A grave, yesterday

And that’s a cunt’s trick to play on someone, isn’t it?

Anyway, I’m back.
Ish.

I’ve been really busy and fuck you guys, anyway. I’ll be back soon with a full and frank description of what I’ve been up to. In the meantime, watch this; it’s basically what I’ve been doing.

Be seeing you…

That was a massive sigh, by the way. I’ve got an event coming up that I’d like you all to come to. If you like. But it’s on Tuesday 13th of October. That’s this Tuesday, viewers! If you are reading it before this Tuesday, anyway. Otherwise it was last Tuesday. Or today. Or… hang on, this is giving me a nosebleed. I know how Marty McFly felt now.

Anyway, the event is that I’m showing two films at The Sunflower Lounge on Smallbrook Queensway in Birmingham City Centre. So come along and you can watch The Life Acquatic With Steve Zisou and Jaws. Two films that aren’t about what you think they are. There will be a comprehension exercise afterwards.

I would like to insist that everyone who attends orders seafood pizza to get right into the spirit of things.

It’s free and there is fuck all else to do on Tuesday. And YOU’RE not doing anything, anyway. It’s not as if you’ve got any fucking plans, is it?

This week, Ugg Boots.

Ugg boots are not flattering. Not to anyone. Not at all. I don’t care who you are or what you look like, or even if you are Japanese (of which more, and later) who seem to be the principle offenders. Please realise, they are furry wellies and do not even function like wellies. Try wearing them in the rain. That’s two hundred quid down the fucking drain.

So to recap, if you want to look like you are hiding hideously malformed feet the knock yourself out, spend two hundred quid on them. Otherwise buy something else. Anything.

Some arsehole in Ugg boots, yesterday

Incidentally, I don’t know that shitstain in the photo, it was stolen from off of the internets. If it’s you, fuck you you cunt, you shouldn’t have posted a photo of yourself looking like a cunt for the world to see. Whoever you are, if you wear Ugg boots, you look like this twat.

Be seeing you…

The first thing I would like to say is that I am fully aware that it’s not a documentary, it’s a stupid soap-opera, but I demand continuity inside it’s own universe, dammit!
I suppose it started irritating me around the time Warren died. I think that a former copper, even a bent one would engender more belief and respect than a known gangster, especially when he is prepared to put his own freedom and what not on the line to get him collared (leaving aside the dubious legality of illegally recorded confessions).

But anyway, this is what is winding me up now:
The Money.
So Archie, Elliot, Kris and scouse lad moved into a flat and found a bag full of cash. So far, so brilliant. Next they all decide that they are all entitled to a quarter of it and because it is probably ill-gotten gains there is no need to report it to the Police (If I found it, reporting it to the Police would not even cross my mind. There is a fair chance I wouldn’t even report it to my flatmates. Especially if Archie was one of them.). Brilliant, still. Next they start counting it everyday, worrying about who is nicking it, not trusting each other, spending it on a fucking safe that they all know one digit of. What a bunch of wankers. Why not just split it four ways and let everyone worry about their own portion? Syphon it into their respective bank accounts over a few months and not say anything about it to anyone? Or if they really want to seem mysterious and exciting why not open a Swiss bank account and deposit in there? This would also let them film a holiday special with the four lads jetting off to Switzerland, getting into scrapes and ultimately finding themselves. In short, Massive cunts.

Switzerland, yesterday

Gaz and sometime-lover, Anita, yesterday

Nancy.
When, how and why did she become so frumpy and boring? Bet she regrets that tattoo. Oh yeah, why does she let Darren lounge about her flat all day like a great blinged up slug? It’s her house, fuck him off.

Calvin.
Calvin has a type.
Calvin like blondes with big knockers.
Cheryl has blonde hair and big knockers.
Cheryl is in fact a whirlwind made of tits and ass.
Cheryl wants Calvin up inside her.
WHY DOESN’T THIS HAPPEN!? SHE IS AWESOME!
Big booty bitches is where it’s at, by the way.

Cheryl, yesterday

Baby Max.
I sincerely hope that next time Jackie goes looking for this vile child (by the way Jackie, it’s not your baby, it’s the spawn of your half sister and Russ, the human doormat, so please stop referring to it as yours, for fucks sake.) I hope that we hear Russ has killed and eaten them both. The village will soon forget.

This has been forwarded to the producers. I eagerly await their response.

Be seeing you…

ADDENDUM: In the course of my research for this article (oh yes, research) I came across this. They seem to have left out that if you really want to be like slot-eyed heartthrob Rhys, you should probably fuck your sister, too.

Also, what is the point of this? Tokyo Grunger. Don’t make me fucking sick.

This man hates you.

…is not funny. Not in the least. He’s not clever, witty or incisive. He’s not even a good public speaker. He stutters and stammers and laughs over his every inane proclamation. And he hates you, can’t you tell? While we are at it, Peter Kay, Britain’s favourite pointer out of the fucking obvious isn’t funny, either.

This man is:

Jerry Sadowitz

…and he hates you, too.
With apologies to Ray Peacock and rib-faced-toddler-tickler Ed Gamble.

Be seeing you…