Punching people tends to make them fall down

It is about time someone did something. The situation as it stands is absolutely intolerable. "To what do you refer?", I hear you say. Why, I refer of course to cunts. There is far too many of them around these days. Everyone babbles on about climate change, the sudden realization of a whole population that knives can be used to stab people, and John Prescott, but what about cunts? We are surrounded by legions of utter ones! Serried ranks of bunches of them! Even my left thumb and wrist have succumbed. I fucked them up trying to fuck my friend up while fucked, and now my thumb is swollen and my wrist is comin' on with mad shooting pains. Surrounded by cunts I tell you.

Moral panics. Fucking ludicrous. The British media has gone mental about knives, and the apparent sudden rise in every fucker getting sliced/cut/shivved. I can't comprehend how anyone over 25 can work in news media. The older you get the more transparent, circus-like and incestuous it becomes. Inane cocksucking diversionary bollocks. And what's with every cunt self-harming these days anyway? The world has fucking left me behind pal.

My friend showed me a clip of a skateboarder trying to grind a rail. I like skating, and I've seen a fair few skate videos in my time, with a lot of slam sections, breaking bones and ting. But this clip was special. The guy gets up on the rail but leaning too far back. He hits the deck with his arm behind him, you only hear the gunshot crack of snap. He sits, and brings his left arm in front of him. His forearm is snapped in the middle, grotesque angle. Nothing special there, seen loads of those. This guy, however, in his shock, decides the best thing to do would be to push that bitch back into position. So he leans it on the floor and tries to do just that. He lets go and it just sort of springs back to that horrible angle. Fucking grim. That's proper self-harm right there, not slicing 'I am a cunt' into your pallid skin, you poncey emo fucks you.

Imagine being a crack-baby. You'd be raging.

I never knew Jon Voight was the father of Angelina Alien-Head Jolie until recently. If you don't like Midnight Cowboy you can fuck right off by the way.

I note with interest that a team of eminent physicists have declared that quantum physics is, and I quote, "fucked in the head. We haven't got the faintest. Fuck it all".

Also of note is the fact that human beings are the only species on the planet that are total cunts. The only other species that comes close is the magpie, and they're only utter wankers.

Ah (sheilds eyes, looks into distance). The caravan cometh. Fill thy skins with water, load up the beasts of such sad burden, and off we fucketh.


"My poor old bones". Geronimo.


I favour you with my wisdom

Cider and red wine paired of an eve will give you a terrible bastard behind the eyes. You are thus informed.

After a long, dramatic pause, a roaring drunk Irishman gave me this advice recently, "Brewski. Invest in wigs. They'll never goway". Fucking tool.

A pair of cork-soled, strappy shoes on a woman turns me right on, and I have no idea why. Neither have I any inkling why I should divulge such information to you. Case closed.

Here is another fatuous sentence that means fuck all while I try to think of something that enrages the fuck out of me. As that twat Eminem sings, "I just rhymed a whole song and didn't say shit".

I have it! Guns! Fuck guns. I have a suspicion that if I ever held a loaded gun, I would experience something akin to the inexplicable feeling I get if I am near the edge of a cliff or other high point; namely to take a running jump off the fucking thing. However, holding a loaded gun this feeling would manifest itself in a juicy desire to shoot someone through the back of the knee. Then with slitted eyes deftly unscrew the silencer and flit like a shadow through the billowing bay window curtains. I tell you what, getting kneecapped must fucking suck. And what causes those shattered patellas? That's right: guns. Fuck 'em. And some of those shots took Kennedy out from the FRONT you cunts.

Also: sewing machines. They are rank. With that pedal and shit. They want to hurt you. You can tell from the sound they make when the pedal is operated, the noise is like, "Ah....now.....I'm coursingwithelectricityandmyfuckingneedlegoingimpossiblyfastwill fuckingbiteyoucomeherecomehereyoucuntIwillfuckyouup......". Stephen King should address this in a short story the spooky cunt.

Beck's bottled beer is shithouse. They're too small you stingy German fucks. Let's be 'avin the Grolsch steez, but without those stupid ceramic stoppers. I also have a penchant for thick-stemmed wine glasses, but who gives a flying fuck about that?

And who the fuck thought up the name 'Chichester'. Is that not a fucking ridiculous name for a city? Chichester. Christ.

Having said that, there is a tube station in London called 'Mudchute'. I kid you fucking not.

And with orgasmic crescendo, I give you this: roasted peanuts rock. And pistachios are also triumphant. As is performing cunnilingus on your sexy babe. Go on life, you cheeky cunt you.


"Why me?" One of Shane Macgowan's teeth.


get real cunts

Click on that link to the right there smugfuck, 'the real Iraq, fuckers'. Dahr Jamail's website. Then click on 'hard news'. Read the whole of 'All of us participate in the new Iraq'. And weep.

Skate or die, or fuck off or something

Cocksucking motherfuckers. Fuck all y'all corporo-oligarchical fucks. Is there any difference anymore between government and big business? I have lived abroad for over ten years, and came back to England a few months ago because my mother died. I find that in the midst of my unbearable guilt and grief I am also literally criminalized, marginalized, ostracized and fucked-up-the-assized simply because of my absence. I am literally a non-entity in a Kafkaesque fucking nightmare. I very rarely get angry. Then again, I very rarely feel at such a dislocate from the world around me. Scratching a living because you have a mortgage? Corralled into this job or that job due to age, qualifications, 'experience'. Numbed into celebrity gossip and the god awful shite that is reality TV? Never would I have believed the nightmare around me now in England would have been possible. The darkest prophecies I read growing up were way off the mark. A market town in Oxfordshire, fat fucking louts everywhere, screaming at each other in some guttaral snarl I hardly recognize as English, waddling this way and that, the 'girls' with their low-slung jeans or leggings squeezing their fleshy flesh outward, pushing prams, their shaven-headed partners spitting into mobiles. The only explicit illustration I can think of is those drawings that that cunt did for Hunter S. Thompson, just nightmare. Ralph something. (Steadman, he cleverly inserts, giving the bastard the once over).What, exactly, has fucking happened? What has happened? To the knowledge of history? To quiet appreciation? To self-reflection? To the sanctity, and awareness of that sanctity, of simply being alive? I just spent a stressful two weeks trying to open a bank account for fuck's sake. I couldn't give 'them' proof of address. It took my incredibly handsome friend with a legitimate business to flirt the fuck out of some stupid fucking lemming 'finance planner' bitch before I could open a simple savings account where very shortly I'll be depositing £150,000 for fucks sake. This is horrific, the fruits of industrialisation, just as slaughterhouses have become killing machines, so has human society become a stupid machine, benign and dulled people masticating on their own dull inanity. Fuck this shit. As soon as I'm sorted, I'm off to join my partner in B.C Canada, where she'll go to school and eventually we'll live in a remote commune, growing that sweet bud, and revelling in what this society would call ignorance. No I don't know who won The Apprentice you cunt. And who the fuck would ever call that fuck 'Sir'? What a very unpleasant fucking individual. Skewed as fuck or what, you grasping, inadequate materialistic total fucking cunts.

In other news: I have a rock hard cock. If you're in a long distance relationship right now, I highly recommend exchanging text messages delineating exactly what you'd like to do to your partner sexually. I suggest that because personally not only am I horny as fuck, I am also a tremendous wordsmith. If you fulfill neither of those criteria, don't fucking bother.

As well, have this: There is no pain like hand slap on cold concrete while skateboarding in winter. Official.


"'Lost' is on in five minutes. Call the chinky." Most of Britain when that utter shit is about to be broadcast.

Addendum: I am not responsible for any of the above, because I am freaked the fuck out, and can't be held to it. Diminished responsibility don't you know. Christ.


For 'tis the one they call - The Montuss.

I'll tell you this for nothing - I really fucking like steak. Put that into your beautifully inlaid bong and smoke it, ye fucker ye.

Back in England after my 'sojourn' in Ireland, he said very fucking informatively. Adverbs. Cunts.

Anyways here's some shit that went down in the Emerald Asylum:

Trying to breakdance when utterly shitfaced, as usual. Hole in knee, duff shoulder. Fuckwit.

Comin' on with the Monkey Pirates. You don't need to know.

Being on O'Connell Street for Easter weekend 1916 commemorations. Well weird.

Running away scared from trotting cows a lot in the Tipperary fields, looking for standing stones. Those cows are huge. As you can imagine, there was lots of, "Run at it, shouting!". Hilarious at the time by the way.

Steak. The Trucker's Steak in the Tipperary Inn in Toomevara is the size of a giantess's placenta, the finest Irish beef. Golden Vale, I fucking salute you.

Having a Twin Peaks moment in a one-horse town when being led after the pub to the local club. Expecting a pub with a dancefloor I entered a cavernous dance area lined with three balconies, hundreds of cunts givin' it to really shit music. Do my head in.

The hills of Tipperary, as Spring is spranging and the sap is rising and get your knickers off, are fucking beautiful. Particularly so if you are as drunk as a lord, which, thankfully, I constantly was.

The warm peace of sitting in front of the open fire of an evening can be nicely embellished by getting shitfaced on red wine and instigating an argument about Africa with your companion, the nub of which neither of you can remember in the morning. Fucking edifying. I bet I was fucking right an' all.

The first Swallows of Spring givin' it large speed through the air, bo selecta.

What the fuck is up with the traffic in Dublin? The place is a mess I tells yah.

Almost having a seizure climbing to the top of Devil's Bit Mountain, then getting vertigo and going back down almost immediately. Nonce.

The picture above is not of the real One, it cannot be, for only he is the One they call - The Montuss. Our canine companion in Ireland. 'Tis the One.

Let's kneecap this motherfucker right here, right now. Moby is a vegan-fuck hypocritical fucker, and I wanna slap his head with a spoon. A tablespoon. Fuck.


"The bartender is a cunt." Me, too loudly, in the bar on the ferry. Didn't get served for ten minutes.