.'Jojoba' is a fucking great word.

(Fingers between lips) "Ooohaflabublabflubafluh".
Big fish little fish cardboard box.
Whooh! Wharghooah whoo!
(Poised like a cat) "langer!"

Seriously though, this is not funny anymore. No, no not the blog - oh alright then neither is the blog. Who am I to know? You don't ask a spastic about his thoughts on Descartes either, do you? Yeah, well, next time keep a lid on it, fool.

A Husky incisor accidently knocked against a knuckle while play-fighting fucking hurts by the way. Huskies do not fuck about when they play. Like any decent being. 'Avin it.

So anyway you've already guessed I'm spending another day shuffling around and eventually drinking, disappointing the dog who thinks I'm a total wanker for play-fighting for two minutes with one arm and stooped like a motherfucker. Fuck him anyway, the beautiful cunt.

On Christmas Eve I braved the pain, got on my motorbike and headed to a huge book/cd store to get a couple of gifts. I knew I was pretty haggard and had to walk like an octogenarian, but I didn't expect to be laughed at. A group of adult women pointed and shrieked with mirth as I waddled down some stairs, me all bearded up and right dizzy. I was gutted to be quite honest. That I didn't have the strength to glare at them and spit profanities. Fucking bitches. Instead, to my shame, I hung my head in shame, thinking I was the one to blame, but later, in the lane, when Elaine tried to relieve my pain, it was clear that it was they who were lame, the ball in my court with everything to gain.



Tinsel. Fuck tinsel. Give me a decent bauble anyday. Not only are they shiny, they are usually round. Tinsel is not round. It is long and sometimes furry. Furry fucking tinsel is the worst. Stupid fucking word as well 'tinsel'. Fuck off with your tinsel.

Do you know what I'm looking forward to? Trying DMT! I've resisted it for years, it's been my deferred gratification rather than going to college and getting a decent job. One must have priorities you know.

I want to get the fuck away from Demented Isle. My flying days are over since I developed a very healthy terror of being corralled like cattle and herded onto a metal tube, to be shot into the air to a cruising altitude of 35,000ft. Fuck. That. Shit. So I reckon I might get on a freighter, and take a leisurely three week passage back to Europe. Mainly because I have great success getting off with women while travelling, and I fancy a bit of strange. Old-strange. The oldest woman I've gotten it on with was a 40-ish mad Swedish bint who tried to jack me off in the middle of a bar in Thailand. Fucking hell!

I 'spose you didn't really need to know that, did you. Well it's too late now, cupcake. The die is cast. The bird has flown. The shop is shut. The milk is spilt. The cat is stoked. Jesus.

You've gotta laugh though, what? Like me when I saw a scooter accident the other day. Understand, Demented Isle is scooter-land, and driving here is pure fucking Bedlam. It's mostly bang out of order, but if you've been here long enough you become inured to it, and then go as mental as the natives. Accidents are so common, when you see two scooters smash into each other one tends to see the funny side and ignore the shattered bones etc. So anyway I'm waiting for some sushi at a little restaurant on a busy road. An old boy comes flying out of an alley without checking at all and some young scooter-punk broadsides the silly fucker. They both go flying and the old boy stands up and starts having a right go at the young 'un. Cars stopped, pedestrians paused, everyone laughing fit to burst. It's a cruel world, my friends. Specially if you read Hotrocks. I feel your pain.

If you can remember 'Beat Street' you're alright in my book. You can't, can you? You were into Iron Maiden in 1986, weren't you? Square. Or those 'Welcome to the Jungle' cunts, what the fuck were they called again? Long-haired widdly-widdly guitar solo fucks. I was lugging a piece of lino around doing no-handed windmills, buying Electro albums and getting arrested for vandalism. And now I feel old. Thanks a bunch. Of cunts.

I dare you to make a techno tune by sampling Leonard Cohen's 'Bird on a Wire'. My friend G. would love that shit. It was a trick dare anyway - it can't be done. Unless you want to burn in hell of course. If that's the case, have away at it.

Does this make my bum look big?


"I knew the internet was doomed". First time reader of Hotrocks.


This just in: Brewski spine declines to retract 'King of Pain' claim. The cunt.

So it's Boxing Day and because I'm still shuffling about at home I can feel justified in still being festive despite the pain while my peers here go about the regular work week since here on Demented Isle noone gives a fuck. How's that for one ungainly sentence? I would go so far as to say 'homely' in fact.

I can also feel justified being a vapid, random sot since I have reached "two stops beyond Dagenham mate - Barking" levels of insanity. (Swats at imaginary fly. Knocks beer over. Says 'cunt'). Fly, fly fly!

You know what I've never understood? Swedish!

I trained as a boxer when I was a teenager, for about six months. I just wanted to learn how to skip really really fast. I succeeded. I was the fastest fucking skipper in the gym. Never punched anyone though.

The Elgin Marbles? Give 'em back you selfish cunts!

You know when you're in the shallows of a beautiful ocean and the little curious fishies come up and take little sucks on your legs? Is that not bang out of order? Try punching the little cunts. Infuriating.

The spookiest phrase in the world is; 'to hear the pitter-patter of tiny little feet'. Fucking what?

I really am trying to think of something substantive to write.

It's not working.

I spent my formative years growing up on a council estate, unaware of the fact that I was surrounded by drug-dealers and petty crime. Wasted youth or what?

What wasn't wasted however was the early development of my sexual urges. My Mum would be all like, "Been playing with the cushions again Dear?" My proclivity for cushions thankfully didn't last. Kicked the cunts last year.

Clock ticks. Everyone looks down. Fiddle with a hangnail. Squirm.

I once had a girlfriend who couldn't hold newborn babies, as she would be overcome with a strong desire to dig her index knuckle into the 'soft-spot' where the skull plates had not yet fused. She would also want to bite them due to their intrinsic 'juiciness'. She remains free to this day.

Speaking of girlfriends, I like it when they don't wash.

I grew up with a hateful man who was my Mum's boyfriend. He would pull my hair and slap me about when she wasn't around. I snapped my collar-bone once and he came to pick me up from the hospital in his vintage fucking black 1920's gangster car. We were halfway home and I realized his laughter and my yelps of pain were as a result of his purposefully choosing the car due to it's complete lack of suspension, causing the free-floating bones to grate against each other freely. Don't you worry. If I ever see the cunt again I will slap the shit out of him.

Good-naturedly, of course.

And then I will stick the cunt with a shiv.

I'm joking, cunts. An Army-issue survival blade.

To come on with a bit more festiveness: Living, trying to dodge ignorance, is having it. Fair fucks to all of us. HERE'S TO US! And if there is no vodka in that orange juice you're drinking, prepare to die.

'Desist!' you cry. 'Cease!'. Very well. I comply.

Happy Christmas, cunts!


"The Child-Catcher in Chitty-Chitty Bang-Bang can fuck off." Me.


Gwarn! Hic.

Wha?! Habby Cerissmas to the loddyez. Hic. Fair fuggin' play to ye all. CHEERS!!!! (an rememmer hic. SQUEEZE THE JUICE!!!).


I have fucking lost it

I have been confined to my house for almost two weeks with a bad back, and I am now officially hatstand. You should see the fucking state of me. 'Bout a week ago I thought I was on the mend, then woke up one morning and someone had shifted my hips two inches to the left again, without the permission of my spine. Counting chickens can fuck right off.

So can Tom Cruise. What a cunt.

And what the fuck is up with tea ceremonies? All that delicate fucking palaver and not a drop of the good stuff? Are you insane? Same with birthday celebrations that consist of cake and coffee. Just plain wrong. If you've ever been to a pub and not had a drink you are a fucking pervert and should be placed on a watch-list.

A friend imparted this delightful nugget the other day: the quack of a duck does not echo. Beware the stealth-ducks. And watch out for sheep as well the dodgy cunts, especially at night. 'The quack of a duck does not echo' is actually an old Chinese proverb meaning, 'There is no evil. Do what the fuck you want'.

My feet are cold, and it's your fucking fault. I demand redress.

Oscar Wilde was a stupid little bitch for counter-suing the Marquis of Queensberry. He could write the shit out of stuff though. Ballad of Reading Gaol? Gwarn you effette William Morris-loving old tart you!

If you have ever studied the philosophy of math, then we have a problem my friend. That is some weird shit right there.

And what the cunt is going on with quantum physics? Quarks? Nano-technology? Buckyballs? Eh? Eh? I also cannot fathom the combustion engine and air brakes, which means what? Correct! They can most assuredly be fucked!

I had a mountain bike in Holland called 'The Cycle of Violence'. I believe it was the basis of Steven King's 'Christine'.

Fucking hell. You still here?

You ever seen someone snort wasabi? Ha! I fucking win. (Again).

I'll bet you any money you haven't read 'War and Peace' and The Koran. The bet is null and void if your name is Philip. I haven't read them either, so don't you worry By God, we're in this thing together.

You ever seen 'The Wickerman' with Edward Woodward? Those young tranced-out women in the spooky village are well sexy, what? Female vampires also turn me right on, for some kinked-out reason.

Ah yes, you posit a legitimate enquiry. 'What the fuck am I on about?' indeed. Food for thought and no mistake. My reply? 'You can go and get bent, you fucking gnat. Can't you see I've gone mental? Have a heart.'

We also have a problem if you own a pair of inline-skates. Fruit-boots are for cunts. Buy a skateboard for fuck's sake. Any chance?

Yeah, yeah I know it's only 3.30pm and I shouldn't be hitting the whiskey, but I figure it's Christmas, my boss's patience is running thin and if I lose my job my life is completely fucked, my back is screaming at me to lie the fuck down, I don't have any clean clothes because I'm unable to go to the launderette, we all die in the end, and dandelions are right crap.

Thought for the day: Bollocks.


"I could not give two good fucks about apathy". Britain's voting population.


Really? Fucking hell. I did not know that.

Cats can fuck off. They are too mysterious. There is something voodoo about their sex. And they are always plotting for the perfect HeadGrab ClawCling. If you live with a cat, stay frosty. People who knit stuff fucking enrage me. And you know who else is an insidious bunch of total cunts? Grandmothers. All they do is die and make everyone all fucking sad and shit, and that after knitting a whole lot. And they smell. Fucking bitches.

You can't argue with a jam doughnut though. Until I was about eight I would see 'doughnut' on signs and wonder what the fuck duffnuts were. It follows that since I am not a doughnut, I am perfectly capable of arguing. You fuckin' want some or what?

When was the last time you typed the word 'semolina'? That's right you cunt, never. I fucking win.

Watch out for 'spunk', 'fanny' and 'twat'. The first two can cause confusion with N.American cunts, and the third they can't pronounce. It's twat with an 'a' and a pronounced 't' sound you stupid fucking eejits.

Girls who writhe on the bed, moan deeply and flick their tongue in and out of their mouths a la Linda Blair in the 'Exorcist' as they orgasm can fuck off. Ditto if they can't find humour in me shouting, "Let Jesus fuck you" as they come. Bollocks to that.

A poltergeist once lifted up a whole shelf of big books in my bedroom and slammed the cunts down in the middle of the floor. After an hour of terror under my covers after the big bang woke me, I leaped up and turned on the light. The books were lying exactly as they had been on the shelf, standing on their spines, perfectly aligned. And that was the last of it. It must have fucked off. Fucking pussy.

Pickled eggs. Fucking rank.

I will beat your ass at Subbuteo, even if we have to play five-a-side cuz we got arseholed and stepped the fuck all over the players and broke them the fuck up. And I'm not playing till you iron the pitch. Christ.

Who remembers the drought of '77? Fucking skill!

I have served Eartha Kitt with fresh fruit and vegetables, when I worked as a thieving fucking imp on a market stall in deepest Oxfordshire. How ya like them apples?

I hate most words, but the worst of all is 'normal'. I fucking hate that shit. Not only is it a gormless sound, it does not exist. It limns precisely nothing. Fuck it.

If you can't get into a bit of banghra, you are a bit of a cunt, no?

Ever been down the K-Hole? Magic!

And finally: I love life. You know why? Because it is the business. Squeeze the juice. Remember, pain is inevitable, suffering is optional. Suicide is for cunts. Imagine it. No more morning wood, no stubbing your toe, and no colour of lime. Keep on keeping on, and fucking skin up while you're about it.


"About that other thing".
"Yeah Boss".
"I say we clip him".
"Maron! Finally! Antipasto! Brewski needs to sleep with the fishes" .
The Grandmother Mafiosi. (Currently vying with the Yakuza over control of most major governments).


My spine is a right nutter

And sciatica can also fuck off. So too can muscle spasms and nerve tension. Manual labour, skateboarding badly for years and falling drunk off things, or simply, over, I eye darkly. Fucking had a great laugh though!

Additionally, psychologically preparing oneself for minutes on end to sit up long enough to skin-up, take a long gorgeous suck on a barley-pop, and endure the agony is very fucking interesting. So too is the attempt to wipe one's arse.

Further, fascinating is the feral yelp I will ejaculate as I take a 'step' and the bolt of pure furious-nerve pain dislocates reality for a flash. You ever tried to punch someone when you're sneezing? Didn't fucking think so. So where you at then? Think about it.

If I may continue? Much obliged.

Thought provoking is the exhaustion and rigor-mortis stiffness after a 800 metre walk to the beer shop, and the utter inability to go to the wine shop, since for some cunts I must preserve my dignity. Stooped, walking as if I have soiled myself, unshaven, fucking generally haggard, and most of all babbling utter fucking cuntitudes and tweaked embarrassing shit - not done in the wine shop, yo. The lady there is chill, deserves respect, but in that 'tiffin at three' stylee. Fuck that shit.

That's why I do it here, and you like it, you scruffy cunt you.


"We should put him down". My Doc, as an aside to his intern.


Bein' a One with de Spastic Nation.

For two years or so I lived in a wicked community in Holland, in a village on the coast. It was a new integrated project in a large loonybin, established back in the day by monks. A large area of flats and houses was designed thus: Large house of group of spazmos, normal cunts. Large house of group of right spazmos, total cunts. And so on. My girlfriend worked as a carer there, and so was privileged with a particularly cool joint for fuck-all. Living there was fucking great. Being surrounded by complete loopers, the friendliest cunts on Earth, was wonderful. Ruud, about 60, would preamble around all day, occasionally expressing his delight with a rising "Whooh!" and would hug you the first time you saw him everyday. Lisa would prolapse about once a week, always good for a laugh. David was always hanging about trying to stop bellowing obscenities while grabbing his crotch, and one of the normal cunts living down the road was a raging queen who was always getting beaten up in the pub with every cunt on E.

The village itself, not 40 seconds walk away, was a model traditional Dutch affair. The juxtaposition of the two 'worlds' was interesting. The spazmos would occasionally cause mad incidents, a disruption in the 'normal' and 'spaz' realities, a wormhole. My point is this: the Dutch are mental, and the line between sanity and spastication is gossamer thin.

I have a chronic disc problem with my back, and it has decided to attack. Must lie down. Laters.

"Oh Jesus no don't let this happen again". Me, to my back.


Tosspottery of the highest order.

So the Industrial Revolution has led us to corporate globalization. That's just fucking fantastic. Being woken up by an alarm clock is a traumatizing trauma for our psyches, spending the larger part of the day in an office environment or in a clanking fucking factory is Dante, Kafka and your Mum on PCP combined in your ethereal synapse scene. A zillion people half-adreaming, two weeks paid vacation a year. This all can fuck off. I will not accept it. It is awful abstract, spirit denuding, robbing fucking cuntitude. "Argh what's this cunt on about, what can you do, gotta put food on the table", says you. Fuck off. If you're fucking thick enough to have dependents, you are a cunt and deserve to be yoked to craven fucking servitude or toil. If you are an individual entity, you can sort your fucking head out. Fuck plans, fuck pensions, fuck it all. Life is not a linear march of regimented bollocks. It is dirty, mischevious, cyclical and madly fucked-up. It is everything you don't comprehend until it decides to fuck you in the face with irony, like when you know you're dying and wish that you'd snorted that shit after all. "Jesus Christ," you whisper, "Why was I so afraid?" Yeah, yeah, all you Establishment tube-feeding cocksuckers will refute me with this cunts gonna die lonely in an alley somewhere shit. So? Maybe I fucking will. But I will have been true to myself, and I don't give a fuck about the cold or pain, or loneliness. See? Abstract nouns are bastards. What the fuck is 'loneliness'? It does not exist. Pure, unadulterated bollocks. You need to become your own Thesaurus, bound beautifully and hardbacked. Human societal constructs are flimsy, and weak and teetering, but the sheeple give them succour, and power. And reality is therefore projected onto the screen, we watching eyes pinned-up Clockwork Orange stylee, loving it.

I dropped out of University after a year after going to visit a friend in Holland for what I though might be two weeks. Ended up living there for nigh on six years. (Much to the chagrin of G. Sorry boyzee. I bet when I go home my Mum asks about the fucking Dream-catcher). That summer when I raced to get the Eurolines bus to get to the Land of Cheese, the amusement park installed a monster-gnarly rollercoaster, so I leapt off the fucking carousel and jumped onto the beast. I've been on the cunt ever since. Yesaye.


"When I awoke from the dream, it was as if I couldn't be sure whether I was a complete cunt, still dreaming of being a total wanker, or a cunting muppet dreaming I was a comprehensive tool. That's why they locked me up". Some Asian chap with a wispy beard and a queue.


As mad as an old woman's shite, and as rough as a Chelsea-smile. Don't bother

Most people here would wear bin-bags on their heads if Americans or Europeans were doing it. If Johnny Depp started rocking polka-dot waistcoats, Speedos and moonboots with leg-warmers, it would be de rigeur here within months. If Larry King started interviewing cunts with two florettes of broccoli protruding from his nostrils, ernest bankers would follow suit without delay. We all have this emulative gene to some extent, especially as teenagers, after which hopefully most of us get a life. I remember at one point desperately wanting a Greek sailors hat just like that uber-cunt lead singer of 'Curiosity Killed the Cat'. Remember that bunch of total cunts? I eventually got hold of one and wore it for about five minutes, the dippy fucktard that I am.

Anyways, this emulation malarkey would be all well and good if it wasn't for the ball-licking adoration that allows cultural imperialism and consequently brainless consumerism. Acquisitiveness informs all, Mammon frolics. Prestige by filthy lucre are the platters that matter. Mall-rats are all very well, but we've reached the point where my adult students consider meeting their friends in the department store of a Sunday afternoon as a good time. Well slap my thigh and fuck off while you're about it. How skewed is that? This has transpired everywhere, desire created by the myth-spunkers of the corporate brain. I am not fucking joking here cunts. To see fully grown adults reduced to infantile giggle merchants by wealth and spending is truly perturbing.

Everyone chill. I like a good Zoo York hoody and PSP or whatever the fuck as much as the next crap blogger, but cunts need to rein that shit in. Like haunting images in a periodical of people in India, Tibet or maybe Hull, the black and white denoting their desperate struggle to survive, the abject poverty all around. There but for the Grace God go I you think. Well I don't know who you are, or what your thinking is, but you can both be fucked. Those people have had all choice taken from them, and if you are a fat little piglet sucking from the teat of aquisitiveness, it has also been taken from you. Only difference being, you are a lot less likely to die from starvation or cholera, you are a cunt, and you can't batique a linen for shit.


"You have to deal with reality, or it will deal with you". Julius Lester


Newtonian physics can fuck right off

Scientific certainty, empiricism, the 'prove it' reality-makers, modern medical science driven by petro-fascism and Massive Pharma. Fuck them all. Unlearning is most important for us all. Turn off your TV. Get it out of your house, now. Naval psyops worked in the studios of MTV in it's early development. Judith Miller sucks Cheney's cock, and that cunt is deep evil. Skull and Bones, Bohemian Grove. Institutionalized occultism, child-abuse. Who is 'they'? They killed Kennedy, and King. They let bin Laden escape from Tora Bora. bin Laden has always vigorously denied having anything to do with 911. Ever seen the 'celebratory tape'? That isn't him. Zarqawi is fucking dead. Has been for ages. Jahr Damail confirms it, click on the 'real Iraq fuckers' link if you haven't already, you heathen ignorant cunt you.

Aren't novelists very prescient cunts? Orwell. Hunter S. Thompson was suicided just as he was about to cap his years of writing on the horror of it all with his first real big boom, and they took him out the cunts. Gibson was correct. Neuromancer will come to pass. Fuck, at least there'll still be Zion Dub.

And another thing: what the fuck is up with 'Take That' re-forming, like an immortal toxic blob? See? We are all fucked!

Noone seems too bothered that the scientific community avers that 70% of the Universe is made up of 'dark matter', and they haven't the slightest idea of what it is. Parapolitics and the paranormal. Remember, 'conspiracy theorists' are the true skeptics. Disinformation be fucked. Get down the rabbit-hole you fuck.

"The Universe is too weird to understand....and there is a narrow range of reality that we judge to be normal." Richard Dawkins


Extra-Terrestrial Cunts

I saw a UFO once. Must have been 1987, I was 17. 'Bout two in the morning I was walking my dog Felix. This was just before I found my calling in life, so yes, I was sober you cunts. I walked up the street to the top of the hill, where it opens up to a large area bisected by a quiet road. Almost directly in front about 800 meters away was a pub, The Wheatsheaf, on the edge of a council estate, a real shithole. Drank there often. A huge factory was further to the right about 1500 meters away. No cars, no noise. A noise. A deep, slow, whoomph, whoomph, whoomph, like a choppers' rotors slowed down by a thousand times, reverberating deeply, but not loudly, an oscillating 'bass'. Hard to describe. Felix (Great Dane-something smaller cross, the greatest dog to ever live) stopped at the same time as me, and I looked to where he stared. Directly above the pub was a muted white light that throbbed in time with the sound. I couldn't see it's outline. A woman with a carrier bag was to my left, and she had stopped and was staring. Felix couldn't take his eyes off of it. For thirty seconds it remained stationary. And then, in one instant, the object was over the factory. In a split-second, with no change to the sound. Reality changed, because I knew for a fact no human invention was capable of such speed and agility. I looked again at the woman, and she was running away down past the pub. After two minutes or so, the sound stopped, and the throbbing light rose slowly into the cloud cover and disappeared.

Since childhood I've sensed that most of life is an indoctrination, and had always felt that I needed to lift veils. At 17 I was still very much a child, and therefore shocked at how blithely I took it. It's only now as an adult that I've started to run around screaming, "They're here! They're here God help us all!!" Deferred realization on a platter. I suspect it has informed my life ever since, since I tend to piss on anything that smacks of cuntiness, by which I mean all the 'reality dealers' that aspire to control.

What the fuck do you make of that then?


"We are indeed surrounded by magic my friends. Check that bastard monolith out". The first coherent sentence uttered by homo sapien.

"Fucking hell! Quick! Let's smoke some more of that good shit before I batter you with this bone!". The second.

Addendum: It is Saturday afternoon. I have just shaved my head after letting my hair grow an inch too long, and am currently getting to work on a brace of Tsing Taos. In a short while I will stroll for a minute through the alleys to the wine shop, where I will pick up a couple of bottles of a lovely Spanish they have. They are kind enough also to stock big skins, of which I will avail myself thrice. All is well. End of fucking addendum.