Wednesday, February 27, 2008

British Richter Scale

Less than 2.0 Not felt. Jim Davidson can happily walk down the street and still be called a cunt by earthquake-oblivious passers-by.

2.0-2.9 Men in white suits with recording equipment twitch in nervous excitement. Leeds remains shit.

3.0-3.9 Dogs' ears prick up in intrigue. Cats stop licking themselves. Jim Davidson still a cunt.

4.0-4.9 Hideous Ikea lampshades rattle visibly. Clairvoyants panic that they've actually tapped into the Other Side during one of their fraudulent milking-the-bereaved readings.

5.0-5.9 Moderate. Chimneys fall off houses in godforsaken Lincolnshire market towns. I wake up in London, thinking I'm having a stroke. Becomes top news story for the next three fucking years.

6.0-6.9 Strong. People ignore Jim Davidson to seek refuge in Tescos. Men in white suits start masturbating furiously. Middle England begins to compose letters to the Daily Mail, accusing the Earth's mantle of being under the influence of Islamic terrorism, the Polish, or drugs.

7.0-7.9 Major. Buildings collapse. My hidden stash of porn comes flying out of the wardrobe, probably when my parents are round. DFS momentarily stop their sofa sale. House prices drop ten pounds.

8.0-8.9 Serious. Heather Mills unable to keep leg affixed to hip. Hooded 12-year-olds from Scunthorpe go into labour. Deaf people say 'What was that?'
Men in white suits now at the vinegar strokes.

9.0-9.9 Devastating. 10 Years Younger and Wife Swap temporarily removed from television schedules to make way for 24-hour rolling news coverage of what Bruce Forsythe thought. Jersey children's home staff momentarily stop abusing their residents. The dying manage to whisper their last from beneath the rubble of Tescos to call Jim Davidson's racist fucking corpse a cunt.

10.0+ Never recorded. England win on penalties.

Did The Earth Move For You Too?

I was fighting to fall asleep early this morning when my bloody neighbours began fucking each other into the middle of next week.

I say this because I started wobbling in bed.

No, wait, I can't actually hear any frantic banging. Oh, it's fine. I'm just having a seizure.

I shifted about, continued to feel wobbly, then eventually dozed off when everything calmed down a few seconds later.

Then my sodding alarm clock woke me up a short while ago, and I learnt that there'd been a huge fucking earthquake in Lincolnshire, about 150 miles away.

How? The nearest faultline is in the middle of the bloody Atlantic!

Tuesday, February 26, 2008

Self-Imposed Limbo

Last Wednesday, I woke up with a very sensible thought; don't cycle in - give my body a rest. I'd been pedalling to work like a 5-year-old on speed, then swimming myself clean, not to mention cycling home and hitting the gym when I got there.

A day off made sense.

But in that minor, logical break, I'd fucked myself. Nothing Man emailed me that afternoon to see if I wanted to catch up after work over a quick beer. Of course I did. My bike was at home, and I was wearing my more casual, tubed-it-in attire. It would just be the one, mind.

Next thing I know, I'm hammered and chainsmoking, and not cycling in on Thursday. I got fitted for my Best Man's suit that evening after work, and hit a pub with the Groom-to-be afterwards. The following day was Friday, so again...

It is now Tuesday, and I am still drinking, avec fags.

Brilliant. I am now paying for two gyms that I'm not actually visiting.

Back in the real world, I am gratified that by some strange universal quirk, no less than three murdering evil fuckheads, in some kind of justice Wait-Hours-For-A-Bus-Then-Five-Come-At-Once effect, are all paying for their viciously hate-filled crimes at Her Majesty's pleasure.

And furthermore, Islam, the current religion du jour, looks like it may finally be headed down the long road towards modernisation, just like Christianity did, kicking and screaming like a power-bloated maniac nearly 500 years ago, and just as my bearded Hebrew brethren did, equally reluctantly like a stubborn ginger step-child that no-one likes, a couple of hundred years later.

Because I quite like the idea of intolerants having their beliefs challenged, plus women will no longer be feared and restrained by their weak, intolerant menfolk who are blinded by theology mired in centuries old dogma.

Yet despite what I fervently believe in my liberal wishy-washy and humanitarian ways, those swarthy, tall, dark and handsome misogynists continue unabated, getting all the sex.

I still haven't shagged since I started blogging.

And yes, that was 2006.

Saturday, February 23, 2008


If you have ever wondered how we got to be, in the Western World, a bunch of shallow, egotistical, materialistic and money-hankering bastards, you can find a reason right here in Esquire magazine, by way of its very pointless existence.

It's a modern-day chicken-and-the-egg; Did Esquire make us cunts? Or did Esquire spring forth from Cuntdom?

A few days ago, my boss left a copy of this filthy aspirerag in the toilets at work. I suggested he was trying to make a political, anti-consumerist stance in its very placement. He maintained he'd read it from cover to cover and simply couldn't be bothered to hang on to it any longer.

And it is worse than Hitler.

Esquire sums up all that is wrong with middle-class aspirations; it is meaningless, empty and vapid. As I blankly picked up its glossy pages whilst intending to rid my bladder of excreta, I flicked through its desire-saturated pages and felt a desperate pang for a return to humanity.

Instantly, immediately, I wanted a better body. I felt gangrenous for not having the chiselled physique of Djimon Hounsou as he reclined self-consciously in the sun. I pondered lasciviously over an anonymous, brow-furrowing squarejawed gutfuck looking self-absorbed in a Paul Smith shmutter. I hankered desperately for the easy look of Jude fucking Law as he walked self-reverentially from a 1950's aircraft, puckering over his fucking shoulder in a Dunhill fucking jacket.

Ultimately, I felt overwhelmingly self-useless, and I hadn't even pulled my penis out yet.

What struck me first, as I began to urinate in angry spurts, was the glut of adverts; Greek Gods in Hermes suits, A-List Slebs in dinner jackets, obscenely homosexual drones brooding from behind a pair of Ray-Bans. As I continued to flick, I found some actual content. Most of it was hopelessly aspirational; Business pages with a holier-than-thou bollock-swaggering arrogance, commentary from fame-addled, brain-dead aresebuckets, and the worst kind of demi-sponsored photoshoots.

The most despicable was a good half-dozen pages devoted to Citywear. Some shaven-headed cuntbasket had been employed to stare like a dribbling Jerry Springer fan from amid the woefully trendy wreck of a train crash. I continued to flick in slack-jawed astonishment at heavily Photoshopped images of explosions and upturned carriages ripped asunder as this utter zombie of a man in a dapper Dolce & Gabbana suit pretended to run, or pointed and grimaced at something off-camera, trying to entice me into buying a £2,000 suit.

But all I could be enticed into was murder.

Ultimately, I wished I was there at the brainstorm - the self-reverential meeting where pony-tailed advertising mavens sat, their legs at perfect right angles and their jaws jutting out into the room like gatecrashing boars at a barmitzvah, revealing to a rapt crowd of absurd fashionistas their quasi-ironic dreams of an overwhelmingly trendy photoshoot using a fucking commuter disaster as a backdrop.

I swear to Jehovah, Buddha, Allah and the little pixies at the bottom of the garden that I would've gleefully shoved their swollen unimaginative heads into a blender while they continued to expound their vision of pouting manwhores flogging aftershave at Ground Zero. I could've cared less as I painted their balls with Bonios, setting ravenously hungry Dobermans at their crotches while they argued for a centrefold strip amid the desolation of Kabul. I would've thought nought of hammering rusty spikes under their pontificating fucking fingernails while they suggested installing catwalks at Auschwitz and taking moody, black and white pictures.

These are the motherfuckers that push house prices up. They made the East End trendy. They set impossible image standards for mankind, and make any future sexual adventures on my part ruthlessly redundant.

That, and I look like a fat gerbil.

They have studied all of humanity with a lazy eye and deemed them slavish consumers, over-spenders who must pay ten times the going rate for clothing simply because it was designed by a student working under the aegis of an Italian. They convince us that to be admired, wanted, loved, you'll need money and a large amount of style - providing they've approved it first.

And they can bite me. I'm sticking to ten bob t-shirts from Primark.

And guess who's getting all the sex???

Can someone please lend me two grand?

Thursday, February 21, 2008

Women, Booze & Grand Plans

My health plan is going extraordinarily well; I should've gone back to the gym tonight but instead, I find myself slightly drunk and chainsmoking.

I've got an Excel spreadsheet with full calorific details and everything, but I'm clearly not sticking to it. For one thing, I'm finding it a tad disheartening to cycle to work, swim, do a full day SLAVING FOR THE MAN and cycle home to lift weights and run on the spot only to discover I've actually gained weight.

Yes, I'm aware that muscle weighs more than fat, but it's still annoying.

Ergo, I'm making loads of spelling mistakes as I sit here typing away with a fag in my mouth whilst eating a kebab.

Valentine's Day was an eye-opener. I noted that morning with some interest a fair plethora of women actively staring at me, wondering, actually surmising in those briefest of nanoseconds if, in fact, I could live up to their instant ideal such was the pressure of the day. If I was being kind, I would actually recommend February 14th as a godsend for singlefolk as equally desperate people woke up that morning absolutely gagging for anything surly and unshaven.

Like me.

The night before, I was ensconced in a pleasant tavern (well, the Lord Moon of the Mall in Whitehall), catching up with some folks from my previous job. While it was a very pleasant evening, I did note a gaggle of women at a nearby table. They caught my eye for one reason; seven of them were sat with only two men, two young, suited pups from the City. Their interaction fascinated me. The girls sat either side of the men were frantic and exuberant in their expressions, touching, laughing, and generally looking like the cats that had all the cream. Meanwhile, the other women seemed somehow subdued, mere shadows of themselves. I didn't realise this until my eye was caught by the girl sitting directly opposite me. I had been staring at her in lazy detachment, not really thinking of anything, when she saw me and visibly went all coy like a nervous six-year-old with a sudden audience. In the fierce competition of her table, she became animated when she noticed me staring.

She stroked her hair.
She glanced in my direction.

And then I went and ruined it all by grinning.

And thus, I recalled Lesson Number One in trying to pull women: Look disinterested. Or rather, look interested enough to seem keen, but not so interested that they sense complete and utter desperation.

Because all women are Idiot bloodhounds.

It also helps if you don't look like a shaved Clement Freud.

I've spent the last few days embarking on my 'Fuck this life, I want a change' Plan, by having my picture taken at every conceivable opportunity. The idea behind this is to update my dating website profile and snare myself an attractive maniac.

Unfortunately, Hitler, Jim Davidson, and John Merrick the Elephant Man are somehow more photogenic than me. It's not been fun realising that a racist comedian with elephantiasis and a Hitler moustache will get more hits than me on Jdate.

I can't take much more of friends taking my picture, pausing, then laughing uproariously while I say 'delete it' in bored monotone.

But grand plans are afoot. I'm going to open London's first decent 24-hour pub with Nothing Man. It's realistic, it's cost-effective, and the fact that no-one's opened one yet shows that the market's there - and not that it's a complete waste of time laden with petty-minded bureaucracy.

I'm running out of life options here. I keep getting rejections from jobs I've been applying for.
My latest rejection was for a position I'd been banned from mentioning, but since I got shafted, I can reveal all; I'm actually applied to become an operative for MI6.

Sadly, I'm deeply ashamed to admit, I'm not lying. I applied to become James Bond.

I am not a fantasist. I just want a decent job.

Thursday, February 14, 2008


Jesus H. Christ on a bike... Argh.


Every movable part of me hurts. My eyelids hurt. It feels as if my skin has been peeled off, rubbed raw with a cheese grater from the inside, sprinkled with salt and stitched back again.

Fucking gyms.

It would appear that four years absence from treadmills and weights has a detrimental effect on fat bastards.

I took it easy on my first session in a near half-decade, choosing embarrassingly light weights, carefully probing all the machines like some kind of ageing technophobe, and generally looking frighteningly new as I jotted down a carefully considered and gentle routine for myself.

And when I woke up on Wednesday morning free from any kind of pain, I felt sure I was the World's Most Sensible Person ever. And a little bit superhuman.

But it's all slowly crept up on me like a crouching insurgent in Baghdad. I feel as weak as a kitten on a defibrillator.

I cycled home earlier with tears in my eyes, gibbering for all the constant exertion to stop.

The intention tonight was to go back to the gym for my second visit.

I didn't. I can't move. The end.

Oh and naturally, St Valentine's Day can regally go fuck itself, obviously. For those who haven't read it/ are violently bored right now, here's my worst Valentine's day ever.

Yes, that's right, repeats. I have nothing new to offer.

Tuesday, February 12, 2008




I've just rejoined a gym, with all the lifting and grunting and sweating and such.

And it's great. I've just come back from my first session in many, many years.

It's cheap.
It's shitty.
But it's three minutes walks from my flat.
Just an hour every other day, plus cycling to work and swimming, and minus beer, pringles and anything else fun, and I will shift this bastard flab that's encased me like a really fit and attractive young man covered in a kilometre of butter.

You see, I've got a wedding to be Best Man at in 3 months, plus I'm ageing hideously and I'm so single, my family are beginning to suspect Broadway musicals figure heavily in my life.

Plus lots of cock.

SO! No more sullen introspection for me. No way. This is the new and improved whinging bastard. I'll get myself a string of hideously awkward dates and blog about them in painful detail. I'll meet someone I really, really like and care for and blog about her in awful, precise detail.

Then she'll read it and I'll get dumped.

But most of all, my pain will be shared right here with ALL THREE OF YOU!!! Shared like a dirty vial of crack. Shared, as I lose weight, gain confidence, and finally dig myself out of the quicksand of life.

Look, today's glorious stats! Bask in the glory of their greatness:

LENGTHS SWAM: 6 quick ones





Sunday, February 10, 2008


I never pimp, but nevertheless, I'm going to draw your attention to Peach and her charity blogging book scheme.

I would add more details, but it's all in her post HERE!

I, for one, am submitting something suitably bleak and introspective, y'know, for a change.

Saturday, February 09, 2008

Winning The Lottery

£7.10, to be precise, to be shared between six of us at work. So I won £1.18, and I only spent £9.50 getting there.

Thinking about winning the lottery made me ponder a lot of things, but mainly, I came to the conclusion that being handed fabulous wealth and never having to work again probably isn't as fantastic as it seems. Now don't get me wrong. A few million in the bank would be marvellous, thanks, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it wouldn't actually make me happy. It wouldn't make me unhappy, but I can't see how it would validate my existence in the grand scheme of things.

Nevertheless, the first thing I'd buy would be a house, a big fucking house in a charmingly salubrious part of central London. It wouldn't be too ostentatious though, just big enough for a huge bed, an enormous TV, and perhaps my own gym. A swimming pool wouldn't go amiss either.

Then there's the travelling part. Not long after buying the house of my dreams, I'd leave it and go back to India. It's an incredible place of contrasts, of warmth, hospitality, and experiences. But mainly, it's the land where you can potter about all day, eat rice and lose shedloads of excess fat without trying.

Then, once I'd acquired a rippling physique through zero effort and minimal lessons learned, I'd go back to my big bastard house and lie on the shagpile carpet.

I'd still complain though; of having nothing to do, of women suddenly and bizarrely finding me extremely attractive, of the dark yawning chasm of unfulfilled dreams tearing into my soul.

All of which finally led me to believe that maybe a huge financial windfall won't be the answer.

After all, what is the point of wanting for nothing? There are only so many gadgets and clothes you can buy. What good is there in having so much money that nothing's beyond your reach? What good's a Friday night catching up with friends if you haven't worked all week to get there? Where's the sense of achievement in that? What will I actually do anyway? Besides travelling the world and trying to shag it.

And that is what I've been telling myself again, and again, and again.

I can't help but feel that life is a series of acquiring bad habits and crap jobs, then spending all your energy and willpower trying to quit them.

Well bugger this. I'm going online to acquire a girlfriend. I need someone to complain to and fuck... although I currently have the sexual libido of a door at the moment, which is somewhat worrying.

So, chainsmoking, overweight miserable sack of shit seeks Amazonian goddess woefully out of my league to rub my back and tell me everything will be alright before willingly jumping into bed for mindblowingly below-par sex that lasts about fourteen seconds and ends with tears and regret.

Please form an orderly queue.

Wednesday, February 06, 2008

Relying On The Lottery

'You've got better odds of writing something great and going places with that than you have of winning the lottery', said my mate Ed tonight.

'Yes,' I replied, 'but writing something great will take sweat, effort, and seizure-inducing waves of self-doubt and mental trauma. Not to mention the fact that it probably won't get anywhere. To win the lottery, you only have to spend a pound at the newsagents and bugger off.'

Winning the lottery isn't laziness on my part, but my only Get-Out plan. I can't see any other way for me to a) buy a house in London, b) chill the fuck out, and c) become instantly attractive to women.

I got rejected from a job application today. It was the best one I've seen for, well, years...

"Talented writer required to write the online content for this popular TV Channel. As well information, you will be involved in writing on their blog sites and be involved in the social networking sites such as Myspace and Facebook."

The talented writer bit rather worried me (no comments to the contrary, please) but, nonetheless, I gave the application a real go. I re-wrote my CV to tailor it specifically for the job. I mentioned this blog (but didn't give out the address, for obvious reasons) and alluded to my various badly-written novels, scripts and sketches. I rejoined fucking Facebook. I decided not to rely solely on's lazy one-click-submission process and tracked down the recruitment agency to introduce myself there.

After hearing nothing for a week, I emailed the agency again to see if they'd received my CV. They did, for ten minutes later, I got this one-line, unpunctuated reply...

'Thanks for your application unfortunately you do not have the right skills or experience for this role.'

So that's that down the shitter of crushed dreams. My only career option now is suicide, but I don't like the pension plan.

So, like everyone else in the continent, I'm going to pay my idiot tax do the Euro lottery on Friday and win myself £95 million. I've organised a syndicate at work, and I'm going to buy about 50 million pounds worth of my own tickets.

Then, once I win (and I will with odds of just 1 in 76 million), I can buy a nice pad overlooking Regent's Park, make a good couple of dozen friends and family members millionaires too, and travel the globe with my message of fraternity and world peace.

Or I could save myself some cash, stop daydreaming, and wank into the gutter for pennies down in Soho.

At least it's Thursday tomorrow; I can see the weekend at the end of the tunnel. Maybe I'll catch a play. Perchance I shall be a gentleman flâneur and stroll along the Thames. Or I could hit the pub at 8am and drink away the interminable misery of being me whilst chainsmoking moody duty-free cigarettes in the rain.

Monday, February 04, 2008

Crappy Mondays

Jesus I hate Mondays, those stern, officious humourless days of the week. Mondays are so downright fucking evil that they're quite capable of bleeding into the previous day and ruining your Sunday too. Mondays in Auschwitz must have been unbearable.

They're the vote-rigged, 'My brother runs Florida' George Bushes of the lunar cycle. If days of the week were celebrities, they'd be a totally pointless Peaches Geldof. If they were comedians, Mondays would be Jim Davidson.

Monday is the High Holy Day of The Man, when you pay for your attempted debauched weekend by going back to fucking work with your body clock out of sync because you left some godforsaken overpriced room in Shoreditch and decided to walk back to the West End to catch a nightbus bus home only to pass out unfulfilled at 5am.

I'm fucked off again, in case I've not made that clear, fed up with this useless spinning ball of Arse, where nothing ever happens, or else something happens and it gets flushed down the toilet. It is the world of meeting your friends at the weekend who greet you with 'Look at you, you fat bastard,' repeatedly.

It is a world where you cannot think of anything better to do on your day off than visit a pub and drink heavily because everyone else is, plus it's a party you've been invited to and you should really join in and end up singing 'If I Were A Rich Man' by yourself on karaoke to bemused looks.


This is a planet where you indulge in a little drugtaking at the weekend which only makes you panic the next day when you remember that you've applied for jobs that feature compulsory drug testing.

It's the random, godless universe where you read about rapists winning the lottery, where you cycle to work in a vain attempt to get into shape, only to leave after nine hours to find, in the darkness of the evening, that some weasely, slit eyed little cuntpacket has stolen your lights.

In this world, you're forced back onto fucking Facebook because a job you'd just applied for actually required it, only for half your friends to write 'WHERE'VE YOU BEEN?' all over your profile which may prove to your prospective employer that you'd left a while ago.

It is a world where personal emails pile up and make you feel stressed, where your boss hands you a full pack of cigarettes on the day you vowed to give up forever (again), but you're just too damn weak and pathetic to say no to free fags.

It is a world of cold and wind and rain where you have to wear two shirts, a jumper and a coat, as a tourist saunters past obliviously in a t-shirt and shorts, making you feel like a walking icicle with a circulation problem. It's fucking February, for christssakes.

It's a world ten days away from a cruel global celebration of being Loved and In Love, perfectly designed to make everyone else feel like a useless, smoking, single fat bollock.

A world where I'll never earn enough to buy my own house, where I'm getting older to the point that all my hopes and dreams are beginning to look really fucking ridiculous, and where I may never see my enormous feet again as I can't seem to shift a single fucking pound of excess fat.

In this world, payday is a full and painful bladder, and the working month a steady series of visits to the urinal of life. At the end of it, you've got nothing to show for another 30 days of ageing but a headache and a bad haircut.

Women don't look at you in this world, and you're not sure you want to be looked at anyway.
Your chins hate you.
Paedophiles look at you in disgust.
Trains and buses take off seconds before you approach them.
Customers yell down the phone at you for giving them exactly what they fucking asked for the week before.
You begin to envy gnats.

Fucking hell, I'm in a foul mood.