Wednesday, December 28, 2005

WHATEVER

POST-XMAS ANALYSIS

Do you know all I wanted for Xmas? Not much - just for the entire population of Southern England to STAY AT HOME and keep out of my fucking path. Oh people, what CUNTISHNESS I've had to endure in the past week. Half these morons aren't fit to be let past their front doors. Blokes with vomit down their jumpers, going "I LUGGHH YOU" to drunken ugly secretaries on the last tube home. And families with little children! What the fuck are they doing on the tube at 11.30pm? They should be in bed, parents and all....

That's it, I'm taking driving lessons and buying a car, the destruction of the environment is a meagre price to pay for escaping close proximity to these scum. And some nice entertainment on the telly, eh? "Nazi Holocaust On The Buses" - two 45-year old twats pretending to be 20 and getting up to 'hilarious' japes, like swapping Zyklon B for laughing gas and lacing the kommandant's sauerkraut with laxatives. That's a fine film to show to the family, to celebrate the birth of our saviour! Ah, it makes awful fool of the real Christmas....

((Speaking of which, do all these wankstains who dress as nazis at fetish clubs realise that, rather than oozing darkly sleazy, 'Night Porter'-style decadence, they ACTUALLY look like Reg Varney and his dodo mate? The stumpy, 'sexually liberated' FUCKS))

CONFESSIONS OF AN IMMIGRATION OFFICER

So, as soon as the government privatised the UK's border control service, I set up me own security firm and submitted a tender for a contract to process immigration claims. And whaddya know, I bagged it! I brought in me brother-in-law, Timmy, to help out. "Now Timmy", I says to him, "You'd better not cock this one up. This could be our big break, and I'm damned if I'll let you piss it up the wall for us!". "Don't worry Sid, you can count on me!" he says. I mean, the greasy little bleeder only ends up knobbing all the Ugandan Asian birds, forgets to stick the brakes on the transit van and then goes and loses a kilo of Bolivian marching powder...


SPECIALIST SMUT SUGGESTIONS

Novelist / stand-up funnyman Stewart Home once observed that it's difficult to find specialist porn that features the kind of girls you'd really like to see. He was right. I'd really like to see a jazz mag called "Rollerdisco Squaw" which would be Red Indian* girls in full warpaint and feathers, photographed skating around to Chic...or reclining in the nip, showing off their lurid yellow and blue wheelieboots (I think that's the technical term?). Incidentally, if anybody does produce a mag like this, please contact me immediately, as I'd definitely be interested in making a purchase.

Or else you could have a 'cricket domination'-themed mag, with icy dominas, clad in knee-padding, tying their slaves to wicket stumps and pelting them with balls, though I haven't really thought this one through and don't like it as much as the skating squaws idea.

((* - I realise the term 'Red Indians' isn't considered 'right on' these days, but let me ask you - if YOU were a bunch of murderous cowboy scumbags who'd just shot a load of the Sioux at Wounded Knee and were sitting back at your ranch, cooking beans and listening to Johnny Cash, and a load of dustclouds suddenly appeared in the hills, what would scare you more? "LOOK SAH, RED INDIANS, HUNDREDS OF 'EM!" Or "LOOK SAH**, NATIVE AMERICANS!" Does "RED INDIANS" not imply SCALPINGS, MYSTERIOUS TOTEM POLES, TOMAHAWKS IN THE EYE? Revenge, rage, WAR WHOOPS? Whereas "NATIVE AMERICANS" just makes you wanna say, "Oh, Roger, tell the therapist to cancel his day off.."

Anyway, I was always the Red Indian [voluntarily, and proudly so too] in infant school fights - sometimes the only one, against a whole bunch of cowboys, with only Sheilagh 'the squaw' cheering me on - so fuck off))

(((** - I have no idea why these cowboys spoke like British soldiers at Rorke's Drift)))

RESIST PSYCHIC DEATH!

Are illnesses really hereditary? The big killer in my family's always been Alzheimer's. Now, you might say 'Forewarned is forearmed', and that I should be eating loads of bananas or tomatoes or whatever fruit 'n' veg combo it is that overpaid scientists reckon staves off this cruel affliction (or is it sardines?), but I just can't see myself avoiding it. I think my sister's starting to show premature signs already. Ah, what the fuck, I won't remember any of it anyhow. And repetition is a mark of distinction. (BTW, can you please NOT drag up "Repetition" by The Fall)

Just in case I do get it really early on, can you, humble readers, do me a favour? I want "Isn't It Grand Boys" by Tommy Makem and the Clancy Brothers played at my funeral. I don't care if the lyrics are 'too obscene' for the inside of a church, or if my family objects (which they surely will, for the sake of an argument), just get it sorted. Also, when they actually slot me into the slow roast, I want Girls Aloud thrown in (alive) and cremated with me. Not cos I believe that they'll ascend with me to the Happy Hunting Ground and be my eternal wandering companions. I think the technical term is "for spite".

I dunno - have you seen these Royal Institution Xmas lectures on the TV? A load of scientists mouthing off to bored, impossibly well-behaved schoolkids about neutrons or nutrition or whatever. Every year, I fantasise about the invites being sent out, mistakenly, to a school for problem kids, and the squirts running riot on set, setting fire to curtains with Bunsen Burners, chalking words like FUCK and WANKERS on the blackboard, and generally going apeshit. It never happens, though. Still, maybe one year. I just hope I'm able to register what's going on when it does eventually kick off.

AND THE CUNT OF THE YEAR WAS.....

I just have to mention one pub incident which was the fucking funniest thing I've seen in a long time - some nobhead came into a pub in East Croydon and started going up to everyone in the bar, individually, saying, "Do you blame the weather, or do you blame the weathermen?", and then smiling inanely, with a pleased look on his face. He riled four people (including me - why is it always during my round?). The fifth person punched him.
Comments:
Jesus, Martin, how can you live like this? Move! To another country! You know, like Thailand! What's holding you back? Nothing! Buy a ticket and go.
 
Yes, but even in Thailand I end up gravitating towards places like the Forensics Museum at Siriraj Hospital or filth-sodden bars like Angel Witch (incidentally, if you ever want to see a cross between 'The Devil Rides Out', 'Vampira', 'Top of the Pops Glam Rock Special' and a really rubbish porn film, this is the place to go). What I really need is money, and lots of it. Then I'll happily disappear into the blue yonder - never to return!
 
"That's it, I'm taking driving lessons and buying a car"

...Don't do it Martin, cars are overrated, I assure you. Can of sardines queing along the highway in +40*C degrees, aggression, heat, mental breakdown, murder.

July:
Tip-toe barefoot along the glass-stained park lawn then steal a pushbike from the nearest crack addict/kid. Summer here we come.
 
Yes, but think of the advantages ; you can gun down on the approach to Buckingham Palace, wait for the American tourists to venture out on the road, assuming you'll politely brake for them, and then slam on your horn, screaming 'BANZAI!' and watch them throw themselves in different directions to escape imminent death.

Other advantages - you can play Creedence Clearwater Revival's "Bad Moon Rising" and The 5 6 7 8s' "I'm Blue" really loud as you speed through a mixture of Republican and Loyalist towns on a drive from Bushmills to Sligo. And then do that whole Smiley Culture "Step out of the mot-ah!" thing. And crash through gates. And stop at bus stops when you see a pretty girl on her way to an Oriental cookery class and give her a lift.

Sorry, you haven't convinced me! We appear to have reached that golden, apocalyptic moment of transition when BTi diverges from the general consensus of the blogosphere - I seriously want a car now! 4 wheels good, 2 wheels bad! And a Ford Capri! Critical Mass, your days are numbered!
 
Though it goes without saying most other people should have their licenses revoked.
 
cool, but i'd rather trod off with some nice pedestrian fellow,
offering to show me directions to anorak international/music and video exchange,
than hop into the filthy backseat of some suspicious volvo driver ogling my bosom area and blasting obscene 80's ragga tunes...
 
You are very strange woman!
 
no...just crossed paths with some scary, scary mothafuckas... :(

arr, irony is difficult- happy new year, anyway! skol...

(did you know i was approached by a drunken Pop Group fan in Tokyo, rambling incomprehensibly about your blog?
...the information age manifesting itself in the strangest ways!
anyway someone should've told him that Ali G-style whiskers and unwashed dreads don't go too well together if you're dribbling down your Bukowski hooligan shirt
 
We'll all be laughing at you - stuck in traffic, sober, while we're in the pub, Martin.

And then when you show up we'll be really nice so we can cadge lifts home off you.

This is the fate of the London driver. :-)
 
Yes, BTi is popular in Japan for unfathomable reasons - there's a load of hardcore 'Implode' chapters, who assemble at Harajuku Park on Sunday afternoons, dressed as 1970s Millwall hooligans and Bogside teenagers,and hang around blowing smoke rings and being polite. Did that bloke have a beret and smell a bit, cos I once met a Pop Group fan in Tokyo and it might be the same bloke.

What's all this anti-car talk? Call yourselves revolutionaries?? "OK Ulrike, you take the Datsun for das getaway while me and Gudrun hold up the bank" "Oh,but Andreas, I cannot drive! Can we not take the strasserbahn?" PAH
 
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