Metricificationalism [Fuck the French]

Neil Kinnock, pictured in front of that flag [of shame]

Much in the news lately about metrification. All prompted by the fukin lickspittle of the French, Neil Kinnock.

I'll give him metric, the cunt.

We prostituted ourselves to that nation of surrenderers one before [and it wasn't the first time then, either] when we changed our currency from pounds, shillings and pence. All because the horse eaters cannot count in twelve's.

Now, this toadying cunt would have us do it again.

So, just for you, Kinnock, you fukin commie, here is a little something for you.

A Nail - to gouge out your eyes.

A Palm - to push your nasal cartilage into your "brain".

A Hand - to slap your Welsh [Welching] face.

A Span - to squeeze your temples.

A Foot - to kick your arse.

A Cubit - the length of an upper-cut.

A Yard - to tie you up like a dog.

A Rod - to beat you with.

A Chain - to fasten you with.

A Furlong - the distance a horse should drag you.

A Mile - the height from which you should be dropped.

A league - what you are in with the French because they never forgave the Brits for not throwing in the towel on the two occasions that they did.

For those of you who went to school in an age where you measured in mm, cm and Km, here is a handy link for you.....

REAL MEASUREMENTS

Her New crusade

For those of you who don't know, Anne Diamond, that's an old pic of her, above, was a C-list celeb who, many moons ago, hosted a breakfast TV program.

Since then she's whelped a dead kid and got old and fat.

Well, since she whelped the dead'n she's made sure nobody had the opportunity to forget it. Anytime you saw her on TV [which in my case was none too often] she would be spouting about dead babies. In all the years she was prostletising, she could have raised an army of fukin kids instead of whinging about one dud!

I now learn that she has a new topic [not before time]. She grew, apparently, to such immense proportions that she's had her jaws wired, or some such.

I guess the papers [tabloids, anyway] will be full of headlines like.... [they were before]

ANNE DIAMOND LOOSES BABY [1985]

[careless bitch]

or more lately....

ANNE DIAMOND LOOSES 300 lbs [2006]

[couldn't care less, the bitch]

Junk Food [yet another tale including Fat Bird]

I don't eat what most people generally call junk food. Things like McDonald's, Burger King, KFC. I do like them but they don't like me. If I eat any of the above, within half an hour, I would be able to manure half the parish [This is also true of Pret-a-Manget sandwiches].

My idea of junk food is Fray Bentos Pies.

"What do you fancy for tea?" I asked Dave,

"Oh, anything. Are there any dogfood pies?"

Dogfood [Fray Bentos] pies there were.

I was just putting them into the oven when FB arrived [I'm sure she has an alarm wired to the oven door].

"Urgh! how can you eat that shit?"

"Easy"

"Do you know what they're made from?"

"I don't care"

"Well, you should. They're bad for you"

"Thankyou for your valuable dietary input"

And, at that, she stomped off.

I like Fray Bentos Pies. I don't care what's in them. I must admit though, when I was looking for a pic to put at the top of this post I was surprised to find a chicken curry flavor. I'll have to keep a look out for that one.

On being "Gay" [People think I'm straight]

This would have been a pic of a guy wrapped in the

rainbow flag but, yet again, blogger failed to upload.

"It must be crap having to work in here if you're not gay, why do you do it?"
This is a verbatim quote from a punter, last night, in the place where I moonlight.
Dependent upon who it is that asks depends on if I tell them I'm "gay".
I'm not gay, I've never been gay. I've only ever described myself as queer. Yeah, I know it's only terminology but to me it makes a difference.

Gay, or more accurately "Gay's" are those over-moisturizer, over sun-bedded, fashion label clad, screaming, effeminate nonces who inhabit G.A.Y Bar, Shadow Lounge etc [and the shit-hole where I moonlight] etc,etc.

I'm not one of those.

Nor am I one of those leather / denim / plaid shirt wearing hair monsters.

Just because I take it in the arse does not mean that I have to align myself with one of the sets of clones who troll up and down Old Compton St.

Neither have I ever hidden my light [in terms of either my dick or my sexuality] under a bushel. I've never had any grief for being queer, despite working for the military for years or even in my present "occupation".

"Well it's fine for you, you're straight acting" was the response from one of my "gay" friends. I cannot think of anything more calculated to set my teeth gnashing then the mention of "straight acting". It's not an act, this is the way I am.

I've always tried to present the acceptable face of homosexuality [whatever that may be] by dispelling the common myths. I don't dress in women's cloths, I don't have the inclination or the figure for frocks. I don't lust after children, I loath children with a vengeance. I don't want to fuck every man that hoves into view [though some of them are well worth a poke].

So far, it's stood me in good stead, not always complete acceptance, but no grief. I must say though, I've never set out to make a crusade out of being "straight acting".

What it was that provoked me to write this, apart from this guys comment about being straight was that when he found out, he wanted to buy me a drink. I didn't accept because the manager of the bar doesn't let us drink while we're working. I explained this to the guy. Several times during the evening he offered but each time I had to turn him down. Anyway, come the end of the night, and kicking out time, and he button-holed me and gave me a miniscule piece of paper with his phone number on it.

"Will you ring me?"

"Probably not."

"Why?"

"Well, for a start off, I already have a boyfriend."

"You didn't tell me that before!"

Well so far, our conversation had been his asking me why I worked in a gay venue [when he thought I was straight], then the occasions of him offering to buy me drinks and now this phone number thing.

"So if having a boyfriend is for starters, what other reasons are there? It's because I'm black."

If in doubt, play the race card.

"Well, actually, yes."

Wow, if I'd known how quickly you could get rid of somebody by saying something like that, I'd have done it loads of times before.

It wasn't strictly true. I wasn't going to phone him because he's black, I was just never going to phone him full stop. Sadly, it's not a part of me, that I could have just taken the number, told him what he wanted to hear, and left it at that.

So, remember, you heard it here first. Gay doorstaff are racists.

Doing people down.

[this is actually the third attempt at this posting, the first one didn't post, this blogger thing is shite, and that's before you get to the content!]
I feel like a shit.
I know that I can be, and often am, an obnoxious cunt.
I often make a point of saying things that I know will provoke people. I do this on purpose to get a rise out of them and / or score a point.
This never bothers me. My conscience does, though, prick me when I unintentionally impinge on somebody.
I can't define "impinge" other than.... if I've said something that has made somebody look inwards at themselves.
Well, I've done it again.
Doug, whose blog, Dewey's Dartboard, gave me a mention because of what I've written about my boyfriends niece, Fat Bird and how it had made him want to loose weight.
I don't hate and despise her because of her size, the fact that she is as big as she is, is just a hook to hang the hatred on.
The fact that I only ever mention the eating & size side of things doesn't give a true picture of the bitch. For instance, I never mention the fact that she only ever changes her bedding every couple of months. Or, that she uses a full toilet roll every day and is always blocking the loo / leaving huge big floating turds / skid marks etc, etc. Or even, that she only showers on average three times per week.
I can be unpleasant about her without having to descend to those depths, although I've done so now.
I don't have any qualms about being, well, truthfully, to her. Even to her face. I don't doubt that she can't help being big. Even as a child [I first knew her when she was 14] she was large. But, let loose on her own she's ballooned. Not that she's lazy. You couldn't even call the not washing side of things being lazy. If she was laying in her [festering] bed instead of washing, that would be lazy. But she isn't. She would be cooking. Like most females, she is in the premier league when it comes to shopping. Unlike most females, her brand of shopping is not for clothes, but for food. When she isn't shopping for it, she's cooking it. It really is like living in a fukin canteen.
Anyway, the gist of it is, I slag her off in an attempt to get her to change.
Never in my wildest nightmares did I imagine that it would make sobody else feel selfconscious. It wasn't the intention.
It's also not the first time I've ever done this. A previous occasion, many years ago, involved me and a friend, Rowena. We had been invited to a big fancy wedding. Gloves, hats, the lot. My outfit was easy enough, it only having a suit cleaned and my shoes shined. Her outfit was more of a problem necessitating the buying of a hat.
Now, contrary to popular belief, London is not the fashion capital of the known world. In fact, it's dire. We ended up in Selfridges, a non-to-cheap emporium altogether. Rowena was sitting at one side of a large mirror / table type thing trying on sundry different hats and sitting at the other side was a woman who had been blessed with the biggest nose ever. A full monty Roman [including bump] schnoz!
I distinctly remember saying to Rowena [in my non to quiet voice] "She shouldn't wear a hat like that with a nose like she's got".
Anyway, years pass..........
David and I were watching one of these shite things on the TV about plastic surgery and why people have things done etc, and the woman being interviewed was about to undergo Rhinoplasty.
"What's made you decide to have it done?" asks the interviewer.
"Well, I was always quite conscious of my nose but not really to bothered until I was in Selfridges one day trying on a hat. I heard somebody say "she shouldn't wear a hat like that with such a big nose", I was gutted."
My face fell.
David said to me "That's just the sort of thing you'd say".
Then he saw the look on my face.
"You didn't?"
Well, I can't be certain, but it is the sort of thing I would say and I do remember saying something similar.

The thought that the possibility that something I'd said could have such an impact on somebody else's life was devastating.

Since then, I've always tried to be careful unless it's been directed at you know who.

I'm obsessed, apparently.

I suppose, thinking about it, it's true, I am obsessed,by

FAT BIRD!

There I was, having a quiet little bout of Tourettes type swearing and cursing to myself [about her] when my beloved said to me

"Your sole topic of conversation lately is her, did you realize that?"

Well, actually, I did. Although I've not quite reached the stage of following her around with a knife concealed in my clothing, that day is coming. Though it will have to be a fukin' big knife to get through her hide!

What had sparked tonight's little rant was this......

She made such a song and dance, yesterday, about going out this evening to a birthday party for "one of the most senior partners at the law firm where I work" [and that's exactly as she described it to me, in much the same way you would mention it to a total stranger, in a bragging / boastful sort of way]. I wouldn't mind but they were only going to Mash, [which she omitted to say] and which was posh for about five minutes, twenty years ago.

Oh! the food they were going to have........... and this "most" senior partner was going to pay for it!

Well, it's now just after midnight and she's been back about 15mins. Her first task on getting home was to dive into the kitchen, turn on the oven and bung in a family size cottage pie.

"How was the birthday party?" [not that I care]

"Oh, very nice, everybody was there"

"Where did you go?" [knowing full well where she went]

"A very nice little place just off Oxford St" [there are no nice places, little or otherwise, anywhere near Oxford St].

She then launched into a whole ramble [like this one] of inconsequences about who had says what to whom and how she had told so-and-so how they should do such-and-such.

And all the while the cottage pie cooks........

How she doesn't get indigestion, I don't know. Though with a belly her size, thank God she doesn't!

Chocolate

After mentioning chocolate the other day I felt compelled to write some more. I also felt compelled to eat some more so I've just had a Yorkie and half a pack of Blue Ribband.

As much as I love chocolate, there are certain types that I don't eat. Not won't eat, but if the option is there then I wouldn't pick them myself.

Below are my fave's.

As a rule, I wouldn't eat anything that's Galaxy. Far tooooooo much like candle wax. Nor would I eat Crunchie. and never, never, ever would I eat Toblerone, turds formed into triangles.

Many moons ago I read a book called Billy by Whitley Strieber. A brilliant book about a boy who is kidnapped. The one thought that keeps him going is of a Butterfinger. This being some kind of American confection, I didn't know what sort of a beast it was.

Well, on my first trip to the good old US of A, a Butterfinger was well high up on my shopping list. UUUUGH! like a Crunchie only worse [and with some sickly chocolate "flavored" coating, as opposed to your actual chocolate.

Also in the same shopping basket was the ubiquitous Hershey Bar. Well, all I can say is that when all those GI's were handing out Hershey Bars to the poor, sweet rationed, kids over here in WW2, they must have been gagging because it's the only way you could possible eat the bloody stuff! And even then it makes you gag. It's the most un-natural, chemical tasting think second only to taking an E.

Back to the Brit chocolate. I don't hold with Cadbury putting all these different things in their chocolate. Biscuits, mint, orange, etc, etc. Nor should Nestle [or Nessels, as it used to be pronounced, remember "# Nessels Milky Bar", it was never "Nestlay"] be tinkering around with the flavor of Kit Kat. It's taken me all these years to get over them changing the shape.

Chocolate should taste of chocolate. If you want something to taste of mint, brush your teeth!

Another apology

With regard to the last post, the one about the Lego Bible, not the bugle tune...
Americans, apparently, have no sense of irony. Well The Brick Testament is an ironic site.
Had I looked through the whole of it prior to posting, I would have realized that the text is drawn from the Bible but the pics are, well, comical to say the least.

A few favorite things

"Pass the salt, you cunt"

When I was a kid there were two things that I loved more than anything else in the world.
Lego and chocolate.
Chocolate I still love. You don't get this fat eating Ryvita!
Lego though was replaced by other things like beer, cigs, drugs and bouts of rough anal sex with strangers.
While scouring the interthingy for porn I came across [inasmuch as I found, not wanked over] this little stunner of a site, The Brick Testament.

As you can probably guess from the pic above, it's the Bible in pictures but done with Lego. [and without the snide captions, sadly].

Only in America........

Sing it for us!

I'm not renown for my vocal prowess. Therefore, I can only apologize for my behavior, to all of those present. God alone knows what I was singing along to but the resulting noise cannot have been easy on the ears.

This was at the UK version of the birthday / engagement party of our friends who, last month, had done much the same thing in Florida.

This morning I have the mother of all hangovers.

Family Values - the history.

You can choose your [boy] friends, but you cant choose your [boy] friends family!

My family have only ever impinged on the scene [of David and I] twice in nearly fifteen years.

David has a representative of his living "on-site" [Fat Bird].

Dave has a real family and a half family, his mother having died when he was eight and his father marrying again.

Of course the step-mother is always a wicked old hag, and Isabel was.

Isabel was nicknamed "Miss Piggy" by Davids older brother, Eamon, and the name sort of stuck.

She also had her own kids. All of them older than David but younger than Eamon. Lawless, godless baby farm, the fukin lot of them.

Dessie [Desmond], the eldest, was shot dead by the INLA [having just been released from The Maze after completing a sentence for terrorist offences].

Martin, the respectable one [ie never convicted and sentenced for IRA membership]

Paddy [Poidraig], who has also "done time" and is a complete nutter.

Beth, who has more kids than Dr Barnado's, each one with a different father.

Then there is Eamon, David's real brother who has two kids of his own Roseanne [Fat Bird] and Ethan who is bad news and who, in my prediction, I see wearing an orange boiler suit being lead, with his head shaved, to a large wooden & metal chair.

Dessie, I never met. Martin is a bit of a twat and doesn't like me because I'm a Brit. Paddy is great and we get on like a house on fire, even though I am a Brit [probably because we're both piss-heads]. Beth, I don't know that well - but well enough that I won't baby-sit any of her litter.

Eamon [and his wife Pauline, the doom & gloom merchant] sort of brought David up because Miss Piggy didn't / wouldn't.

Hence the close ties with Fat Bird.

She first came to live with us when she came over to London to go to university. For the first year she lived in the halls of residence but since then has lived with us, on and off, for about seven years.

At two and a half years, this is her longest continual stint yet with her head in our fridge.

There's no signs of her getting a man so it looks like we've got her for a while yet.

# Aint Nobody Here But Us Chickens.......

Revenge, like a Cadbury' s Cream Egg, is sweet. After Fat Birds little performance yesterday I thought I would teach her a lesson.

She normally spends about half an hour getting her lunch-box together [for the following day] each evening.

The concoction being cobbled together for today included a pack of baby beetroot, four hard-boiled eggs, a pack of sliced ham, packet of crisps [low fat], packet of bread sticks and a handful of butter portions & Mayo sachets nicked from the pub.

Needless to say, the four hard-boiled eggs were swapped for four uncooked eggs.

She has been home for nearly an hour and hasn't mentioned it.

Maybe she thinks she didn't cook them in the first place......

Fat Bird, AGAIN!

Bitch, fuking cow, WHORE, die you festering cunt.

....And that introduction was brought to you by my Tourettes Syndrome. What had brought it on was Fat Bird.

I had some friends round to visit this afternoon. Just your usual convivial chat sort of thing, mostly about work. Into the middle of it wades Fat Bird.

If you're a regular reader you may know that I loath the bitch [She loathes me too]. She's not met either of these poor sods before

Conversation instantly halted. Not that we didn't want to include her, well, I didn't, but it's just that she only ever wants to talk about either work [she's just finished her law degree and is working for some poxy company or other] or food.

Straight away, she launched into a lecture about whatever she's working on and how much it's going to cost / how big a case it is and how they have breakfast video conferences with the office in Manchester. In one fell swoop she's covered both of her favorite topics and boasted too. It fell a bit flat because Manchester is not exactly a fine and fancy metropolis, more of an open sore on the face of the earth.

When she'd finished, our conversation resumed.

When it became obvious that nobody gave a toss / was remotely impressed by what she said, she hefted herself out of the chair and stormed off.

Not until her room [sty / byer] door close did anybody laugh.

[but when we did, we made fukin' sure she heard it!]

Say Cheese....

I don't like mobile phones. They are, I have to admit, something of a necessary evil. I'm not a complete Luddite who won't have / use one.
Last night, doing my moonlighting stint as a doorman [clip-board Nazi], I had to look after a private party. Look after only in as much as keep one load of screaming queens separated from another load of screaming queens.
"Sorry, it's a private party"
"I'm with the party"
"Fuck off"
"Can I just have a look?"
"Have you ever seen people standing around drinking?"
"'course I have"
"Well, that's what they're doing"
Amongst those who were standing around and drinking were a few twats also brandishing mobile phones and taking pic with them. Now using the bloody thing to phone somebody, fine. Using it to take a picture, waste of fukin' time.
If you look at the pic on the phone itself, it looks reasonable [quality, content - well....] but should you ever be foolish enough to extract the pic from the phone you get a pic exactly the same size as when you saw it on the phones screen and it's in some unheard of format, pic01. nrkf.exe for example. The quality is about 2 pixels to the inch and is so bad that you cannot figure out what the subject was.
Also amongst them [though technically not, because he spent most of the evening outside of the door with me] was the most desperate man in London on a Saturday night.
This poor [Brazilizn] sod was encumbered with two mobile phones and using both of them to phone everybody he had ever spoken to on MSN Messenger to try and coax them to come and meet him for a drink [with a view to something else, possible].
"Ello, zis iz Arturo, we were talking on MSN" [followed by an intricate weave to get the person to recall when it was].
He started with A in the phone book and was working his way through it.
I didn't know if I should feel sorry for him of if I should shove him back inside, there not being much room for the both of us to stand out on the stairs.
He had managed to get to F in his phone book [and had lots of people put the phone down on him] when my patience gave out and I moved him back inside.
Needless to say, I felt guilty for the rest of the night.... But he wasn't cute enough to drag home for a threes-up.

....So to speak.

I think I've covered thi ground before, it's the way people speak, not what they say, but their pronunciation.

This has come about again because I had a huge row with somebody at work.

Apart from the fact that she talks utter shite all day, the way she pronounce it really gets on my tits.

Now, I'm under no illusion that I talk like Penelope Keith [think of the characterization, from The Good Life] but my command of English hasn't quite descended to grunt, sniffs and glotteral stops, I think more of myself as sounding like, dare I say it, Bernard Manning.

"What's vis fing ven"? asked my colleague.

"What's a "vis fing ven""?

"What"?

"I don't know what it is"

"But you signed it in"

"What is it ven"?

"I'm Chris"

"What"?

"Chris, my name's Chris"

by now she was really confused, but she had gotten the idea that I was taking the piss.

"Can I get you an interpreter, or would you like to write your question down"?

.....So she did. In big letters with her best crayon she wrote WHAT IS THIS THING? on the evidence bag.

"Ah, sorry, I thought you said "what is vis fing ven"

At which point she started shouting at me etc, etc.

Later this afternoon the cow buttonholed me in the canteen. She explained, or tried to, why she spoke like a cunt. Then I explained to her why she spoke like a cunt [toooooo long-winded to go into here].

Now I know that some words in our language are not pronounced the way they are spelled but enven they do not have the corners knocked off of them to the extent that their pronunciation is changed totally.

Seemingly, any word which begining with TH is being replaced by the letter F, V or D.

Here are a few examples.

Fort = Thought

Fink = Think

Vis / Dis = This

Fanks = Thanks

Vat = That

Ve = The

The campaign goes on.

Sunday

Reading the paper this morning, good old Mail on Sunday, I suddenly realized how little of the paper I do actual read.

For quite a few years most UK newspapers have had a separate supplement dedicated to football. I loath football and everything about it. I can, sort of, understand somebody having an interest if they actually play the game, but mostly, it is "supported" to the point of fundamentalism by overweight half-witted cunts who have never kicked anything more than their heels.

So the football section goes straight in the bin.

As does the Financial section, all our money is spent before we get it, so that's no bloody good. Followed by the Property section, we have a house, how many can you live in at once? Then the TV guide, for the TV that I don't watch.

This is all before I even get to the magazine, overpriced frocks, bras, shoes and handbags. None of which are any good to be because 1. I don't have the figure for female attire and 2. I wouldn't wear the shite they advertise even if I had.

In the magazine todat was a whole spread about "Boyz Toyz". This consisted of a whole raft of radio controlled cars, I-Pod accessories and other tat of a like kind.

I-Pods, I can see a benefit to having one [although I don't have one myself], but radio controlled cars? What the fuck is that all about?

When I was a kid there was a toy called Scalextric. thich was like a model trainset but based on the theory of racin cars, sort of....

Well I guess that radio controlled cars are a grown up version.

What I imagine is also the same, despite the march of technology, is the fact that some crucial, microscopic part, vital to the functioning of the gizmo will be missing when it comes out of the box or, will be the most fragile thing ever made and will cease to function after the first few seconds, thereby rendering your £200 well and truly down the khazi.

Back to the papers.... Most of the last third of the paper itself is made up of adverts for holidays and flights aimed at those who want to recreate life on the Orient Express, but without the murders, or go see Matchu Pitchu but without the mozzies. All this isf inally rounded off by the sports pages.

This leaves me with about 30 pages of readable material.

On average, mySundayy reading costs me about 4p per page.