Saturday, September 30, 2006


I have never been to Denmark and would love to go there, and also to the rest of Scandinavia. They have a lot of blondes.

I know two facts about Denmark:

Great Dane: Hans Christian Andersen

The first is that 63 years ago to this day when Denmark was under Nazi occupation, its 7,500 Jews were to be deported. This information was leaked out and on September 29th, two days before the Jewish New Year, the chief rabbi gathered his congregation and told them to spread the word to hide, as German transports were getting ready to load up.

The word was passed and Danes from all walks of life, over the course of a couple of days and under cover of darkness, helped virtually all of Denmark's Jews escape to neutral Sweden. By the time the Gestapo were ready to implement their plans, there was no-one left to deport.

The second fact I know is that in 1967, Denmark became the first country in the world to legalise pornography.

Pros: Porn. Being thoroughly decent coves. Cecilie Thomsen.
Cons: Porn. It's a double-edged sword, that one. Unfortunate cartoons of Mohammed.

Wednesday, September 27, 2006

Embarrassing Memory #2: The Trail of Shame

Katy was an ex of mine with a bubbly and vivacious personality, rather pretty of face, and kind enough to let us congress non-vertically and without clothing in a bed.
And in return, I was just a crappy, crappy boyfriend.

As a couple, we didn’t really hang out much. When we should've been having ‘us’ time, I demanded to stay home alone as I wanted to write all day. Although I say ‘wanted’, and ‘all day’ and ‘write’, I always reluctantly wrote next to nothing and ended up in the pub with my compatriots instead.

Katy thus kicked my sorry bottom to some kind of concrete edge and begun seeing other guys while I wound up angry at being dumped, even if I was happy for her. She deserved so much better after all. Some time later – it could’ve been months, it may have been years - I invited her out to catch up. It felt like the decent thing to do and besides, I’d heard she was single again, and I was gagging.

We ended up in a garish bar just off of Oxford Street; funky music, trendy yelling folk, that kind of thing, and I’d left our table to get a round in but not before a quick visit to the conveniences. On my return, I asked Katy what she wanted, then headed off to the bar when I heard an almighty shriek. I was half way across the room when I’d turned round to see Katy waving her arms like she was drowning at sea. Feeling it too time-consuming to see what the matter was, I ignored her and strolled up to the bar to get served immediately. Life Treat!

As I waited for the indifferent barman to prepare the libations, I checked out the rest of the clientele. Directly behind me was a table full of women all checking me out. Two even grinned, prompting me to lean casually against the bar as I tried not to look panic stricken. Something really sexy was going down that night.

I was rather buoyed as I swaggered back to our table. Katy with her head in her hands.
‘Whassamatter?’ I enquired as I sat the drinks down.
‘Turn round.’
‘Just turn around.’
Confused, I did as I was told as I strained to see why Katy was pecking at my behind with nervous jabs. A huge length of toilet paper fluttered to the ground. It had been poking out of the rear of my jeans and cascading down my legs like a tail.

So alright, maybe I used the cubicle for privacy. Okay, perhaps I took advantage of a nearby roll to cleanse the old undercarriage. But under no circumstances was I that drunk or stupid as to leave a length dangling when I whipped my jeans back up.

Okay, maybe I was.

Tuesday, September 26, 2006

Embarrassing Memory #1: "Please don't make me get Toyah"

I've just come across this article, well, half-an article that sounded pretty good 'til it ended abruptly and demanded money for me to read more.

Yet in that brief moment of bored surfing, it occurred to me that I could relate every cringing memory I've ever had. There are several billion after all. Perhaps I could somehow exorcize those demons and in the process open some door of perception. But I doubt that.

A few years ago, I used to work for the BBC. I became quite dull and miserable during my time there but in retrospect I've put this down to feelings of inadequacy and intimidation. I felt inadequate because I was intimidated by the sheer hunger, vivacity and, in quite a few cases, sex appeal of the other employees. Things got so bad that I had a panic attack in the canteen just because I had lunch with people on my team. I ultimately became quite scared to leave the edit suites and preferred to silently get on with my work.

One such day springs to mind. I was mindlessly filing tapes and preparing for another edit when the director in our suite took a call. Toyah Wilcox had arrived in reception for her voiceover.

Turning to me, the director asked if I could go down and collect her. I froze, before managing a feeble 'Sorry?'
For some reason, I was hoping this monosyllabic reply combined with my look of unbridaled terror would stall him into rethinking his decision and getting her himself.
'Could you go to reception and bring Toyah here?' he repeated.
'Um... I'd rather not.'
The editor had now stopped what he was doing to turn and stare at me as well. Two faces of confusion.
'Why not?'
I didn't really have an answer for this.
'Do you fancy her or something?'
'Christ, no.'
My instant rebuttal only convinced them that I did actually fancy her, now making it a cast-iron certainty that I'd have to go just so they could watch me flap like a pidgeon caught under a bus. Then I did something I haven't done since I was five. I pleaded. An honest to goodness 'I'm lost and I'm scared' plead.
'Please don't make me get Toyah.'
'Just get her, alright?' They were both grinning now.

Like a man condemned, I left the edit suite with my head bowed. My legs were shaking, my mouth was dry. I wasn't even a fan of the woman. I had simply perfected years of keeping a low profile in a high profile industry and my confidence was comfortably numb.

I got to reception.
Sitting in the far corner, the furthest fucking corner with lots and lots of people to wade through, was Toyah fucking Wilcox with her head buried in a newspaper.
I was going to have to stand over her and call out her name, her stupid one-word name that was instantly recognisable, like Cher or Madonna, but without the larger-fame caché.

'Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks.'

'Toy-aah?' I whimpered. Some men in suits turned. Damned unwanted attention. I felt like an over-awed fan about to ask for an autograph when I was anything but. The newspaper dropped. Yep, that's her. At that moment, as she saw my petrified crimson face, I think she expected a pen and pad to be thrust under her nose but no, it was just an inexplicably nervous gimp.

'Hello there Ms Wilcox. I've come to escort you to the sound dub', was what I should've said. Instead, as my larynx shuddered, all I could croak was 'Voice-over' as I pointed somewhere vaguely behind me.

As we walked to the lift, that small, awkward lift, I had no conversation in me, no casual chit-chat. I decided that the best course of action was to make this as uncomfortable for the both of us. I tried to adopt a 'couldn't give a fuck' persona, but this just made me look like a wanker. The lift ride of four flights took three-and-a-half hours as I stood in a packed elevator studiously analysing each number increase above my head. My palms were now dripping.

By the time we reached the edit suite, my vocabulary had soared to 'In here', as I held the door open for her. I spent the rest of the afternoon avoiding her sneers.

To this day I'm at a loss as to why I turned into a momentary twat. Not a great story but hey, it's one of many moments that my internal VCR likes to play back when I'm feeling low.

Next week: Twatting Esther Rantzen with a big bag of tapes and getting evils.

Friends Reunited, Being disappointed by life via

Utter cunts, both the owners of the site, and the people who post there, which includes me. And, erm, my Mum.

After being tempted to revisit Friends Reunited by a fellow blogger's article, it merely reminded me of how everyone else is getting on with their lives and keeping up with the Joneses.

They've added new icons too, cheerful little one-upmanship pixels you can stick next to your name to hammer home how successful you've become compared to everyone else, viz: 'I'm buying a flat!', 'Engaged!' or 'I've had a baby girl!'

Well thank you. I'm so happy you've got screaming at 4am, shitting, wrinkly proof that you eventually found someone ugly enough to impregnate with your gitprod and vomit forth more of those foul genes into this arsegutter of a planet. Hey, and you saved several million to put towards a deposit on a garden shed in Putney, I like your work.

Until they add 'Still an embittered wanker', 'Alone and getting used to the prospect', and 'Renting an overpriced flat with a large man from Nottingham' icons, I'm afraid I won't be returning to that site. In fact, I will never be happy until someone invents 'Failures Introduced' - Hang on, that's actually a bloody good idea.

On the plus side, I discovered that Osama Bin Laden and Duncan Not Applicable went to my Uni, so that's going to be a nice talking point.

Computer Printers

Evil, plastic, spiteful, vindictive fucks. Every one I've ever used has shamelessly turned on me in an inanimate emotionless kind of way, like all my previous girlfriends. If I went to bed with a printer there is no doubt in my mind that it would be a selfish lover - and demand I sleep in the ink patch.

The printer at work has decided to add a splash of colour to our lives by printing everything in duo-tone instead of the world standard black on white. Nothing we've done has brought this on. All our documents print in black and blue, randomly.

I called the Hewlett-Packard helpline who helpfully informed me that our warranty ran out last Monday, so tough. I wasted so much time trying to fix the fucker this afternoon that I had to spend a few hours after work to catch up on the day job. And eventually I got it working. I found its little printer genitals and kicked it in the bollocks.

Sunday, September 24, 2006

Pre-sneeze Lipwet

Am I the only person who, on feeling a sneeze coming on, frantically wets their lips with their tongue as the realisation dawns that said lips are too dry and the sneeze could actually create one of those annoyingly painful under-skin rips, which means for a few embarrasing seconds you can be observed bracing for a sneeze whilst frantically darting your tongue about as if you're practising cunnilingus techniques with your eyes closed?

Oh, just me then.


I'm on a diet. Not right now as I've just bought an enormous pack of Tangy Cheese Doritos for 99p. But I'll be back on The Diet once I've finished the bag and the feelings of self-loathing set in.

A few days before I went to Spain with The Hobo, he was sending me happy texts about his Atkins diet.
Hobo Mob: "I've already lost a stone in 2 weeks!"
Reply: "That's way too much too soon. Be careful!"
Hobo Mob: "It's the way forward!"
Reply: "No it isn't. Nothing compares to sensible eating and exercise."
I was worried for him. What if this huge weight loss was muscle and not fat? It didn't sound healthy.

The good Doctor?

I'm something of a diet expert. From the age of eight til I was eighteen, I was the fattest kid in my first school, and second fattest in my second. I lost all my weight when I left home for University before piling back the pounds on my return, then losing it again, then going up, then going down... you get the picture. To me, dieting isn't rocket science. You simply consume fewer calories than your body burns. The trouble is the inexorable dullness of it all.

What The Hobo was extolling made no sense. It was the Antichrist of diets. He ate more fat. He had fried breakfasts every morning. He just reduced his carb intake, that's all. When we got to Spain, I saw how much weight Hobo had lost. He lent me The Hungry Years by William Leith.

Leith was a fat, depressed journalist. Ironically, he's got a great job but he wasn't particularly happy with his life. He was the fattest he'd ever been. He drank too much. He over-consumed. The two things that struck me about the book was that Leith seemed as skeptical about Atkins as I was. Even by the end of the book, he's not exactly lauding it as humanity's only hope. Secondly, Leith mentions a hostility within the food industry towards low-carb diets. He called it a conspiracy.

Carbs. I think I miss them. I can't be sure.

Now I hate conspiracy theories. I think they're the manifestations of living in a paranoid state. But Leith made some sense with his contention that food producers benefit from low-fat as they simply introduce different versions of their products.
Carbohydrates are a different story. They're found in bread, beans, pasta, potatoes, biscuits, etc. You can't make low-carb versions of these foodstuffs any more than you can make low-milk milk. Put simply, flour producers and big farming companies hate low-carb. If we all cut out the carbs, they'd all die on their arses. Add to that the conspiracy angle, that they lobby governments and set up their own research institutes to promote low-fat and decry low-carb, and you have a diet I was curious about.

And it still doesn't make sense. I've been following a vague low-carb diet for a couple of weeks now, starting each day by melting some butter and frying myself bacon, sausages and eggs, a breakfast I'd never eat daily in a million, erm, days, yet I'm losing weight like its going out of fashion. I'm also sated more often. And like William Leith describes, it's a strange sensation. You get bored, you think about food, and you realise you're not hungry. But it is a Sunday evening in September and the sun is setting a lot earlier. So naturally I bought those Doritos. I just had to have them. I needed to feel momentarily happy.

And that's the fucking problem, I self-medicate with shit food. On Friday and Saturday nights, it's booze and fags too. I don't think it's spiralling out of control. I've pretty much always done this but it's hard to break a habit of a lifetime. As William Leith advises, over-eating is merely the symptom. Try to discover what the cause is.

My flatmate Pete had an answer: I need an Activity Partner. Preferrably with big tits.

Technically, that would be him.

My entire Blog summed up as a T-shirt


The first official declaration of Swiss neutrality was made by the Swiss Confederation Council in 1674. They've kept a low profile ever since.

Pros: Cheese
Cons: Cheese

Saturday, September 23, 2006


I kinda like the guy, in the same way I kinda like Travis Bickle, Alan Partridge, Tony Soprano, and Larry David, except God's not half as funny as He is edgy and dangerous.

Barring the latter, all these people have something in common with God too. They're all fictional, like Zeus, Amun Ra, Odin, and the fucking tooth fairy. I sincerely apologise in advance if any wandering souls have popped in and found this offensive, but how can civilised man (or women) possibly believe in His existance in this world? The world of Rwanda where over three-quarters of a million people were slaughtered in under four months? Earth, the happy home of the Holocaust, where eleven million were murdered in under a decade? And that's not including a potential 51 million additional people killed during WWII. God, caring after a spinning ball in space where an already loaded Paris Hilton can find fame, wealth and immense fortune despite being blessed with
A-B-S-O-L-U-T-E-L-Y F-U-C-K-I-N-G N-O-T-H-I-N-G at all?

Hilton: Proof that there isn't a God.

There has simply never been any proof of his existence in any shape or form whatsoever yet He is still used by man to justify the most horrendous actions imaginable. And today, thanks to a gang of delusional psycopaths who chose to fly human-laden planes into two immense buildings thronged with people, we find ourselves back in the Stone Age when we knew no better.

To the ancients walking in the deserts of the Middle East - the birthplace of the God we know and love today - it makes sense that He grew in prominence if we contextualise it. Several thousand years ago, we knew nothing of Science, of why and how, of DNA, of evolution, of elements or compounds or weather systems. Walking alone in the eerie silence of these deserts, a simple thunderstorm miles from the nearest settlement must have been profoundly awe-inspiring. And more so if something political had happened; an overthrow of power, an alliance, a priestly decree. God is unhappy. Maybe God knows you masturbate and we all know He hates waste. God is Bigger and Badder and More Powerful than you could possibly imagine. And I'm not surprised. I still don't have the foggiest how a thunderstorm happens beyond something to do with hot and cold air. To your average sage, or mystic, or Joseph Public, this must have been one hell of a sign.

And that's just a fucking thunderstorm.

Rock: Proof of humanity.

I'm Jewish - yet clearly atheist - and totally comfortable with my stance. I've had my bacon for breakfast (to paraphrase Chris Rock, "I don't see how, come the Day of Judgement, my diet will come into question." Unlike most religions, I am considered a race (certainly that is my legal status in Britain, like Sikhs), so I can be racially Jewish and religiously free. Sadly, all religions are a nonsense, including mine ~ Ancient, anti-women, anti-gay, pro-violence 'We're right and you're wrong' hodge-podge of rules and ordinances and man-made controls.

Don't get me wrong. I'm sure they started with the best of intentions. I like to think that Judaism, as it's part of me, is morally decent at its core. But as God is also at its core, I can't rationalise it. I'd no sooner put my faith in a fiction that is God than I would in Pepsi Cola or Apple.

But I do want to say this about Jews being the 'Chosen People': It sounds arrogant. It sounds as if they think themselves a people apart who are better than everyone else. The truth is much simpler if, again, you put it into context. Going back to Moses c.1300BC, having been born some 300 years after Abraham, people were pretty much worshipping everything. The Egyptians were into a whole multitude of Gods. The Romans, 600 years later, had their own deities. There were Sun worshippers, Moon worshippers, fire worshippers. The Jews were just another group from those lands with their own set of beliefs who have only just managed to exist to this day. (Who is that one Afghani Jew, and is he ok?) They just happened to believe in a single God, a Big Daddy who rules the roost. When they talked of being His chosen people, they were saying to the cat fans and the Sun worshippers all around them, 'Hey, He's the Hombre here'. Jews were simply one of the first to believe in a single human-like entity when everyone else didn't. Many years later, when Christians and Muslims appeared, following this same God trend, the Chosen People thing must have seemed a tad precocious, ergo - mistrust and war to this day, hooray! But at no point do Jews - and certainly not myself - consider themselves better than anyone else. They simply chose God when such a concept was New and Zany and Fresh!

Shame He doesn't exist.

Old guy: Black, Jewish, and proud. Probably.

But I do envy the religious. When life is throwing its worst at us, unemployment, break-ups, even death, they fall back on God. Those jammy, devout bastards. "It's a test", they'll say. "He only does this because He knows I can handle it." At no point do they think "Why, you fucking bastard?" because that would be really blasphemous. For them, a world that isn't actually in the hands of something Divine is too awful to contemplate. For the rest of us, we know that 'Shit Happens', to make the best of it, to improve as human beings and get on with life as best as possible, because There's No Other Option.

I've only scratched the surface of this. I will return to rant another day.

Pros: Keeps people in line.
Cons: Ignites wars. Stifles free thought. Suppresses women. Hates queers. Creates divisions. Kills.

Ireland, Republic of

Begorrah. Top o' the mornin' to ya. The Black Stuff. Leprechauns. Large green windswept spaces. Chicago. Heavy drinking. saying 'FECK'. Punch-ups. Potatoes. Angry nurses in English hospitals. Dodgy teeth. Arms caches.


I could, of course, go on... Hunger strikers, murals, armed men in balaclavas, bombs. Growing up in 80s London, to the British the IRA were the Al Qaeda of their day. They were the terrorists who could strike at any moment to kill me, my family and my friends, because they wanted to liberate Northern Ireland in a hail of bullets.

200 years ago, the former kingdoms of Scotland and England (whose (First) Act of Union in 1707 created Great Britain) went on to merge with the Kingdom of Ireland, to create The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland. This was the January 1st 1801 (Second) Act of Union. This Irish Kingdom was sadly English anyway, seeing as we were ruling the state for nearly 300 years prior to the 1801 union. (Henry VIII had made himself Ireland's king after pushing legislation through the Irish Parliament, presumably because he didn't feel fat or wealthy enough. The Irish Parliament simply faded away. I'm so proud.)

Father Ted, by a long way the greatest Irish priest-based sitcom ever written.
"Ah, go on!"

Just prior to, and helping to prompt the 1801 Act, was the failed Irish Rebellion of 1798. The French even landed troops in Ireland - as they did during the American Revolution - to help the rebels beat the British, based on the principle that if France helped Britain's enemies, then she would eventually be the richest dominant force across the globe, such was the noble world view back then. Not that much has changed, mind you.

The Irish gained independence following their war for it from 1919 until the July 1921 truce. By 6th December 1922 the Anglo-Irish Treaty created the Irish Free State when 26 of Ireland's 32 counties left the UK (with the majority Protestant Northern Irish opting to remain British). It was this division, with the republican, Catholic IRA (definitely not these guys) determined to wrest control of Northern Ireland from British hands, in a campaign of violence known as 'The Troubles.' Thankfully, it's as good as over.

As a lad, the only Irish I originally came into contact with were gypsies, surface-friendly indecipherable lads who would gut you like a fucking fish if the mood took them. An old and slightly mad friend of mine recalls getting into fights with these lads involving chains and machetes. As a rule, they're best avoided and not really indicative of Irish people as a whole.

Ireland is no longer associated in my mind with terrorism or men offering to turn your front lawn into a patio. It is now the Emerald Isle that gave us Westlife, the ever-squinting Colin Farrell, and still drinking to excess, really. I should visit considering it's only an hour on the plane. Maybe if I spent a few days in Ireland I may break a few of my prejudices. But I doubt it.

Pros: Guinness, the craic, having fun.
Cons: Unidentified Beer Injuries, liver cancer, seizures.

Friday, September 22, 2006


An angry, festering, pus-filled bubo on the televisual arse of the world, Eastenders is not just the worst programme on television (and it's up against some pretty stiff competition), but it manages to represent everything I hate about that medium and the increasingly self-congratulatory BBC.

Eastenders doesn't represent London. It's incapable of representing anything, other than crass, sensationalised storylines acted awkwardly. For one thing, most of the characters are white. With more than one in three Londoners belonging to an ethnic minority group, shouldn't one in three of their characters reflect that? Nah.

And another thing; most Londoners find it impossible to extend a pleasant greeting without ramming a "fuck" in somewhere. The worst you'll hear on Eastenders is 'rotter'. And thirdly, real Londoners don't interact with anyone. The actual Eastenders would be half an hour of braying swagger.

Please do this to the entire cast.

As for the acting, okay, I admit to flicking over whenever I see Eastenders appear, although in the fleeting seconds I've had to misfortune to catch it in years gone by, I've been overwhelmed by its piss-poor, substandard quality. An American friend of mine was over here when she caught two minutes of violent over-reaction and ham-acting during one of those regrettable seconds. She was aghast, while I tried to defend that abomination before us as a much-loved flagship soap opera running for over 20 years.

But I couldn't live the lie. It would've been easier watching my children get eaten by a pitbull - if I had any.

A cunt.

Of these actors, only two or three have ever dared flirt with competence. A sad few have contractually agreed to live out the rest of their lives pretending to be someone else on this cancerous lung of a programme (see above). Not up for any kind of acting award soon is the phenomenally lucky 'Pat Butcher'. I say 'lucky' as no-one else receives such a healthy wage despite having not one discernible shread of talent. In interviews, Pam St Clement appears cultivated and well-spoken. On screen, she imitates a chain-smoking chav like she's showing off in front of her bourgeois cohorts in the Groucho. You simply haven't experienced eye-bleeding overacting until you've watched Pam affect shock or surprise, leaving the viewer wondering just what the hell she did to gain employment portraying other people in a TV drama.

Eastenders is violently evil and wretched, from that fucking irritating theme tune to the effete producers whose total East End experience is crowing loudly in overpriced Hoxton bars, and on to the scriptwriters with their bags of clichés and 'yer-just don't-geddit-do-yas?'

I wish all those associated on the programme and all their devoted fans a really heavy cold.

Thursday, September 21, 2006


Life is an enduring mystery. What's it all about? Why am I here? What's on telly?

I've just got back from work after nine hours spent at a desk, every moment spent looking at the clock and counting down to 6pm. And now I'm home and freeeeee, and I have the sneaking suspicion that something might be going on beyond these walls, all I can think is 'Ah fuck it, I'll stay in'. I've got my free time yet I'm worn out, and I'm penniless. And I'll do this til the weekend when I'll barely move except to eat shit and visit lots of art galleries for a couple of days until it's back to work for a week of more banal, spirit crushing mundanity.

Then I'll wake up aged 56, with a hernia. Life is a bunch of cunt.

Wednesday, September 20, 2006


Russia is a vast land with a long and fascinating history. A history of boredom, drunken thuggery, random violence, and snow. This history can be effectively re-enacted if you were to drink two bottles of vodka, stand naked in the cold, and attempt to kill the first person who crosses your path. Congratulations. You are now Russia.

Mr Hot Russian Teen 2006
Mr Hot Russian Teen 2006

The Russians took to revolution when a local man called Vladimir sobered up enough to focus on the word 'overthrow' in a discarded copy of The Communist Manifesto, and saw this as a particularly good opportunity for a fight. A few punch-ups later, and Vlad found himself in charge of a country 8 million square miles in area, with the power of death or more death of 200 million murdererous drunks.

Miss Hot Russian Teen 2006
Miss Hot Russian Teen 2006

Russians are particularly fond of smoking, vodka, throwing Jews through windows, and rape. Although their mafia have extended throughout Eastern Europe and beyond, the whole country is essentially Mafiosi; from the old women extorting money from tourists or else they'll bind them with piano wire and throw them into the freezing Volga, to the choirboys who have been known to sexually abuse priests in return for sweets, most Russians would murder their own grandmother for the opportunity to murder their parents. Even the police are essentially a uniformed crime syndicate.

Their royal family, the Romanovs, or more accurately, the Holstein-Gottorp-Romanovs, were murdered around 1917 for being rich and privileged. Although I'd dispute privileged, as the Romanovs suffered from haemophilia (interestingly once known as the Royal Disease due to its prominence in European royalty), being friends of drunk, unkillable, sex mad Monks, and ancestors to Britain's favourite sensitive and caring jug-eared octogenarian, Prince Philip.

A Russian party animal, aged 16.

As for the rest of society today, the population is declining rapidly as the murder rate finally overtakes the birth rate. Interestingly, Russians have only 7 facial muscles, which explains why they never smile. And Aeroflot is now the World's safest airline. This is because the last of their planes has crashed.

Cons: Very cold.
Pros: Only Russians live there.

Steve Irwin's daughter

I've just woken up to the eulogising of a chirpy 8-year old on the radio.

Australian croc-botherer Steve Irwin died a couple of weeks ago after swimming over to one of Earth's less angry creatures and getting killed anyway. During today's memorial service his daughter couldn't have sounded less bothered. In fact, she rather seemed to be enjoying herself.

I suspect we haven't heard the last of her. Keep watching 'Neighbours'. If you must.

What's truly remarkably though, is the reaction of some of Steve's fans to his death. Now I love this, it's totally off the Ironic Scale. Steve was underwater with a stingray. Singray attacks on humans are incredibly rare, and they're not naturally agressive, they only sting in defence. Even the venom is rarely lethal. Nonetheless, this stingray saw Irwin floating above and JAB, barb through the heart.

So some of these fans have been killing Stingrays in revenge attacks... Stingrays - incapable of free thought - freak accident - essentially a fish - being singled out for murder.

And the worst part? The guilty stingray is probably still out there, blissfully unaware and looking really fucking ugly.
There really is no justice.

Monday, September 18, 2006

P Diddy

I hate you, you fatuous fucking charm-void. You don't even DO anything.

You've not been seen without shades since 2001 because your eyes exploded after a record three weeks spent staring at yourself in the mirror. A decade of being on your guard at being papped has left you scarred with a perma-pout. You don't look dangerous and sexy. You look like a dead fish.

You've never made a good record. In fact, the only songs of yours I remember sampled Led Zeppelin or the Police. 'Musician' my circumcised cock. You accrued all your wealth thanks to the talent of a fat, dead ugly rapper who was better looking and more intelligent than you. And now your days are spent reclining on a bed of money while you chink a glass of something conspicuously expensive to his memory.

I could be out of line here. I might be judging you too harshly. But I get the feeling you'd judge me on the kind of clothes I'd be wearing and how much respect I bestowed upon you. And I base that on everything I've read, seen and heard.

In Britain, 'Diddy' means small. And a recent court order prevents you from even calling yourself that here.

So may I suggest P Cunt.


Supermodels are worse than Hitler.

They are the creme de la creme, the cappo di tutti cappi of 'model', the brain dead imbeciles who suck in their cheeks and sashay down a newly-erected walkway as if they have an unlubed rod jammed up their arse. For some reason, Supermodels are prettier than the competition, have perfected exactly the right bipedal motion over their rivals, and have earned the right to wear someone else's clothes and walk forward - pause - turn - and scowl, to camp astonishment and applause.
These emaciated, chain-smoking, photographer's fucksacks have absolutely nothing to offer humanity except their kidneys. They may look pretty, but so does my Mum's dog.

Naomi Campbell seems to be the Queen Bee of Supermodels. Dumb, rich, spoilt, nauseating, violent, spiteful, hateful, unpleasant, arrogant and nasty. This coiffured slapped arse of a woman seems blessed with a pretty face and not one discernible shread of talent. She can walk the shit out of a lenghty platform...

... that's it.

Supermodels, I salute thee, and the companies that pay you millions to wear their expensive clothes for free so plebs like us will be blinded into remortgaging our house to buy their garms. Young women everywhere deserve to feel negative about their bodies thanks to your unrealistic airbrushed beauty.

You make our drab, pathetic, cheap lives so much better, by teaching us how to look pretty while frowning and walking forward in clothes. QUICK, THROW YOUR WAGES AT THEM!!!


Holland/ The Netherlands

Holland, aka the Netherlands. A stunning corner of Northern Europe with a fascinating history and rich heritage.
Plus drugs and whores.

Holland should really be referred to as 'the Netherlands'. Only the centre-west part of the country is actually Holland. Having said that, the Dutch call their national football team 'Holland' despite the inherent inter-political regional inaccuracy, yet they dont't seem to care about that one. Rather like me.

The Netherlands means 'Low Countries', although geographically this refers to a broader area encompassing Belgium and Luxembourg too, hence the economic union of BeNeLux, which sounds like a make of washing machine.

All I know about Belgium is that Brugge is a very charming town and well worth a vist (I've been twice), and that the Belgians drink more beer than anyone else on Earth.
All I know about Liechtenstein is that their national anthem is exactly-the-fucking-same as Britain's God Save The Queen, but presumably with lyrics along the lines of "Liechtenstein, Liechtenstein, what the hell's the point?" But this doesn't detract from the fact that I know so little about Luxembourg ('Zero' to be precise) that I had to opt for the one fact I know about the only other pointlessly small European country beginning with 'L'.
Anyway, back to Dutch whores...

Everyone's got their favourite stories of Holland, or to be more specific, the famously liberal city of Amsterdam. My favourite story is that I never went as I'm done with my pot-smoking days (the planets most overrated drug). But most people will tell you that they got "Really, really stoned" and were tempted by some 'stunning' hookers but got turned off when some repugnant fat fucker from Leeds barged in and obviously pulled.

In fact, most people will tell you how they spent their weekend stoned off their tits on skunk, space cake, and a fucking Zippy and Bungle latte. Apparently, Amsterdam is quite a charming city. The rest of the country has even more to offer (including a criminal amount of porn), but most people don't get beyond the first coffee shop they walk into. Which is a shame, as you're missing out on, erm, women rogering strangers for a financial consideration. And Van Gogh.

In fact, there's a lot to like about the Dutch apart from Rutger Hauer's smirking head and gags about dyke fingering; There's Going Dutch (splitting the bill instead of one person paying the lot), Dutch Courage (faux-courage through drunkenness), A Dutch Advance (A retreat).
In fact, you can have minutes of fun inventing your own insults by thinking of a word and alluding to it through an antonym or similar preceeded by the word 'Dutch', viz: Dutch stew (vomiting), Dutch orgy (lone masturbation), or Dutch opera (Straining so hard to shit that your eyes bleed).

I've met several Dutch people in the course of my travels, Peter Buijs (pronounced 'Bweesh', apparently) who looked like Peter Weller from Robocop, and Stefan, who resembled Benicio Del Toro. Both were thoroughly nice people with charming manners, maturity and intellect, and the decency to look like semi-famous actors so I'd remember them. Thus, the Dutch should rule over us like the pathetic slaves we are.

Pros: The colour Orange. The Dutch nickname for goatee beard: "Talking Pussy". A sensible approach to the social scourges of drug abuse and prostitution. The hardest pornography known to fish or fowl.
Cons: Gabba fucking techno. Living below sea-level and thus petrified of heavy showers. Mayonnaise on chips (or is that a Pro?)

Update 01.01.07 ~ It has long been a conundrum to me, albeit one I forgot to mention when initially writing this post, why darts players are either fat chain bedecked cockneys, fat tattooed Northerners, or Dutch. I don't know why the Dutch are so fond of darts, but they're always in the big competitions. And they're also fat. Strange one, that.

Sunday, September 17, 2006


Spain-Lite. They invented Brazil. For reasons I've never understood, Portuguese sounds Russian.

Pros: Port.
Cons: They sound Russian. Seriously.

Saturday, September 16, 2006


Ah, España. Tapas, siestas, fiestas, the rolling hills of Andalucia, and drunk lads from Yorkshire vomiting on themselves.
Oh, and castanets and flamenco.
And paella.

Spain, particularly the southern coast, has been the hoiliday destination of choice for my countrymen presumably because it's the nearest we get to 'Abroad' that isn't France. I'm actually quite fond of Spaniards having not long returned from there, and can say with some authority that their women are some of the most stunning in the world. Many do look as if they're turning into brown leather wallets though. And heritage or no, I'm still in two minds about the merits of dressing up like a drag queen and stabbing a disorientated bull in the neck with spears.

Spain's a great country, and in the 10 years since I was last there, I was surprised at the lack of English they spoke and quite right too. It is Spain after all so I had to muck in with the rest of them and shout "Habla Inglés?" to get '¿Qué?' in response.

Like most of Europe (excepting the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, btw), Spain had its very own dictator in the form of Franco, the Generalísimo who did the usual harsh repression thang so beloved by his ilk, reigning unchallenged for nearly 40 years. He also presided over the growth of the south coast when it was realised they could cram loads of Brits and Germans into shit hotels to drink loads of sangria. Hey, another uniquely Spanish product.

For over 700 years southern Spain was Islamic, having been conquered by Moors when they landed at Gibraltar (now British and full of holes) on April 30, 711. Some fanatical Islamists still demand the return of Spain as it was once Muslim land. Using that logic, Chritianity could rightly reclaim Turkey as it was once part of the Byzantine Empire with Constantinople (now the Turkish capital Istanbul) its Christian capital. But that's for another day.

The Spanish eat a shed-load of meat and you don't have to go far to see the cured dismembered legs of pigs hanging conspicuously from bars, restaurants and high couture clothes shops. In fact, the Spanish probably eat so much pig because they'd had three-quarters of a millennium of Halal and were about ready for a change. You could even say that chorizo sausage is the Spaniard's Guantanamo Bay. But that would be odd and potentially offensive.

Like most of mainland Europe, in Spain a pedestrian crossing is largely an irrelevance to drivers. General politeness is also an alien concept, but all these things have to be taken with a pinch of salt once you go south of Dover.

My most overriding memory of Spain is that the courting ritual seems to involve ignoring each other. The greater the level at which you blank your potential paramour, the higher the regard in which you hold them. How Spain remains populated is still a mystery to me.

Pros: Inexpensive. Good weather. Phenomenal aloof women. Sexy barladies who fill gin half way into the glass before adding tonic.
Cons: Gangs of British criminals living there refusing to do anything vaguely Spanish. Stifling heat inland. Going 4am clubbing in Seville and finding one club - then discovering it was gay.


Invented fascism and in classic Italian style, were a bit lazy about it. They are, however, world leaders in Organised Crime. This is because being a mafioso combines doing a half-hearted job (lazing around in pizzerias, smoking) with extortion and killing people.

That said, Italian cuisine is one of the best in the world. Their carb-rich pizzas and colossal variety of pastas is the stuff of dreams. Unfortunately, Italians are also cunts.

I have a couple of reasons for this belief. A few years ago, when I was on holiday with my parents, I took my Mother around Venice. Because Mum has MS, I had to push her wheelchair during midsummer, along cobbled streets and over steep bridges. I had stopped at a charming little piazza to get my breath back and douse myself with water. Coming towards us but looking in the opposite direction at some stunning yet indifferent women was a young guy on his mobile phone. I noticed his trajectory so I grabbed the handles of Mum's chair and pulled her back but it was too late. The guy tripped over Mum's legs but not enough for him to lose his balance - his embarrasment was salvagable. So he continued to walk away, still chatting on the phone, but minus a "Scusi". In fact, minus a sheepish grin, or even a casual nod. He'd crashed into a disabled woman because he was looking the other way, and he couldn't even provide her with a grunt of acknowledgment. So I'm afraid I became very 'Brit Abroad'. I yelled "You Stupid Fucking Wanker", stressing the 'Fucking' as I knew he'd recognise that one.
He turned round and waved.

Later that evening, three young guys stopped a few girls for a chat. They clearly didn't know one another but hey!, a warm evening, a little schmoozing here and there, why not? The women seemed a little hesitant if curious, and there was some chatting from both sides. After several minutes the women walked off while the young men checked them out from behind... these policemen. These uniformed, gun-toting protectors of the innocent, out to chat up passing women. Motherfuckers. In Britain, they'd be back at a desk.

It's worth remembering that Christopher Columbus, credited with dicovering America, was born in Genoa. Just so you know who to blame.

And finally, the French girl. My ex-girlfriend of a mere few months who absolutely adored tall, dark, handsome Italian men. Not American descendants from New Jersey, but Italian men. I could never understand why she was dating a tall, pale Englishman but didn't want to ask her. She certainly liked to check them out and tell me how good they dressed, compared to me. And remember, in France, this is a warning shot - "Sort yourself out or I'm gone." But I didn't know that then. And in fairness to her, during this particular event in London, she didn't do anything. But this Italian did...

We walked in to a restaurant one night. While my French girlfriend stood at the door, I approached the waiter who told me they were fully booked. Turning to leave, I indicated to my date that we were out of luck when the waiter called me back. This good-looking, Italian waiter.
"Sir! Excuse me sir!"
I stopped and turned. The waiter was eagerly walking towards me. He then eagerly walked right past me and up to my girlfriend who was still waiting at the door.
"Senorita, I am so sorry. We have no tables tonight but perhaps if you were to come back another night I would be happy to serve you."
I walked over and stood next to them. She lapped it up, albeit poker faced. I was just background. He continued.
Smiling, I grabbed his shoulder and patted it hard.
"Ok mate, you're fully booked. We get the picture."
We left.
We had to eat in a sodding Pizza Hut as it was the only restaurant we could get seats for. Later that night, she dumped me. Apparently, touching that waiter's shoulder was the act of a "crazy man".

Oh, and it was Valentine's Day.

So that's Italy.

Pros: Amazing food. Did I mention the wine? Some great looking villages. Better looking women.
Cons: Men who want to fuck your girlfriend, and don't care if you know. The men in general. Stunning women who ignore me. Inventing Facism, organised crime, and lust. Silvio Berlusconi. Diving in Football.

Ok, I have issues.

The Germans

It must be said that the Germans didn't invent facism, but they certainly honed it into a typically Aryan well-oiled machine.

The sad thing about Germany is that they are best known and loved throughout the world for democratically electing a mad little Austrian. Furthermore, he said he'd build them up to be the world's greatest nation (and before we get smug, every country on Earth thinks they're worthy of that honour). Adolf added that to do so, he'd dismantle their democracy and lead them himself, no more elections, no more freedom of speech. And their response? 'Ja, bitte!'

It's a shame really, as they're not a bad bunch today, discounting the skinheads and neo-nazis, natch. I recall a news report here in Britain a few years ago where a young teenage German lad was crying his eyes out because the locals had hurled eggs at their tourbus. I remember thinking that some English kid in Berlin was unlikely to respond the same way, firstly because Germans are unlikely to throw unfertilised chicken ovums at foreign tourbuses (maybe), and secondly because the average British teenager will take a lifetime to master their own language, let alone speak fluently in another.

Prior to the first World War, the Germans were our Protestant kith and kin. The royal family were, and still are, Krauts. In language terms, Old English has its roots in the West Germanic language, which is related to Old Norse and, by extension, to modern Icelandic, which I find strangely fascinating. Slightly.

Germans do have a sense of humour, though it is not widely documented. Fart and nob gags abound, which is ironically the basis of all English humour. The Royal family, for example, are supposed to be left in a state of hysterics if they overhear someone pass wind. This is a very clear indicator that they have always been German, despite switching names from Saxe-Coburg-Gotha to Windsor during WWI, when an anti-German frenzy in Britain saw German Shepherds turn into Alsatians. The Australians did likewise with their placenames. My favourite has to be the switch from Kaiserstuhl to Mount Kitchener which in fairness sounds like an over-excitable command to do something objectionable to Britain's then Secretary of State for War. See also Digger History for more geekiness.

Kitchener was also known as Kitchener of Khartoum, who helped nick lots of countries and got lots of Brits and huge swathes of colonials killed by getting their "Brains blown out for Britain" [© Blackadder]. Here's a great picture of Kitchener looking serious in a fez. (Disturbingly, he would've been around 27 when that rendering was etched.) But I'm digressing. Back to the Bosch bash.

Germany just ain't that bad anymore. After all, following the big double-U double-U Eye Eye, the Germans could be as surly as the French and they wouldn't even come close to the 'old' them. I visited Berlin for my 30th. (It would've been Israel but my mates were chicken). I found it to be rather pleasant. Not the greatest holiday ever, but a clean country, efficient trains (of course), and pleasant people. There's a stereotype in Britain that under that polite modern German exterior beats the raging heart of a homicidal racist maniac. But not from what I've found. And the women do shave their pits, which was a shock to discover.

Yes, Germany is as liberal as the rest of us. Seig... Hooray!

Pros: Nice now. Excellent beer. Trains that run on time. Franke Potente. Ruthlessly clinical porn.
Cons: Very very bad once. The language of mass murder. Quite unpleasant to Turks now. Latant extreme facism.

Tuesday, September 12, 2006


The French are, bar-none, the most arrogant nation on Earth, and everyone barring them are completely oblivious as to why. If the French were a person, they would be Jeffrey Archer, a feeble, cheating, womanising liar who thinks of himself in no less than Herculean proportions. Everyone else thinks he's a cunt.

France, however, is blessed with the world's most beautiful language. One only has to watch the savage rape of Monica Bellucci in Irréversible, or the beating of Neo Nazis in La Haine for non-speakers to assume that the antagonists were actually reciting poetry. Providing you had your eyes closed. And you ignored the screams.

France thinks the world owes it a debt for something-or-other, and to a degree, it does. If you are a fan of cinema, fine wines, or infidelity, then you will find that La France either invented it or cultivated it into an art form. France is also the proud home of sore losers. For example, they are still desperately trying to come up with a more accurate alternative to Greenwich Mean Time as the simple fact that 'Les Fuck-offs' invented something for the rest of the world to set their clocks to is too much for your average Gaul to bear. Moreover, their response to the nations that rid them of the conquering Nazis was 'Now get out'. Presumably 'Thank you' was too hard to say after four years of collective astonishment that it happened in the first place.

Another great thing about the French is that they simply cannot remain faithful. It's physically impossible. It's actually quite common for the average French bridegroom to walk down the aisle with his newly betrothed, eyeing up the congregation for his next quick shag. The bride is doing likewise. Occasionally, guilt will make them look at each other, briefly, to smile. Francois Mitterand, for example, was President of France 'til 1995. A year before his retirement, his love child Mazarine was uncovered, a daughter from an affair which was merely one of many. I was shocked at the time. France, by comparison, shrugged and flicked the news over to watch the weekly offering of free hardcore porn on Canal+ (shown at midday).

At our closest points, France is only 22 miles from England yet we couldn't be more different. All bets are off once you cross the Channel. Britain gave the world Football. The French get a bit of lip and lose World Cups as a result.

But I'm hostile for a reason. I once went out with a beautiful French girl. She mesmerised me with her stunning good looks, her addictive accent, her sculpted figure. I started to learn French. I took to wearing a beret and smoking Gitanes and shrugging indifferently when asked for directions. Unfortunately, inside that astonishing French body of hers beat the heart of a ruthless cold-hearted vampire. "You are fat", she once sneered at me, after a pleasurable afternoon spent in bed. "You make love like a door". "I hate being seen near you".

I stopped seeing her once she made it clear that she much preferred Italians, who in every possible regard are absolutely nothing like me. And by 'stopped seeing her', I actually mean 'pined for several years'. Strange thing was, she wasn't particularly electrifying in bed. I was just left with the impression that she should've been, so she probably was. Much like eating French food, really.

Pros: Language. Wine. Porn.
Cons: Arrogance. Racism. Delusions of Grandeur. Being French. Getting invaded by Germans, then helping them.

The British

Where better to start seeing as I am one and I live in this pisspoor excuse of a country. Britain. Land of Shakespeare, haggis, and sheep. History. A rich and glorious Empire. Sitcoms. Beer. Casual violence. Excessive swearing. Shit fucking weather. Constant unnecessary apologising. The Nanny State. And a propensity that you "Musn't grumble", even when every conglomerate on the planet sets up here to charge its citizens more than any other country for exactly the same goods or services.

Britain is dull. Where once she was blossoming, buxom, exciting, vibrant, leading the world with rather large firm breasts pointing the way, Brittania now leads the world in looking haggard and floppy-chested, drinking gin in the corner of the pub and trying to forget that she once ruled a vast Empire. (Although I would like to add in a pathetic has-been sense that 'Our' Empire was the greatest the world has ever seen if territory has anything to do with it: 1/4 of the Earth's land surface owned, run, and sponged off for Her Royal Majesty's gain. Nice.)

Of course, and for the benefit of Americans (more of whom later), Britain now comprises of in no particular order 1. England, 2. Scotland, 3. Wales, 4. Northern Ireland. Prior to 1922, No.4 in this list was all of Ireland, until the locals sobered up enough to want it back. Britain is merely shorthand for 'The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland'. Thus, 'Britain', 'Great Britain', and 'The UK' are one and the same. England & Scotland are but 2 out of 4 elements of the whole UK.

Anyway, let's break this down....

1. The English.
The strange thing about the English is that they fall into one of two camps; A. The monied, upper-class landed gentry, who drink and swear rather too much albeit in a somewhat charming way. And B. The shaven-haired, tatooed football hooligans who drink and swear rather too much and, erm, that's it. And that's just the women. Yet the strange thing is, England owes its success to these two groups, or rather, B's willingness to take orders from A, and nick other people's countries. And of course, if you watch Great British Cinema (?), you would notice a depiction of a land 100% populated by those whinnying group A inbreds. Incidentally, I must warn any tourists about to visit my country for the first time that if you're expecting gentility, good manners, pinstipes and umbrellas, you're in for a collosal fucking shock.

I should also add that many of these visitors (particularly from Arizona) are rather surprised at a country they assumed to be resolutely WASP to actually be so, well, ethnic. I like to think of it as the Empire striking back. Our national dish is no longer fish and chips. It's officially curry. And damn right too as it's bloody lovely and by far the best thing to come out of England.
Erm, hang on a minute...
So really, you should ignore my simplistic divisions of England as camp 'A' and camp 'B' (or just plain camp), as every race, creed, religion and nationality live here, mainly outside my front door in London.

2. The Scottish. They FUCKING HATE the English, and it's well documented that they all supported West Germany during the 1966 World Cup final with England, every last one of them, no exceptions. Ever. The bastards even seem to have more cultural icons than the English such as haggis, kilts, bagpipes, throwing enormous logs five feet in front of them, and Irn Bru. But fortunately with the Act of Union in 1707, all those items became 'British' meaning I could legitimately walk down Fifth Avenue in a kilt and feel vaguely validated. If a little gay.

Scots also have the least sense of irony in Britain. The best example of this is the 15 billion who actually live in London, shouting to all within a 3 mile radius how much they hate England and the English, whilst conveniently ignoring the fact that they've only achieved this much wealth and success by hiding in the toilets of the Edinburgh to Euston express to get to the capital and seek their fortune.

3. The Welsh. Not technically a country but a Principality ruled by a Prince who is English, has huge ears, and is basically also Greek and German. Thus the Welsh hate the English too, but historically this is due to a series of battles which, like Scotland, were (largely) won by England. Oh, that and general invasion and subjudation, etc.
Like the Scottish, I'm actually quite fond of the Welsh but as an Englishman, they all hate me.
So I'm forced to hate them back.

The Welsh are also fond of a drink or two in their godforsaken valleys which, if they contain one Englishman speaking so much as a word of English, they all gather round to cover him in meths and set him on fire, before dancing naked round his burning torso and chanting guttural Welsh songs - which ironically produces so much phlegm that the fires are doused and the Englishman is free to escape before being raped by sheep. So I've heard. There is also this very tired joke pertaining to Welshmen and sheep. However, this stereotype is also attached to New Zealanders and probably Mexicans, so I won't bother mentioning that. Wales is also very beautiful, when seen from a pocket tv whilst sitting on a beach in Thailand.

4. The Northern Irish.
Growing up in 70s and 80s Britain, the Irish seemed to be the happy folk determined to kill us, or so I remember. The reality is more that the upper half of the Emerald Isle contains more folk of English and Scottish descent and therefore Protestant descent, than the Catholic south. As I understand it, when Ireland chose to leave by force the comforting racist bosom of Mother Britain, Northern Ireland chose to stay by virtue of these links, much to the chagrin of the minority northern Catholics who'd have rather become part of Ireland. Of course now, we have fun things like the condom-shunning Catholics scaring the Protestant majority into some kind of out-breeding. Northern Ireland is also one of the most rampantly nationalistically British places on Earth. If a Union Flag has racist overtones to the English, in Northern Ireland it's a symbol of pride in their roots. As well as flying it from their houses directly opposite the O'Flagherty's Irish flag festooned semi, I'm reliably informed that inside a Protestant Irish house, the union flag is used as a tablecloth, curtains, dishcloth and duvet. Maybe. Now's a good time however, to suggest to Irish Americans that this corner of Britain might quite possibly be a tad more British than, say, Hawaii is to America. Just a thought. The Northern Irish accent also seems to have developed from the soft Irish lilt into a gruff veiled threat. Especially when saying "I love you" (Oi luv yai-iiirrghhh). In fact, it sounds more like Klingon.

A Protestant house in Northern Ireland.

The British are famed for their manners. Barge in to people on Oxford Street and many will apologise for your knocking them over. This isn't actually overt politeness, but a natural reaction to avoid getting into fights. I do it all the time. It's drilled into you at birth.

We also allegedly drink lots of tea and have incredibly bad teeth. Like all stereotypes, this is absolutely and totally true.

Furthermore, in Newcastle the accent is so strong that close relatives can't even understand each other and have to speak Flemish.

Anyway, Britain:
Pros: Lots of interesting accents. Good beer. Great music. History in spades. Sarcasm. Comedy. Irony. Occasional manners. Kelly Brook.
Cons: The Birmingham accent. Carling. Sarcasm. Binge Drinking. Casual racism. Football hooliganism. Friday and Saturday night hooliganism. Domestic hooliganism. Carbon copy town centres. Dale Winton.


'I Hate The Earth' is somewhat of a misnomer. I don't, in fact, hate this rather pleasant planet. I am just pissed off with its human inhabitants. From overpaid football stars, the Famous for being Famous, devoutly religious murderers, the besuited fuckwits who make money from misery, even loudmouth Chavs with an almighty chip on their scraggy malnourished shoulder, they all deserve, well, hatred. Most of them, anyway.

I am a bastard cyclist, and I too am worthy of hatred. I jump reds. I weave through stationary lines of traffic to - dare I say it - reach the front because I can. And this evening, on my way home, I did just that, overtaking a line of vehicles as I approached a stationary 4x4 that was facing me trying to turn into a side road on the other side of the queue. Seeing me coming, and with nowhere for her to go, the 4x4 pointlessly edged further towards the car door she faced to block my path. Stopping to squeeze through, I shook my head slightly, almost imperceptibly. And for this slight, as I took a look at her behind her enormous leathery wheel from within her reinforced cocoon, she mouthed me a single word; 'Cunt'.

And that's why I Hate the Earth.