Tuesday, March 29, 2011


The Olympics. Of all the sporting tournaments on God's earth, this is the one that probably brings us closest together. Everyone remembers their first Olympics. Shit, everyone remembers the first Olympics, back when Pan cheated at dominoes and some teenage doxy got turned into a bag of onions. Rich or poor, black or white, atheist or mormon - regardless of our differences, the Olympic Flame burns brightly in each and every heart.

With that said, I recall a grand total of three people I've met, over the course of 34 years, who actually gave a fig about the Olympics:

1) Mr Smith (real name), the repulsive PE pervert who used to get off on spanking small boys with a plastic rounders bat, while simultaneously lobbing a million spanners into the entire theory of 'evolution'. This red-faced cunt, who also liked 'Northern Soul', would scream utterly incomprehensible obscenities in our faces, such as "I'M NOT ASKING YOU TO BE BOB BEEMAN, BUT STOP ACTING LIKE A SPASTIC!" ((to this day, I'm grateful that I have no fucking clue who Bob Beeman is, and I spit on whatever Olympic trinkets 'Bob' did or didn't win)). Proof of this cuckold's miserable sadism was the lengthy essays he'd force us to write whenever we were caught skiving in the boiler room. These would inevitably ((so as not to tax the fuckwit's dying brain cells)) be based on the starter line, "THE FIVE BEST THINGS ABOUT THE OLYMPIC GAMES ARE...". In truth, all we had to do was fill 2 sides of A4 with "THE FIVE BEST THINGS ABOUT THE OLYMPIC GAMES ARE THE FIVE BEST THINGS ABOUT THE OLYMPIC GAMES ARE THE FIVE BEST OLYMPICS ABOUT THE GAMES THINGS ARE", etc, because the dipstick couldn't read and just threw our work in the bin anyway.

2) The mentally ill Kiwi woman who I had the misfortune to share a flat with in Bethnal Green in 2004. She would wake up at the crack of dawn, plonk herself yoga-style on the sofa, turn on the BBC's Olympic coverage and literally not move until midnight. How is it possible to be interested in every sport under the sun? I suspect this madness was actually a ploy to stop me and the Australian girl from watching Hollyoaks when we got back from work. ((Also, for a so-called 'sports lover', the passive-aggressive Kiwi witch used to sulk and bang pots around noisily if I ever had the audacity to flick on the football)). As a result of this month of invasive gymnastic bullshit, I grew to wish BBC sports presenter Clare Balding nothing less than an impromptu , unmarked grave.

The Kiwi twat once went into a sanctimonious rant about how, seeing as I didn't vote, I didn't have the right to criticise the government. I asked her if she knew the name of her chosen party's education secretary. She suddenly went off on a tangent, bringing up dead WW2 soldiers and how they'd given their lives for my right to vote, etc. I tried to point out that they were probably more worried about their own impending fate should some mental, one-bollocked nazi have managed to stamp his jackboot over the entire globe, but I soon gave up and went out for a pint. Let's face it, if you'd transported the 1930s/40s unions to the march last Saturday, you'd now have anarchists complaining how their peaceful protests were overshadowed by the horrific violence in Hyde Park.

3) Some guy who worked at a company I was at, who owned no music. Seriously! He liked "all sorts of music", but didn't own a single CD. I guess it's no surprise then that he uncritically liked "all sorts of sport" and probably dug a Brazil shirt out of his wardrobe every four years. He was a sycophant and a pub bore.

As for the Games themselves...I remember precisely the following five events:

* The time somebody planted a bomb at one in the US
* The time the PLO shot the Israeli team in 1972 ((and I only remember that 'cos of a documentary about it, years later))
* The time that Irish woman cheated by taking drugs in a swimming pool. Or she didn't, I can't remember now...
* The Japanese Judo team who won
* The time Baxter caught Tucker Jenkins hiding in the gym 'horse', perving at girls

I mean, what else happened? Who cares? It's just the non-musical equivalent of the Proms. The football games are rubbish - even complete trivia anoraks who've memorised everything about Cowdenbeath's friendlies between 1960-2010 know bugger all about what happened at Olympics matches. Watching 17-year olds with 6-year olds' bodies, who haven't eaten in 12 months, prancing around with ribbons and circus swings is even worse than Minipops - at least the kid pretending to be matey from Imagination was funny. Weightlifting is unwatchable crap, the poor man's version of those 'World's Strongest Men' contests, where that Icelandic guy used to roar, "I'M NOT A BLOODY ESKIMO! I'M A VIKING!" before going bright red and nearly killing himself dragging an HGV over a distance of 10 metres. I blame fencing for our 'health and safety gone mad' culture. I mean, there's a button on the end of your sword - why the facemask? Every now and then they stick on some 'wacky' new sport that we're all meant to go nuts over - like sumo wrestling. Sorry, but I remember fat kids fighting at school, and it was a hell of a lot more entertaining than that tedious crap. As for swimming - look, I swam 2,000m for Help The Aged once ((or was it 1,600m? 800m? I can't remember, go with 2,000m)) and I promise you, you don't need a nose clip. A waste of resources and tonnes of stupid gadgets you don't really need, that's the Games in a nutshell. Ban the bastards.

Sunday, March 27, 2011


Scenes of savage, mindless anarcho-violence on Piccadilly yesterday. You do wish, though, that the BBC could have talked to the ageing couple with the Unison flag, who remained in the throng outside Fortnum & Mason throughout three police charges. Or the bloke with the two pre-teen girls, who were both so terrified by the ordeal that they...giggled and talked to each other. Or the shop staff on Piccadilly who, in a state of pants-wetting terror, left their doors open, allowing customers to walk in and out. Or the constant stream of 'normals' pouring from the tube station, walking around the burning placards, and casually asking what was going on. Or the tourist girls taking pictures of themselves against the Piccadilly billboard, unperturbed by the sinister Black Bloc youth who...gave them directions, temporarily removing his muzzle of HATE. Or the lone guy with the Communist Party flag, who was summarily HARANGUED by rabid anarchists who...completely left him alone. Or the people posing for their snapshots in front of the line of riot cops ((OK, sneer about collaborating with the tools of the state, but they DO make cool pics - weirdly enough, I saw a cop sticking his thumb up for one of the photos...)). Or the blonde girl with the Harrods bag and her parents, who simply picked their way through the mob, only to be mercilessly....IGNORED. Or the diners in the restaurant who chomped away, polishing off their fish and chips as they watched us through the window. Or the girl running the ice cream stall, who was so paralysed with fear she had no choice but to stay there...

As for the ammonia...the overpowering, pungent stench of...oh, I dunno, I couldn't smell it. Tell you something for nothing though - those orange smoke bombs smell rank.

A real night of terror. A thug in a black ski mask bumped against me, threw his head back, and said 'Sorry, mate'. I've been subjected to more hostile jostling on the Victoria Line at 8.45am.

Actually, the only time that any of the folks above looked worried were when the old bill suddenly threw themselves forward, unprovoked, and sent columns of protesters scattering. But that's how they operate. It doesn't make me angry, doesn't even surprise me. You can chant Your job's next! at them 'til you're hoarse, but they'll never get it.

Then, switching on internet radio later, a taxi driver rings into a BBC call-in show, claiming that he was so scared 'his hands were still shaking', because five masked kids had sat in front of his taxi. Obviously the luckiest cabbie on Christ's earth, never having had to eject a raving, drunk idiot or violent late-night piss-taker from the back seat. Which leads me to the question - what sort of wimps are we all meant to be, these days? Where was all this FEAR? Some banks, clothes stores and upper class food vendors need a scrub and some new glass, and that's about all that the anarchists did yesterday. No tourists kicked to death. Nobody put in immediate danger ((except for when the police drove a van through the crowd at Oxford Circus, or waved their truncheons around like blind drunks attempting to smash a pinata)) ((actually, one of UK Uncut could have fallen off the roof at F&M and crushed someone @UKhealthandsafety)). The BBC is essentially suggesting that this basic level of vandalism petrifies YOU, the London citizen. It scares you, and you need to be protected from it. Now, how big does that make you feel?

((In other news: the Subhumans might have sucked, but their skull logo still makes a great addition to the back of any leather jacket))

Wednesday, March 23, 2011


John 'Boy' Eden once stood up in a hall full of Germans, sipped some lukewarm water and solemnly intoned: "Every time you apologise for a lack of blog posts...a fairy dies!" Well, that's pretty hip-to-the-jive, daddy-o, but what about good old-fashioned MANNERS? Answer me that. Heavy manners...that's what the world needs today. Otherwise you'd just have CIA-backed Islamist cats and rats stuffing gullible youths to the gills with halluco-drugs, destabilising honest-to-God socialist democracies and squatting the Gaddafis' gaffs! Incidentally, you really should check out a copy of today's Star. Apparently, Mad Dog's gone on the run with 40 virgins. I was wondering when his all-grrrl ninja hit squad would finally make an appearance in this fiasco. It's also cool that the Star got its pix of the grrrls via Google Search ((I only know this 'cos they're the first pics that came up when I googled 'GADDAFI GIRL BODYGUARDS' for some joke post on BTi about the geezer looking like Charlie Harper, about 3 years ago)).

I've been playing this new online game called 'TWIT-AARGHHH' recently. You have to enter 140-character tweets and, if you get re-tweeted by 10 people, you win a Libyan dinar. The best way of bagging the loot is to repeat, ad vomitorium, some witty political comment that hardly anyone disagrees with. For instance, you could tweet: "HMS CUMBERLAND COSTS 90K A DAY IN LIBYA CONFLICT - NHS CUTS, WE GET YA!" and you're guaranteed at least 5 re-tweets. Well, that's how it works in our corner of the blogosphere; if you wanna follow Mariah Carey, I guess any old shit about praying for Japan or winged rainbow-chasing unicorns will do. Smiley Culture's tragic demise also highlighted the sheer dearth of material by the guy on BoobTube. After about 4,000 Police Officer tribute video links in the first hour, everyone had to switch to linking to Shan A Shan and Entertainer Entertainer to avoid looking like copycats. Incidentally, I decided to follow Obama on TweetORama, guessing that, in return, he'd re-tweet a few of my offerings and boost my player ranking. No dice - he just spent the whole time banging on about, "WE MUST ENSURE THE AMERICAN CHILD HAS ACCESS TO EVERY OPPORTUNITY FOR ADVANCEMENT," or "TRANSPARENCY IS KEY TO MAINTAINING TRUST". Word to the wise, reader - don't believe ANYONE who uses the word 'transparency', they're all fucking liars. If you could see the moral sewers flooding these clowns' homes...anyway, the world's 'most powerful man', playing online games all day...I ask you!! At least Gaddafi didn't act like some SEGA-ogling nerd.

So far, I've been re-tweeted about 11 times, which means I've earned a Libya buck and a cent. Bollocks! If you google 'BTi_Enquiries' you can follow me ((follow me, leave your homes and family, leave your fishing nets and boats upon the shore)) and stay up to date on the latest blog news. Do bear in mind tho' that, since I've been Twattering, actual blog posts have dried up to 1 a month.

Still, I'm gonna try and crank something out here in a short while, preferably before it all kicks off on Saturday. There's so much going on on the weekend, I really don't know where to head for first. Thank God I've got a GPS app now, is all I can say. Could certainly have done with one of those in the '90s - if only to find a nearby boozer, when the Workers Power crowd started hollering like Yoko Ono into their megaphones. As far as I know, Ian Bone ((once 'Britain's most dangerous man')) is sticking on a 'Tahrir Square in Hyde Park!' event and, now, the SWP have nicked the idea ((as usual!)), only relocating THEIR 'Tahrir Square' to Trafalgar Square. What's with nicking other squares' names, for fuck's sake? You don't hear the '92 Battle of Waterloo being referred to as the 'London Race to Berlin', though a proportionately equal amount of nazis got pounded as a result, and let's face it - you're not gonna get gunned down on the 26th. I just rang up Coral and they're offering 2/1 on horseback charges across Hyde Park and 1/4 on the Trafalgar Square 'Egyptians' getting kettled. Ah, Hyde Park...that was my first proper riot. You never forget your first time, especially when you're 18 and you've just left home three months before. I still don't know how I managed to hurl myself over the rails from a standing position, but may I be struck down with radiation sickness if that's a word of a lie. Actually, maybe the UK Uncut lot are a better bet - during the early afternoon at least.

And there ends my apology for not posting much.

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