What a load of bollocks but shit being the way it is we’d best be prepared for it to go through. I refuse to call them ‘little people’ so we have to think of some potential new names:

Arnolds.

Knee shiners.

Minimen.

Weenchywomen.

Hairless Ewoks. – my personal choice.

Any more? And before anyone says anything some of my best friends are midgets*

* This is a lie. Midgets creep me out like Dana in suspenders.

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Of course, if you were that way inclined, you could say ‘Right, well I’m going to climb Kilimanjaro with a dead goat strapped to my back’ or do a parachute or a bungee jump or take up stock car racing. Those are all new things to most people, I’d imagine, but they require a lot of effort and planning and who needs that?

So it was with great pleasure I did something last week that I had never done before in my entire life:

I pissed on a ladybird.

In all my years I had never done that. It was before a game of football and I went to relieve myself over at the far corner of the pitch where a big metal fence was. I began the pissation and realised there was a ladybird crawling around on the fence.

A little voice in my head said ‘Hey, you’ve never pissed on a ladybird before. This might be your only chance to ever do that because if you set out to do it chances are you’d never create the circumstance in which it might happen. Go for it’.

So, realising that I had been slightly fortuitous I directed the stream of urine onto the ladybird. It didn’t seem to mind, to be honest. I guess it was just like heavy, pungent rain.

I completed the unrination, the ladybird shook itself off and went on its way. I played football. An everyday occurance but one which followed something unusual and rather splendid.

I don’t know what I’m going to do next that I haven’t done before. I don’t think you should plan these things. An opportunity will arise and you will have to decide if you’re going to take it or not.

Me, I’m taking it. I quite fancy pooing on a scorpion but that might just be a bit dangerous.

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I can do this in the dark, in the dark whilst as drunk as a lord, in the dark whilst as drunk as a lord and as stoned as a goat, in the dark whilst as drunk as a lord and as stoned as a goat whilst wearing my eye mask, in the dark whilst drunk as a … you get the idea.

It’s a journey well travelled. One which holds no surprises, although sometimes if I let Bastardface sleep in the kitchen he might wake up, give a gruff woof and momentarily startle me.

Last night was one of those nights. I’d stayed up late watching episodes of 30 Rock and practising going out of doors backwards doing the robot. There was wine, some more wine, then some beer, more robot and I got a bit hungry so went to the fridge. I discovered that when you open those vacuum packed steaks that it is necessary to eat them both at the same time. They will not keep. The smell of slighty turning meat put me off real food so I ate a packet of Reese’s Pieces things that I got in Aldi the other day.

The steak I gave to Bastardface. He scoffed it like Mary Harney scoffs her two breakfasts each morning. Anyway, there was more drinking and watching and eventually I got tired and headed for bed. Bastardface was such good company I decided to let him sleep in the kitchen after letting him out the back for his nightly ablutions. All was well.

After so much to drink I woke at around 6am with a pressing need to have a great big slash. I went out the bedroom door, into the hall, opened the door to the kitchen, went through the kitchen, Bastardface gave a little woof, all was normal. That was until I went into the back hall, and as I was kind of going on auto-pilot I did not notice the series of gone-off-meat-powered turds that littered the floor until I stood in one. In my bare feet.

“Bleurrggh!”, I think I exclaimed as I lifted my eye mask and promptly stood in another one with my other foot.

“Bastardface, what have you done?”, I said ridiculously as I knew exactly what he had done. He lifted his head somewhat sheepishly from the mat in the corner of the kitchen and watched me as I tried to make it to the bathroom, walking on my heels, so as not to get more poo on the floor.

I sat in the shower, hosed the brown goo from the soles of my feet and from between my toes, had a piss, then set about cleaning the mess that the dog had made. Fifteen minutes later, with the back door wide open to let some fresh air in, I had finished. Not a particularly pleasant way to start any day.

I wandered back through the kitchen as I made my way back to bed. I looked at the dog. He looked at me. I shook my head. He raised his eyebrows at me. I knew what he was saying. “Hey, sorry for the mess old chap, but if you will give me a gone off steak just before bedtime then you can’t really blame me”.

True that.

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I wish I could say it was unbelievable. The sooner we get a chance to kick these cunts up the hole in a general election the better.

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Anyway, it’s just time-filling, cheap as shit radio.

Also websites that have an article that makes you click three or four pages to read it all when it could easily fit on one. Click whoring sons of cunts.

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Anyway, as I leave the work area and head towards the stairs, which I must descend in order to get out, there is an attic opening kind of thing at the top of the stairs. From that attic opening pokes out a set of metal steps, which I’m sure turn into a handy kind of ladder when extended.

However, each time I pass by I can see the steps extend of their own volition, extending, rushing towards the very centre of my forehead with which they connect at great speed and with a sound that I can hear clearly in my head. I don’t quite know how to describe it – imagine the sound you hear when you hit your head off the ground (the bit just before the horrible taste in the back of your nose) combined with the noise of standing on a snail or a pistachio shell.

So far the steps have remained in position. A metal turtle’s tail to the roof anus that lies above. Yet each week brings my inevitable doom ever closer.

One day … one day.

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Yesterday on the old Twitter I opined that if I could do away with one celebrity in this world it’d be Jamie Foxx. I hate him, I hate his face, I hate his voice, I hate his two Xs, I get cross just looking at him. He is, unquestionably, history’s greatest monster.

So, if you had a free one, who would it be?

And no, I can’t think of anything more cheery to write about. Well I can but celebrities being killed is a lot more interesting.

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They like nothing more than to have a good rummage around up there before wiping their bogies on their pants, or in the case of some, consuming with relish. And by relish I mean gusto and glee and not some tomato based sauce.

I’ve got a friend who, at the moment, has no sense of smell at all. He had a bit of a head injury, you see, and at the moment he doesn’t smell or taste anything. Which must be a bit crap. What’s for dinner tonight? ‘Crunchy’. Awesome.

Smells can remind you of places and people. For example, if you’re abroad on holiday and it’s a warm place and you pass an open bin in the midday sun the smell would put you in mind of Dirty Dave’s sitting room. Occasionally one can have a poo and you can detect the subtle frangrances of the food that constitutes said poo, like a wine expert sniffing out the fruit scents of a Chianti.

But the hair. The hair is the most extraordinary thing about the nose. It strikes me that all this focus on chemical solutions for baldness are a waste of time. All one needs to do is transplant nose hair into the head and from there great wild tufts of the stuff will grow at an alarming rate.

Give it a buzz cut and within a week you’ll have two inch long hair again. It’s amazing. All the various methods I have used to keep such hair in trim are practically useless. I have a nose hair trimmer/strimmer, I can yank great tussocks off the stuff out between my thumb and forefinger, and in no time at all in the inside of my nose is like a werewolf’s gooch again.

My new project is to collect all the hair that sprouts from my nose, keep it bagged, then fill a cushion with it. Then when someone comes to my house and says ‘Goodness, what a comfortable cushion this is’, I can say ‘Yes, it’s made from my nasal hair, you know’ and then there’ll be that awesome moment when they laugh because they think I’m joking only to realise that I’m not.

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You can then be suspicious about many of those reduces prices being increased on the sly.

You can accuse them, quite rightly, of ditching 100s of Irish suppliers to bring in cheaper goods from the UK. Not good for our economy and a good reason not to shop there.

But the worst thing about Tesco has got to be the shops themselves. There’s just this sense of grime and filth about them. As if existing on the edges of another, filthier dimension. Think about it, if you were in a Tesco and there was some kind of mysterious storm indoors, the lights went out, leaving only emergency lighting, and all the staff became zombies and started lurching around after you trying to eat your brains would you be even the slightest bit surprised?

Not me. And that’s the main reason I never shop there. I like my brains in my head and not in the mouth of some spotty shelf-stacker who stinks of Red Bull and John Player Blue.

Some places speak distinctly.  Certain dank gardens cry aloud for a murder; certain old houses demand to be haunted; certain coasts are set apart for shipwrecks. – Robert Louis Stevenson

And so it is with Tesco. The shops offend my senses, they make my skin crawl, I believe something fetid and foul exists within each one of them.

Even the discount German supermarkets, with their frozen lamb chops and low-fat malk, don’t come close.

Of course it’s up to you. If you want to risk it, who am I to tell you not to? But think about your brains getting caught between the teeth of the shelf-stacker. Or in the gap where his front tooth should be. Which he then pokes out with his skidmarked finger.

Bleurgh. I’d rather fucking starve than shop there.

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According to him the whole country was in a state of denial. The whole country. Of course he has surveyed them all, because he has super-awesome, know-it-all powers.

Of these 250,000 only 20% are in treatment which begs the question how they know how many others there are out there.

Then some professor dude came on and spoke about how alcoholism wasn’t just alcoholism any more, you had to include alcohol dependency. Which is a ’syndrome’. Now, I’m not one of those people who thinks alcoholism is a disease. It’s a terrible thing for those that suffer from it but it’s not a disease. A syndrome sounds a bit better but it’s still a bit wanky.

But if we go round saying that around 6% of the entire population of the country are alcoholics then all kinds of madness will ensue. We won’t know which 6% of people are drunkards. Is it your doctor? Your taxi driver? Your best friend? Your best friend’s girlfriend (who used to be mine)?

People will grow suspicious and view each other through narrowed eyes and that’s not a good look. We’re not a beautiful enough people to pull it off. I reckon they’re just trying to scare people to sign up for AA and such.

Stinking Pete thought he had a drinking problem and decided to go to AA. He did the first two of the 12 steps then told them to go fuck themselves when he was required to hand his life over to God. Why replace one crutch with another, he thought.

And has nobody considered that 12 steps are a bit too fucking complicated? All this give yourself over to a higher power shite. And the added time it takes to complete 12 steps when all you really need are two.

The Brand New 20m 2 step program for AA:

1 – Stop drinking

2 – Don’t start drinking ever again (but if you do just have the odd one and don’t get to the point where you’re skulling two bottles of Tesco value vodka before lunchtime. Should you reach that point please see step 1).

Fucking simple.

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