I need a good fucking slap

The Brewski of old is no more. A life-changing, momentous loss that suspends reality, the world slowed and you drifting through a haze of disbelief, terrified. A chasm opened. I am a small boy again. She was taken by fire, and in these early days I find myself sometimes flinching when I light my cigarette lighter, and I double-check gas ovens.

She used to call me her 'wandering star'. In her more worried moments, she would call me 'a ship without an anchor'. In the latter she was of course mistaken. She, and her wonderful house, was my anchor.

So anyway I thought torturing you with shite would be therapeutic, so on with the wellies you cunts.

I am back in England, where I haven't been longer than two months in the last ten years. Am I freaked out you say? What are you, some sort of cunt? Of course I am! It is colder than a witches teat, and this morning in Tescos people thought my mate was leading a spastic around, such was my beatific, serene smile engendered by the splendour of the foodstuffs on display. I am in cuisine-fucking-heaven my friend. Who knew Tescos could do that to a man?

Here's a bullet point, hit it with a hammer: England is fat as fuck. Fat fat fat fat fat. Fuck. Unbelievable. Of course I've been reading the obesity stats rocketing up in most developed countries, but to come back and see that shit is fucked in the head. Get a grip you .....aaargh there's no other word for it fat fuck!

There's a lot to be said for denying oneself what one considers to be wicked for an extended period of time, since coming back to it rules the world. It also shows you how to be a person of simple pleasures. Give us a kiss.

Honestly you wouldn't believe how abstract everything is. I keep speaking Chinese to shopkeepers. Being shocked when a geezer in the pub holds the door open and says, "yooaalright mate?" I consider the air in the middle of London to be fresh and clean. Noone stares at me. I look feverishly in every direction before crossing a quiet road, expecting a random dopey scooter to come from anywhere. I keep slapping myself thinking I felt a mosquito. And the water goes down the plug-hole the wrong way.

I just wrote a whole two paragraphs with no profanity. Told you I needed a slap.

I have satisified most of my immediate longings upon return, just earlier I had roast lamb, roast spuds, gravy etc., after a wait of four years. I have fucking lived my friend. I have discovered 'surf and turf', something of which I had never heard. I'm sure my pleasure is unholy. I am punishing the one they call 'Guinness', Christ Almighty is there nothing better than a pint of the black and a Jameson's. No there isn't, you doubting fuck. Sitting in a familiar 600-year-old pub of an afternoon getting right langered, in my humble opinion, should polish everyone's peanut.

However, notwithstanding, and that's as maybe, no comment, and how's yer father. God give me strength.

Love life my friend, and all the strange turns she takes. If you do not, I will track you down and duff you the fuck up. And it's your round, cocksucker.


"Oh Jesus. Oh fuck me. No. Fuck. No." Me, every 30 seconds. Fuck.


Bish-bosh where's my dosh

Money. I can state unequivocably that I am a beatifically smiling fucking retard when it comes to cash. Anyone who knows me personally will attest to this. "Brewski? Money? Not in this life pal. You 'avin a laugh?" Together with my complete inability to plan further ahead than the next hour, my lack of control over my rather emaciated wad makes for a winning combination. When I get paid my wallet sounds like a bank note-counting machine, but instead of flitting the bills extremely quickly into a neat pile it flits them willy-nilly into the pockets of drug-dealers, vendors of alcohol and other sundry cunts. I have tried talking about it to both my wallet and my reason, but since they are both wholly inanimate it did no good whatsoever.

Willy-nilly? Fuck off!

Hey girls, here's something that will flick your clit: I don't give a fuck what you look like or who you are, I want to kiss the baby-spot on your inner ankle. Unless you are Condoleeza Rice. If you have the singular misfortune to be she, you can simply fuck off and die, you fucking monster. (Is that first sentence slightly offensive, a bit close to the bone, a touch taboo? Fuck knows!)

Whooaah. Rein 'em in there boy.

Just so you're a fully informed, after writing that woman's name I had to hurriedly get busy and roll a quite massive cone. I have now neither the faculties nor the inclination to dwell on that shit. Fantastic work. I should get a promotion.

Money? What? What the fuck you talking about? Oh yeah, shit.

So anyway money. Bollocks to it, what? My quite flagrant inability to get my head round it has caused friends, family and I to despair on occasion, and also even non-occasion, such as lunch or a quick pint. Pints. Pints always pints. Never 'pint'. Fuck 'pint'. And 'quick' can fuck off out of it too. My peculiar relationship with money plays out in funny little ways. In the 7-11 I will be in control of my movement and intellect right up to the point when I start to pay the cashier. Then, I will miraculously fumble the shit out of everything and start speaking in tongues. Coins will drop, bills will be origamied together and sometimes thrown in the air, cashiers will think "Fuck me but those foreign cunts have lost it", and I will blush like a young lad caught wanking in a cousins bedroom.

Another expression of my eccen-fucking-tricity with money is bartering. It is beyond me entirely. I sort of turn to jelly inside.
Me: How lick I mean how much?
Vendor: 50.
Me: Alright.

Honestly man I canna do it.

One for the road? Let me rack it up though cuz the last one you chopped was fucking tiny. And give me a beer.


"I heard that Palestinian Special Forces have crept into Sharon's room and rigged up a screen so that the first thing he sees when he opens his eyes is Hotrocks. They have a spy-cam in there to record the head explosion. Good lads." Some deluded fuck.

Addendum: That should be 'happily' deluded fuck. End of fucking addendum.


Narcissus had cataracts

I'll tell you about a terrible ordeal I went through: being a teenager. Oh, it happened to you as well? Who would've thought it? Was it fucking nightmare or what? I wish someone could have done a Mr. T on me and sedated me to fuck so I woke up when I was 20. I was a right fucking div. I still am, but back then I hadn't reconciled myself to the fact. My Mum was worried initially because for a few years all I did was read. I wouldn't go out. I read fucking everything, apart from The Koran and War and Peace. Eventually one evening when my Mum was catching her breath between huge slugs of red wine, she tenderly asked me, "Brewski, are you a gayer?" I looked up from whatever Asian philosophy I wasn't understanding at all and said, "What the fuck did you say?" She said "Are you a little Irish fruit-topping?" I eased her mind, "Fuck off Mum. Course not. I am bang into bitches". Eventually I started going out and my Mum wished that I hadn't, since I went fucking mental getting beaten up, vandalizing shit, and generally comin' on with a-one delinquency. Gwarn! Have that, 'O Mum 'o mine.

Never sniffed glue or hairspray though. What do you think I am, some sort of cunt? Sex at 17, good, wholesome drugs like cannabis at 19. Should be a legal requirement.

If you've never had a laughing fit while fucking mashed on mushrooms you have not fucking lived by the way. It is official.

That's right, continuity has been lost once again. We can expect spells of bullshit for the rest of the post, along with a high chance of random squalls. Tie down your chickens. See?

Time for some vitriolic bile, methinks. Erm....Ha! Aaaargh! Is there nothing more evil than a pack of crisps (chips for fuck's sake, to you silly buggers in N.America) that won't open? Shit on me if that doesn't suck. Especially in public. People are like, "Look at that fucking spaz. The poor cunt must have leukemia". Any plastic packaging that clings stubbornly to it's contents fucking blows my gauges. Few weeks ago it took me half an hour to unwrap a new phonecard. I am now going to hell because God particularly liked the string of invectives I directed toward Him, the fucking wuss. Hasn't he seen Goodfellas? Joe Pesci is fucked when He does.

And something else that bakes my noodle is stainless steel. It is very fucking useful, I will grant you that, but in the form of cutlery, lots of cutlery all banging together, it is heinous. The sound of it tinnily rubbing together is for cunts, and I will not tolerate it. Just so you know.

Ah yes. Yes indeed. Quite. (Takes another cocktail sausage).

Some people say it's a small world. They are so obviously deluded it is breathtaking. The world is fucking massive! When someone says that, ask them if they would like to try and pick it up. "Go on then you cunt, if it's so small, let's have a game of marbles. I'll use the moon shall I?" Then call them 'a right cunt' and turn away dismissively. That'll learn 'em.

Making a joke out of the non-literality of idioms is fucking pathetic really, isn't it? Like a souffle that doesn't rise. Although I have never attempted to cook souffle, so how the fuck would I know?

And here's another question that nibbles at my nibblables: Scrabble. Scrabble? Scrabble. I hate it with a fervent passion. What a fucking awful 'game'. It is the epitome of anality, banality and some other -ality that escapes me. "That's not a word!" "Isn't it? It is now, you cunt". Fucking hell chop my genitals off and pickle them in brine, after cauterizing the wound with a burning panatella. I'll be a traumatized eunuch before I play that fucking 'game' ever again. You ever seen a Scrabble Dictionary? Just abstract bollocks mate. And while we're about it, backgammon. Nothing to do with ham, and fucking shit. I have spoken.


"What the fuck am I doing what the fuck am I doing what the fuck am I doing...." Someone playing curling.


I'll make it milky for you

Amateur dramatics in villages across Britain. All you can do is observe and ask yourself, "Who is fucking who?" To amuse yourself, say it like an owl would if they could enunciate. Fucking great word 'enunciate' - to fillet a holy woman.

Hang on a sec, I'm gonna skin-up.


That hit the fucking spot.

Who moevd all het fukcing keys aruwnd on thsi keyobard, goddmamit? And my beer suddenly looks massive.

In other news: Confucious can officially be honoured with the title of 'Spacker'. My students here on Demented Isle have to learn his writings by rote at high school, so they all loathe the cocksucker. A strong thread of Confucianism running through a modern society is also a recipe for cultural schizophrenia. And what the fuck am I, a sociologist? Back to Raoul in the studio. Jojoba. Raoul.

Menacingly, the little blippy thing - wha? Oh yeah, the cursor, blips. Seconds second by. Then some more of the cunts. Quick, tell me what to say.

Oh yeah I notice tonight in the alley outside my house that a flashing red light has been placed at the confluence of another alley. It is a very quiet alley, and I see no need for a fucking flashing light set into the concrete floor. In faith, I believe I have a problem with sensing that it is always there, silent, perpetually pulsing with redness, insistent, never-ending, not ten feet from my front door. Signifying fuck-all. Why won't they leave me alone?

I'm laughing now cuz some people think Tourrette's Syndrome is not funny. Those people sadly are utter cunts, because TS is fucking hilarious! If you could get away with shouting "Fuck off ya big-nosed cunt!" at your high school science teacher you'd be 'avin a right laugh. I wonder what it's like to make love to someone with Tourettes? After building up achingly long to climax, the thrusts becoming more urgent, yer man shouts, "Fuck shit piss on you fuck off!!" Then spits on her. I bet some of you cunts would like that. I think my friends suspect I have a mild case of TS, but it's a voluntary act that makes me laugh. Maybe someone wordily criticizing the works of the local council pauses and you exclaim "cunts!" in agreement. Brings a certain raw honesty to the table.

I am going to write one paragraph without fucki - shit.

I am going to write one paragraph without swearing.

I sometimes moan about fashion trends, but I'll tell you one thing I really like - togas. Roman women were bitchin'. That's not a swear-word. A woman in a toga rules my world. I would do bag-'o-nails-faced Germaine Greer if she were draped in one. That old movie, is it 'Jason and the Argonauts? gives me wood. So if you're a girl, do not go to a costume party I am also attending and wear a toga. I will fall in love with you and will follow you around all night with an obvious erection, panting like a puppy.

Jesus fuck cunt the fucking relief.

As you have magnificently gathered, I am still rather dazed after three weeks of convalescence and having just lungified some rather nice hashish. However, today I returned to my teaching duties, albeit with a feather-weight schedule. And what a farce it was. I forgot how to spell 'where' and couldn't remember - fuck, what was it again?


"Pick me bitch, me, me, me, pick me, over here, me" Quietly and with gritted teeth, a grape in Napa Valley. Those Californians are gagging for it.


Did you just look at my pint?

So New Year's Eve and my internet connection goes, "Oi Brewski! "Av this you cunt!" And dies. Two days without the net. Weird, yeah? Exaserbated by my current immobility of course, compounded by me knowing as much about computers as a really thick cunt who knows nothing about computers. And we know what we say here at Hotrocks when we see a sentence like that, don't we? All together now, "Jesus!"

Fucking unreal. I was cold-turkey and no mistake. Due to my slovenly appearance and very delicate frame of mind, I couldn't bear to go to an internet cafe. Here on Demented Isle they are noisy bloody places with rows and rows of teens playing online games. Bollocks to that shit. Until about a year and a half ago I hadn't used the internet much, but since I got my own computer I've been reading fucking shitloads. Iss fackin' grate innit? Anyway, interesting was my reaction to a fucked computer.

Wake up you cunt, I'm talking to you.

In place of smelling salts get your head round this: Machu Picchu. Ever been there? Neither have I, and I don't even know if I've spelled it right. Gnarly, no? Right spooky there, I'd warrant. All big mountains, sheer drops and the ghosts of all those sacrificed cunts. Leave it out, boy. I ain't going there. Too much living-at-altitude shit going on. Fucking freaks!

If you don't know the classic beer-garden game 'Aunt Sally' you should be ashamed of yourself and should consider yourself a muppet. One of the best things to do while hammered is throw shit around. Now your talking.

You are not 'talking' however if you want to mention my fear of heights. Then, you are spitefully reminding me of my pathetic neurosis and I turn my head away, chin raised, slighted. It fucking sucks though. It's at the point where I can't watch a movie if the characters are on high, and they don't even have to be threatened. Which is odd, since if they are simply high, it makes me feel quite comfortable and in the mood to do drugs. Fair play, let's get fucked. I had to leave the room during a movie recently when a young couple were having an innocuous conversation sitting on the roof wall of an apartment building. I've said it before and I'll say it again, with gravitas: gravity will fuck you up.

To reinforce the sense of linear thinking and the clear development of an idea within this post: in a summer garden, the colour of red wine in a beautiful glass, lumescent ruby, fucking rocks. Drinking the fucker is even better though, as is putting yourself on the outside of a good few of his mates. Then we'll see what's what, what? And I bet I can climb the cherry tree faster than you, you cunt.

Because I haven't had the chance yet, I'd like to wish anyone reading this execrable bollocks a Happy New Year. Life, after all, is off-the-charts mental. Spirit of choice, squeeze the juice, get it fucking down you. Come on!!!


"Fuck it. That's it. I'm setting myself on fire". The Good D.