oh, OK”.
This is the measure of the punters who come into “London’s’ premier polysexual venue” [you work out where it is].
Harking back to a post about gays lesbians etc, I had never thought about polysexual. The reason being that there is no such thing. It’s a crap way of saying it’s a bar. The pub my boyfriend manages is a “polysexual venue”. It has its share of fags and dykes [they comprise most of the staff] but doubtless there is a fair contingent amongst the punters. I know that Dave comes out with some complete bollocks from time to time but even he couldn’t come up with “polysexual”.
Imagine the situation, you’re watching Call My Bluff and Frank Muir is defining polysexual.

“Wewww, it’s a way of descwibing somewhere that was once a qweer bar and has wost the pwot and now wets any pwick in so wong as they have a pwid in their paw”

to which Patrick Campbell replies with

“I know just sersersersersuch a perperperperlace in Soho!”

A cryptic explanation?

Ooh er, I must be very easy to read [as opposed to the crap that I write on here].
Well I did promise that I would talk about work but I seem to do enough of that already.
I think that, seeing as my other blog has disappeared, I had better fill in some of my background. This will serve several if not many purposes the least of which will give me something to do coz there is bugger all on the telly. So what’s new! This is supposed to be in some kind of chronological order but like most of my posts will ramble off the point.
Yorkshire born, Yorkshire bred, strong in the arm but thick in the head. Now there’s a truism! Well, Yorkshire born I certainly am but couldn’t wait to get out, nice place but populated by cabbages.
Mt Father, “Finger-tight Frank” nice bloke but a complete incompetent with anything other than money decided me that I needed some kind of know-how with regard to how things worked or how to be able to fix things so that I wouldn’t be held to ransom by every plumber, electrician, joiner etc so despite the fact that I wanted to be a chef, like my three older brothers, I did an engineering apprenticeship with the MoD at one of the Royal Ordnance Factories. Finished the apprenticeship and stayed with MoD for a few years before going to Northern Ireland to work for the security forces [as a civvy].
What a lovely place Northern Ireland is. Forget all that shit about the troubles [even when it was really bad] it was never anything like you saw on News at Ten. NI is a big place and N@10 never ventured out of West Belfast. [If you want to see a shithole, travel south of the border into the Republic and…… it’s like Heartbeat, they still think it’s 1958 down there.
NI was where I met my beloved David who is a good NI boy [and my ex, the lovely Boyd, who is still a friend].
We still argue about whose stupid idea it was to move to London and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t mine! But move to London we did.
Ever the one to do things the wrong way around, we ran pubs & bars for a while [David still does] but I binned it to do my current “job”. More often than not, people tend to leave the “job” to go run pubs, but I like to be different.
One of our friends runs her own security company and as a bit of extra money [I have to pay for my vices somehow] I moonlight as a doorman for her.
There, a potted history for you. If it doesn’t make sense in comparison to all the other shit I write then, GAWBLIMEYMAN, eat your bacon butties or you won’t grow up big and strong!Next time, pictures of the real Sidney Hound.

Today, the day after yesterday

Well we did it. We being London and, did it, being won the right to host the Olympics in 2012.
Again, back to Trafalgar Square for another day of foot ache. It wasn’t that bad, only a seventeen hour-long shift, I wish I’d gone to work instead. [If some of these posts about work don’t quite make sense, I’ll explain all in the next post].
Although I “was there” I didn’t see a single thing that happened on the stage all day. Once it got to about twelve o’clock I was stuck at the southeast corner re-directing traffic. Joy.
The only highlight for me was my bosses having to climb into the fountain to wrestle with some drunk and being cheered by upwards of ten thousand people, loved it.
Finding a taxi home after midnight was no fun. There was no way I was going to walk from the square to Great Portland St after standing up all day [and I had to be up early for work this morning] but it began to look that way. Then, joy of joys, a dodgy taxi. Bless his little Albanian head.
So, up early, but not bright, this morning and off to Birkenhead Street. [Which for those of you who don’t know is immediately opposite Kings Cross Station.
I only had to go in for the first hour and then off to Camden for the rest of the day for a training course.
Between 8 & 9 o’clock nobody else arrived for work, which I thought was odd, so at 9 o’clock I left.
As I was queuing to get onto the bus at Kings Cross I heard the evacuation alarm going off in the underground station. I thought “thank fuck I’ll be away from here before that lot get turffed out of the underground.
By the time the bus got to Camden Town tube station the crowd outside was massive.
The training course had been underway for only around half an hour when one of the staff from the hotel came in to announce the news of the bombs.
My God, you would have thought that Kennedy had been shot! [David has just reminded me that he has been shot. Serves him right, his father tried to sell us down the river to the Nazis].
Anyway, back to the bombs. I know it may sound callous to those of you of a Guardian reading disposition but what is all the fuss about? The IRA has been doing this to London since 1928.
The thing that people forget is that the IRA HAVE been doing it to us since 1928 it’s just that you were all either watching Big Brother or using your mobile phone.
I worked for the security forces in Northern Ireland [no, I wasn’t in the army] for a lot of years and they suffered far worse than we did.
Cast your mind back to a time before Celebrity Blah Whatever, when News at Ten showed all the blood & gore of Belfast without the “Some of you may find some scenes disturbing”. Do you recall that they never asked any of the populace for their opinion? Well, they didn’t. Why? Because it was a part of everyday life.
A part of everyday life now is the chatter of the hysterically chattering classes.
E.g. [a quote from the Evening Standard [from some dozy cow who was on the Tube]].
“All the lights went out and somebody screamed”
I was on the tube last week and all the lights went out, as they do quite often, by the way, and some silly bitch screamed.Now I doubt that it was the same female but what set me wondering is…. How do these people afford their electricity bill? They must never turn a fukin light out.

Family Values #3

It’s a well-known fact [amongst everybody that I talk to] that my boyfriend’s niece lives with us.
She’s lived with us for quite a while and I hate the bitch.
It’s not that she’s a huge great big fat mingger [20 ½ stone] or the fact that she’s a dirty, sluttish, lazy whore.
It’s just that you cannot shop for, prepare, cook or serve up food without her being there. [None of the above, or what follows is an exaggeration].
If he [David, the B/F], I, or we go to Morrisons she either gets wind of it and wants to come too. Or, upon returning from Morrisons, she will wait until we have lugged the whole lot of stuff up to the flat before emerging from her lair to investigate what we’ve bought. She will then give us the benefit of her knowledge telling us what we should or shouldn’t have bought [in this, she is like her Father [David’s brother, Eamon.] He’s a fukin expert in what other people should and shouldn’t do, that’s why he’s now living hand to mouth back in Northern Ireland. Best place for him, I say!].
If either of us is throwing together a meal, the moment the fridge or freezer door is opened, again she appears.
Although we’ve checked and can’t find anything, we recon that she has the doors wired up to a buzzer in her room, such is the turn of speed of her arrival.
She tries to cover this spying with some contrived pretext; getting a drink of water etc. More often than not, she will start to cook as well.
[History] On the two occasions she has lived with us before, [when she was at Uni] the first time in the pub at Harrow, she had a habit of putting things in the oven, laying down [she never sits, she’s like Jabba The Hut] to watch the TV and then falling asleep with the result that the house was generally full of smoke with the fire alarm going like hell. On the last occasion she did this she didn’t wake up when the alarm went off and only came to when I threw the TV remote at her. Shortly after, she moved into a flat with two of her mates.
The second time was, some two years later, when we had the bar in Covent Garden. Although she was still at Uni, she didn’t seem to attend many lectures, just laid around watching the TV and poking King Size Chunky KitKats into her face [well you don’t get that fat eating Ryvita!].
At the time, I had a couple of weeks on the sick [the bitten ear lark] so had the opportunity to observe her…. Close up, so to speak.
She would deign to rise at around midday and head for Tesco Metro [Notice the lack of shit, shower etc.]. One thing I will say in her favour is that she cooks, none of your ready-made stuff, she’ll buy the ingredients and rattle grub up from scratch.
Well having returned and rattled it all together using every pot and pan in the bloody house, she would scoff it down and then follow it up with a nice lay down more often than not, complimented with a little nap.
Not that she would ever zizz for long, within a couple of hours the house would be shuddering to the sound of her belly rumbling and of she would be to Tesco and a repeat of the whole cycle.
Anyway being able to see the whole daily cycle of this, it was obvious that she was eating four, sometimes five times a day.
Well, after we left Covent Garden, David went to run a pub in Victoria and I went to do the same in Hove [next to Brighton. Reminds me of the portaloos at gay pride, two shithouses next-door to each other, both full of fags!].
Having done that for a couple of years I jacked it in and came back to London and my beloved Dave who by then had moved from Victoria to our present locale, Regents Park[ish]
Fat Bird had by now left Uni having passed her 11+ in being a lawyer and was back living with Dave. Difference being, that now she’s working, she pays rent.
Not enough rent for my liking but it covers the fact that she’s too fat to get in the bath so when she showers, her saddlebags hang over the edge of the bath and the floor gets piss wet through.
She must have a cunt like a bucket and an arse hole like a pail coz she goes through a jumbo, pub sized loo role every two days [you should see the size of the tag-nuts she leaves on the floor. Don’t ask how…..].
She has to have the top shelf in the fridge and freezer coz she can’t bend down [they’re the big American type things so one shelf is like two in a normal fridge]. And that brings us neatly back to food and cooking.
Last night David was making the tea, or had intended doing so, when, no sooner had he turned the oven on and she shows up.
This was about 6.30. When she had arrived home an hour earlier she had made herself a sandwich [½ a loaf, not your common or garden couple of slices].
He asked her if she couldn’t wait for half an hour and she lost the plot, shouting, swearing, the full issue.
Well, I’ve been waiting for years to have a real shout at her and saw this as my chance!
Out came all the years of pent up frustrations, like having a good wank just without that microsecond of self-loathing.
I had the ultimate pleasure of telling her that she would be one of those morbidly obese horrors one reads about, the thirty stone monster who burns to death in their own home having fallen asleep with the chip pan on the go and being so fat couldn’t stand on a stool to put a new battery in the smoke alarm.Bring it on!!!!!!!!!

Feeling Sick

There isn’t much that shocks me. The things that do, tend to be the really small, trivial things I may see on TV or read in the newspaper.
Well, today I was shocked. Thinking about it, I was disgusted, not shocked.
I spent most of today working with the boyfriend of one of my former colleagues.
We had the joy and pleasure of helping out at an event in Trafalgar Square [joy and pleasure is actually a joke, it was grindingly dull].
The event was National Children’s Art Week or something [that’s how much interest I took] and one of our tasks was to be on the lookout for people taking photos of children. By that I mean people who were not the Childs parent / guardian, you get the gist of it.
Well, this is the age of the digital camera, zoom lens, mobile phone with camera etc and believe you me, EVERYBODY had a picture-taking device of some type or other. Luckily, we did manage tosspot one very suspicious guy, warned him and finally kicked him out of the square [as per usual, there wasn’t a copper in sight and we don’t have the authority to detain people so we had to watch him walk [having first taken his picture]. This we passed to the Old Bill when we finally found one].
This is skirting the issue coz I’m not sure how to put this.
[Back to the former colleagues boyfriend and some background history so that it all makes sense].
The former colleague, known to one and all as Psycho – coz he was – could never take his eyes off of young boys. Not young as in toddlers, but young as in twelve or thirteen years old. Now I look at guys as they go past, show me the gay man who doesn’t and I’ll show you David Blunkett, but boys don’t do it for me. I like my men to have a source of income and be able to buy a round in the pub [an added bonus is if they have access to their own drug dealer!]. Children, I like them too. Id like them a whole lot more if they could cook and clean, but they tend to be few and far between so, hence, kids don’t light my light.
Psycho once tried to reconcile his “fixation” to my with the line
“I don’t see what’s wrong with it, I knew, at that age, what I wanted so I’m sure that the do too”
Well, I couldn’t argue with the personal truth of it. I can remember vividly that I wanted [what I then thought of as sex] when I was that age. What I can also remember was who it was with too, and I know for a fact that it didn’t include, involve or in any other way concern any old bastard in fact, at the time, my definition of old [past it] was anybody in the year above at school!
Back to Psychos boyfriend.
Trafalgar square, being, for some unknown reason, one of London’s major tourist destination, tends to be full of people and with the Children’s Art thingy being on, quite a proportion of them were kids. Added to this were several large groups of Scouts, one of the groups wearing kilts –can’t imagine where they were from!
Well, the sight of them must have tipped the boyfriends sensibilities over the edge. He was virtually drooling [and that was only the one body fluid emission we could see!].
“Wow, look at that. Fukin hell, which one would you start with?”
I’m not sure if it was a rhetorical question or if he was really asking me.
To say that I was disgusted was an understatement. I couldn’t even tell him to fuck off. I just stood looking at him in……. I don’t know what.
I don’t know if he thinks that eyeing up boys is the norm for Gay men. Probably he does. Think about it, his boyfriend, Psycho, thinks that way, he obviously does, so again obviously he thinks that I do too.
Well, I don’t.
I don’t usually care if somebody sees me eying up another guy [think about it, your average builder doesn’t care if anybody or everybody sees them eying up some female]. Nor do I particularly care if somebody overhears me passing a comment about a guy I’m looking at, though I am quite cautious in straight or mixed company, even if they know I’m gay. But NEVER, fukin EVER would I pass a comment like that.
If he’s so open with things like that and [and this sounds like I’m covering for him] is so unguarded with his thoughts / comments, then it’s small fukin wonder that lots of people still think that all gay men are kiddie fiddlers or wear women’s clothing.
Each to their own and all that bollocks doesn’t count in this instance, it’s just sick.
I was so sickened that I told the boss. She already knew the score with Psycho; he’d made it so openly known [if that makes sense]. But she didn’t know that the boyfriend was “that way inclined” meaning interested in boys, she knew he was gay. I know it sounds a bit parsimonious but I don’t think its safe to have him doing events like that and told her so. She agreed. Now I’m starting to ramble and am getting off of the plot so I’ll leave it, but you get the drift of things.

Pride?

Well, here it is, Pride day or, as it seems to be officially known this year, Pride London.
Not that I’m one for a campaign or anything but, casting my mind back no too far, it was once called Gay Pride.
I would imagine that the Gay part of it has been let lapse so as to make it more “inclusive”.
My definition of inclusive, when used in conjunction with gay, means losing sight of the original concept so as to let in…….

1.Lesbians [who are gay anyway and were only self excluded [or couldn’t get in the door because of the chips on their shoulders]],
2.Transsexuals, whatever they are,
3.Transgender [errs], don’t know what they are either,
4.Bi-sexual, who are heterosexuals who have a bit of a perversion, now and again, for somebody of the same sex. You can probably guess that I don’t believe in bi-sexuality [think about it, if I had a shoe / boot fetish, it wouldn’t make me a cobbler, would it?].
5.Straight folks, or at least the Guardian reading type who think that because “some of my best friends are gay” that they are universally acceptable to any man who takes it up the shitter.
Well, count me out on all of the above.

[Bigoted rant approaching]

I hate lesbians. I don’t dislike what they do, like religion and its practices, I know it goes on but provided it doesn’t happen on the street and I don’t see it, I don’t care. Lesbians invariably want to be men except when it comes to kicking them out of the bar. No sooner have you got one by the scruff of the neck than they start squealing like a girl. [Last month I was at the sharp [literally] end of a bottle wielded by one of these men-women. I then had the honour of decorating her for her bravery with my best uppercut. She wanted to fight like a “man” so she was duly accommodated].
All this Trans-whatever, I just don’t know enough about it to rant and rave.
Bi-psuedos sorry, sexuals, already covered that one.
Straight folks. I’m so old that I cam recall the time when it was impossible to get past the clipboard nazi on the door at Heaven if they didn’t think that you were Gay.
Having done so and paid the requisite small fortune, the clientele within would be exclusively male. Not even a token female.
The rot started to set in when a small handful of wheedling mincers blagged their fag-hag into the place. Well, as sure as eggs is eggs, whereever you get straight women, you get straight men.
Straight men don’t dance, unless it’s at the family wedding, they just stand there cradling a pint and scowling at the poor doomed fags. That is unless they are the “some of my best friends are Gay” type.
Some of my friends are straight but my best friends are Gay. And if you were to inject the gay-friendly straight with a handy dose of sodium pentathol, you would get the same answer.
Just because what I do in the bedroom [and, occasionally, the public park / dark alley] is not considered to be just quite the norm, doesn’t mean that I have to involve all of my friends into a celebration of it. The more normal [straight] ones don’t have a Straight Pride Day and invite all of us degenerates.All this inclusiveness crap gets me down. The only bright spot on the horizon is the prospect of the Ku Klux Klan having a float in the Notting Hill Carnival.

liits complete with stupid smile, bitten ear and, for some reason mucky marks, must have been eating mud again [aka Sidney Hound, who is realy my dog but his paws are a little bit too big for the keyboard so he dictates and I type].