David Cameron – What CAN we do??

David Cameron – What CAN we do??


All over my news feed this morning is stuff about our Prime Minister who’s family have been dodging taxes for generations.

Of course, that’s after you get around the deflection by the press, who are trying to make me feel angry that some pointless Russian kid called Putin is doing the same! So fucking what? He can do whatever the fuck he wants to, as long as he’s not living on my street!

But Cameron, who also voiced his outrage at Jimmy Carr for being “morally wrong” in his tax avoidance a while back, appears to be doing exactly the same.

I honestly can’t even be arsed to point out how and where this is all so wrong.

You know.

They know.


And you all know of my utter contempt for politics because they’re not there for us. They never will be until we pay the lot of them minimum wage… Ok, some work hard – let’s cap their maximum wage at £25,000 to be fair.

But I digress. We all know that we need to do something about it.

But what CAN we do?

Wait another 4 years until we can try and vote the fat cunts out to be replaced by more fat cunts who are also only in it for themselves? Ooh – that’ll scare them!

We can refuse to, err… buy stuff? Err… err…

Yeah, that’s right – we can’t do a fucking thing about it. Suck it up, losers!

So I’m just going to have this rant, and then I’ll go back to work hard to earn money so that I can afford to live in a house that I’m never actually IN, because I’m at fucking WORK!!!

What. The. Fuck?

And then I look at the ‘Top News Stories’ and what do I see about all this??

Loch Ness Monster, Caroline Flack (?? Is that Nessie’s real identity??), and Britney ‘fucking’ Spears. Because we don’t want to give a shit about anything important, do we?

Maybe I should just write an angry letter?


Return of the Duck Face

Return of the Duck Face


It’s been a while since I actually wrote a full-on ranty blog. It’s not because I haven’t had anything to rant about – more because I couldn’t be arsed, and am happy to see the daily views ticking over from you pervs reading my erotic stories.

Anyway, sneaking a look over someone’s shoulder earlier today, I was pleased to discover them flicking through a few pics of a rather good looking Facebook friend.

Or she WOULD have been good-looking, except every picture looked like this:

My initial thought was “What in the blue-waffled FK are you doing???”

Had I stumbled onto the promotional manager for the new Zoolander film, trying shit out??

Maybe I was witnessing a rare cancer of the lips, or someone who’d had some kind of -ing accident with an airtight sandwich grill??

No – it seems that the duck face/trout pout trend is still going strong.

A quick look through some other peoples pics showed more of the same.

Now, I know I’m not up with current trends and fashions, so maybe I should give the benefit of the doubt here?

Are there people out there who do find this look attractive??

There must be some reason why women do this in the first place?  I mean, you looked great until you started doing that crazy shit with your mouth!  And I don’t mean THAT crazy shit…

Are you looking at your selfie (with obligatory toilet, Anal Glide or abandoned toddler in the background), and actually seeing something else through your poor, slack (to hide the wrinkles) eyes?

Just SMILE, you knobs!

Maybe I should also categorise this blog under ‘erotica’ so you duck-billed wankers can jerk off to that, too?

The New V-Twin Beast

The New V-Twin Beast

With Winter drawing in, frosty mornings, and my GPZ500 not entirely making it through its MOT test, I was offered a bike from a mate at a price I couldn’t refuse.

So I took the GPZ off the road last week in favour of my new sensible Winter bike:

Yes, it’s a Honda VTR Firestorm.  1000cc of filthy great V-twin hairy-chested bastardness!

It wasn’t without pain – very shortly after buying the bike, before I’d had a chance to get it up to speed, I had what I thought was a sudden box full of neutrals.  After pulling over, and walking a long way back down the road, I found the chain:

I’ve never seen a chain break on the roller pin before!  Luckily it went straight off the back of the sprocket, rather than through my leg, or the engine, or the head of anyone behind me…

A new chain sorted that out, and I got my first taste of a big twin.

It’s a bit like riding a horse!  It sort of gallops along lazily.  It’ll plod along sounding like Mr T on a treadmill, but then you look down and you’re in three figure speeds!

It’s very strange.

It only revs to about 9,500, but will just saunter up to the limiter in any gear at any time in a constant barrage of power – and I’m talking from 2000 rpm here!  It just doesn’t feel or sound like it’s getting there quickly, but it bloody well is!

In fact, I did read that when it was released, it was the fastest ever bike 0-60mph.  I’d believe it.

There’s not much up the top end, and it’ll run out of steam over 140mph – but maybe that will be a bit safer for my licence!

And it sounds like The Devil!  The vibrations from the twin Micron race cans would even terrify Jenna Haze or Stoya.  Proper porno power!  I feel like I should have more chest hair and a medallion!

So that brings me to the handling.

Well, it’s December, and around freezing most of the time – and then towards the end of the week, it rained.

It was hard to say much about the handling, because it’s on damned Pirelli Super Corsas with less tread than a Mumbai taxi!  The bike pretty much tried to murder me at every opportunity!

The first I knew was pulling onto the road one morning in the rain, letting off the throttle gently and weaving like a hooker walking down the aisle!

I visited several bike shops on Saturday, all of who pissed themselves laughing at my when I said what tyres the bike sat outside on the icy road was wearing!

Thankfully, the last one was where I swapped them for a brand new pair of Pirelli Angel GT’s.

Anyone will no I’m a massive fan of the Angel ST.  They’re flawless.  Knee-down from cold on the roads, good for Summer, Winter, snow, track days… I’m on my 4th or 5th set on my ZX9R.  The GT is supposed to be the same, but with more wet grip and even longer lasting!

Instantly, without even having had a chance to scrub them in properly, they’re better.  Loads of confidence and stability, and I’ve been able to have a bit of a play already.  The steering is much slower than the Super Corsas, but I’ll soon get used to that.

I never wanted a V-twin before, but now I seem to have got one, I’m starting to see why so many absolutely love them!

All I need now is some warm, dry roads to scrape my knees on it!

Huge Hairy Bastard Climbing In The Window!

Huge Hairy Bastard Climbing In The Window!

I was at my girlfriends parents house, in her bedroom, as we both lay on the bed, watching TV and kissing on a hot Summers night.  Umm… Just to clear this up this was me and my girlfriend – not me and her parents in her bedroom.  Anyway…

Suddenly we heard a *THUMP* sound.

I tried to ignore it, as I was hoping for some thumping of my own without the ‘T’…


We both looked towards the drawn curtains at the window, where the sound seemed to have come from, just as the curtains bulged inwards with another *THUMP*

Whoa!  Playtime over – this looked like there was somebody stood on the other side of the curtain, PUNCHING it!

She jumped up, screaming, and I got into my Close Protection mode, shielding her with my body as I got to my feet and turned to face the curtain.

Who the fuck….???

As it was her bedroom, this was upstairs, at around 10pm on a dark warm summer night. Sure, the windows were all open wide, but this was still spooky.

Being the man, I bravely told her to stay there, as I moved towards the window, flinching and dropping into a subtle stance as the *THUMP* smashed the curtain inwards again.

Then, just as I got close, something came flying around the side of the curtain!


“AARGHHHH!” I screamed bravely, accompanied by the (slightly) more shrill scream from behind me.

The biggest fucking bright red moth I have ever seen in my life, was now flapping about the bedroom!

This was bigger than my fist – I shit you not!  He was so big I could virtually see him wearing a charity wristband with “I HATE HUMANS” emblazoned across it.  And this fucker could seriously use some a back, sack and crack wax!

The wench behind me had gone hypersonic, as this moth bounced around, leaving huge clouds of red hair every time it hit something. I dodged, trying to stay calm and act like my girl’s Protector, and wondered how the hell I was going to sort this situation out?  And I hate moths!

“KILL IT!!!!!!!!” she screamed at me, resolving one problem.  Shit, she must have been scared if she was bypassing her usual ‘catch and release’ approach to creepy crawlies (and boyfriends, as it turned out) .  So Death it was.  I caught the Red Barron with several hard right crosses, knocking it out the air, but it would get up and come diving straight back at us, like some little red, hairy Rocky!

I’ve seen pretty big moths on David Attenborough programs, and this was a match for any I’d seen on there, but FFS this is ENGLAND!  This shit was about ten times bigger than anything I’d come face to face with, even in Zoo’s!!!!


One blow knocked it down, and it started flapping around underneath her bed, making a hell of a racket with it’s wings. Still being the Wind-Up Merchant, I announced she’d be fine now and that I was going home!  Job done.

She didn’t find that half as funny as me.

After much more screaming, I felled the beast, trying not to hit it too hard, because that was a lot of ass to splatter! Then I was forced to pick the carcass up, using a JCB crane, and I chucked it back out of the window.

Unfortunately, by the morning it had gone… so no pictures or identification, and nobody else would probably believe the size of that behemoth (ha!).  Apart from some lucky cat/fox/hedgehog who got a free lunch…

Daddy Long Legs Plague!

Daddy Long Legs Plague!

This is a re-post from a blog I wrote way back in 2006(!?!).  There isn’t a current plague, but if one happens after this, rest assured that it was me who predicted it, I’m ace, and you should tell everyone.

I’ve just had a bit of a chat in my lunch break where the subject of Daddy Long Legs came up – I stated that they are totally pointless creatures, whose only reason for existence is to fly around dangling their legs over your face and freaking you out.  That reminded me of this rant I once had, when these buggers were EVERYWHERE one Summer.  Enjoy!


Yes, it’s Official (err, because I’ve said it) – there is current plague in the UK of Daddy Longlegs!
The gangly-dangly-legged buggers are all over the shop! They’ve obviously discovered some kind of Viagra, or their TV sets have packed up, or something, because they’ve been shagging more than a $2 hooker at a stag night.And why do they want to get in your house so badly? Any tiny window open and they storm it like a scene from Braveheart! It’s not like they do much when they get inside, either – they just flop around trying to drag their legs over your face, then sit on the wall doing bugger all! Maybe they are trying to watch your TV…

They could at least try and be entertaining. Or even be a bit more lively!I mean, come on! One out of ten for effort!If they had voices, they’d have little whiny ones moaning about how it’s too hot, too cold, too far etc…

And I’d be the first to tell them to shut their bug-eyed, tiny-gobbed, horse-nosed faces!

Perhaps if they stung or bit it’d spice them up? But no – if you even try to grab them, all that happens is their legs drop off! Good thinking there, Lanky! Great defense!

The only thing they are good for is feeding all the spiders up so there’s loads of them in Extra Large Fat Bellied Size this year – and we don’t thank you for that, you dopey bastards!So here’s to the Daddy Long Legs – feeble giver-upper of the insect world:


Some info from Wikipedia (link now changed from original posting) – check these names out!!!:
Crane flies (Tilupidae) are a family of insects resembling giant mosquitoes. Like the mosquito, they are in the order Diptera (flies). They are sometimes called mosquito eaters, lollygaggers, gallinippers, gollywhoppers, chicken flies, mosquito hawks, leather jackets, Jimmy Spinners or skeeter eaters. Crane flies are also popularly called Daddy longlegs along with two other species.

False Widow Spiders Want To Kill Me!

False Widow Spiders Want To Kill Me!

It’s been a while since you had anything spidery from me, so let’s address it.

Over the last few years, whilst our newspapers were filled with horror stories about Deadly False Widow spiders invading the UK, I’ve been spotting them all over my house.

When mowing my lawn, I had a very suspicious bite on my arm, that looked very spidery, and itched for months, with the spread of the poison being visible over about half of my arm.

I’d seen a few small False Widows around the place, and figured they’re a bit runty compared to the House Spiders tromping around the place, so wasn’t too worried.  Yeah, they’re poisonous, but I didn’t die, and the press greatly exaggerate this kind of panic-inducing stuff.

Around 6 months ago I discovered a filthy great False Widow living in my garage.


I call him Nelson Mandela.

What the pictures don’t show, is that he is HUGE for one of these spiders!  They’re not actually supposed to grow this big – but Nelson Mandela wouldn’t fit on a £2 coin in his normal squat.

This sucker must have a Hell of a bite!

I don’t know if it was Nelson Mandela that bit me before, but he must be a good few years old, and has happily claimed that half of my garage.

And look how close he is to the light switch!

You don’t want to poke him in the eye whilst fumbling around in the dark for the switch!

There was also Maggie Thatcher, who lived in our kitchen for a while.  She was less than a 10th the size of Nelson Mandela, but you could still clearly see the markings.  Sadly, she seems to have been obliterated by my fiancee, who “will not have a Tory living in our house!”

After telling how I’d seen several others in our porch, I was warned that I should probably kill them, as finding one in my bike kit might not be a great experience… I was kind-of hoping they’d eat some of the -ing people who keep leaving charity clothes selection bags in there!

So, there I was this morning, backing my bike out the garage (kept well away from Nelson Mandela), when I caught a movement out the corner of my eye.

I moved my head to look, but the movement was still in the corner of my eye.  Hanging off the side of my open visor!

“NNnghh!!” I said bravely, throwing an inside right hook, just like I learned from watching “The Fighter”.  Mark Wahlberg hadn’t been balancing a motorbike at any point of that film, however, so never had to deal with 200kg of Kawasaki falling sideways on top of him.

The swinging False Widow – let’s call this one ‘Pol Pot’ – calmly held on as his path described a nice short arc in the morning air, swinging back in at eyeball level, fangs glinting in the sun.

I quickly flipped my visor down, severing any chances Pol Pot had of clambering up to fang my iris.

And all the while Nelson Mandela was sat in the far corner of the garage, bouncing in his web from what must have been a gust of wind, but may have been from his spidery chuckling.

I sense the war of terror has begun…


After writing this blog on my lunch break, I got home and discovered another large False Widow sat in my porch.  This one is called ‘Rasputin’, and must be catching some serious sun as he’s very dark-skinned.  Pray for me, people!

Bulls Do Not Like Monkeys!!!

Bulls Do Not Like Monkeys!!!

I grew up in the small village of Alvechurch.  As a rural area, walking for 5 minutes in any direction put you in the middle of a field.


This was great as kids and is still as good today!

There are also many beautiful places I know of which are hidden away, and that makes them even more special when I reveal them to new people in my life.  Of course, they were also great places to go and get pissed/stoned/build fires etc.

One day I was with my mate in one of our favourite haunts.  We’d had a few, and were in good spirits.  It seemed, however, that the farmer had decided to put a herd of around 30 bullocks into our field.


This came as a bit of a shock, but they seemed pretty nervous, and were huddled together at the top of a slope and leaving us alone.

I do a great impression of a monkey.  I caper around, screeching like a an angry chimp and flinging my arms around.  I thought this might impress the bulls.  Well it caught their attention straight away.

They all stood staring at us, and we thought it was all hilarious!  Ha ha!  Stupid bulls don’t know what to make of me!


Then they started moving towards us.

Oh shit.

Brave as we were, we decided straight away that the best plan was to run away like a pair of monkey-impersonating girls.

They sped up and broke into a canter.

Crashing between some bushes, we flung ourselves down a steep bank, still laughing at this point.  The bulls stopped at the top, drooling down over us as we carefully judged how to best get some of the trees between us and them if they decided to brave the slope.  Simple enough – if they came down we’d put a tree between us and them and hop away to freedom.

We knew they were really mad when they started stamping their feet and snorting at us!  Surely bulls only do that stuff in the movies???  I looked at my mate.  He looked back at me.  We both looked at the bulls.


Some of the bulls ran off to the sides – then we realised… THEY WERE COMING AROUND BOTH SIDES!!!

It was still funny because it was absurd, but our laughing was now tainted with a good healthy dose of Terror!

We separated, and somehow I got the short straw.  Ahead of me was a swamp.

I looked back to see filthy great snarling bulls charging towards me, and that was all I needed!

I ran into the swamp, water slopping up past my knees as I went directly through the middle, then I hit hard ground and legged it across the open ground, praying the swamp would at least slow them down!

Luckily, it did, and I made it out of the field and met back with my also-escaped mate!

So lesson learned there – Bulls do not like monkeys.

And I’m an idiot.

Faroe Islands Whaling Slaughter Is A Bunch Of Arse!

Faroe Islands Whaling Slaughter Is A Bunch Of Arse!

Anyone on Facebook will have been plagued all of a sudden by a new ‘share this’ campaign depicting the senseless slaughter of whales (actually some even call them ‘intelligent friendly dolphins’) in the Faroe Isles, near Denmark.

Firstly, whilst I agree it’s not exactly brilliant, the bullshit and propaganda in these posts pisses me off as much as the knee-jerk reactions everyone is giving it.

Here’s an example of one of the ones going around:


The bits that boil my piss to whistling point are:

1. “kill hundreds of the famous and intelligent dolphins” – you mean the WHALES that you’ve never heard of before.
2. “the main participants are young teens” – Bollocks to get the elderly knee-jerking about the violent hoodies doing this stuff.
3. “A celebration, to show that they are adults and mature” – somewhat close, in a twisted way. But still wrong and worded to shock.  See Wikipedia link here.
4. “Everyone is participating in one way or the other killing or looking at the cruelty supporting like a spectator” – Again just to shock. The whale meat is shared between each and every villager as their birth right.
5. “They’re almost extinct!” – They’re not. And this happens to about 200 whales. How many do Japan kill a year? Or the UK? Go find out.
6. “They don’t die instantly” – They are killed by their spinal cord being severed, i.e. instantly. In a very skilled and practiced way. And the whole event takes about 10 mins.
7. “And at that time the dolphins produce a grim cry like that of a new born child” – Oh do fuck off!
8. “this magnificent creature slowly dies in its own blood” – see point 6.

You can educate yourself just as easily by doing your own research.  I’d highly recommend www.snopes.com to find out what’s real and what’s been made up by ranting vegan fundamentalist religious types.

Or how about YouTube, if you can’t be arsed to read?

This video has even more about the Faroe Islands culture and traditions:

So PLEASE just shup about it.  It’s completely out of context like almost all of these ‘share me quick and save us all!!!’ posts.

And please feel free to post a link to this blog every time someone tries to make you share this again!

Stool Curling

Stool Curling

I don’t get ill very often, but with the onset of old age, when I do get ill these days it’s not a half measure.

So without going into the actual details, I had to see the Doctor the other day – something I try to avoid like, err… the Plague.

Is it just me, or has NOBODY in the last 5-10 years ever been to a doctor and been told exactly what’s wrong with them?

I don’t know anybody.  It’s always “stress” or “a virus”, and no doctor will ever seem to give you a definite answer.  I sometimes wonder if they’re scared of court cases or not even actually qualified?

“Here, have some useless tablets for a bargain £8 that won’t do a thing.  You’re welcome.”

I’ve been lucky in my 36 years to have never had anything seriously wrong with me – but this time was about to be a new experience.

They wanted a blood test and a ‘stool sample’.

I’ve done well to get this far into life without it.  I guess the next milestone will be a vet shoving his arm up my arse to play dolly with my prostate – don’t expect a blog about that one, though!

He gave me about 30 pages of paper and a plastic container, which I pocketed quickly.

When in the safety of my own home, I had a good look at the stool sample collection device that I had to use.

So it’s a small plastic tube with about a 20mm diameter.  In the screw top lid there was a blue plastic spade attached.

Now the questions started.

How the Hell do I actually use it?

I mean, on a base level I know I have to get my poo into there.  But how?  And how much?

I may have been shitting through the eye of a needle sometimes, but my rusty brown eye can’t actually SEE, so how am I going to direct some rusty brown water into a 2cm tube?

I briefly considered fashioning a funnel from paper and duct tape like I do for an oil change on my bike.

This would cut down any chance, of, well, shitting all over my own hand like an angry chimp.

But then what’s the happy blue beach spade for??  Do I get points for my artistic talent if I shape my stool into a castle?  Or build a ‘Shit in a bottle’ for them?

Maybe I should avoid any messy brown accidents and show the spade up my balloon-knot and try and scrape out something of use?

Or do I hold the blue spade under my undercarriage as I drop a bomb and hope to get a good shovel full to spoon into the container?  And if that’s like sticking your tongue out to catch the falling rain, everyone knows more of it lands in your eyes than your mouth.

Are they looking for a pebble or a rock?  What do they even need to do to it?  Should I just crap in a Transformers lunchbox and fill that baby to the brim for them to make their job easier?

Sooo many questions!

Why don’t they teach you this stuff in school???  I’d already have used the knowledge more than Pythagoras’s Theorum!

Eventually I did accomplish the task, and then just had the walk of shame to casually drop my Finger Of Fudge off in the samples box next to the receptionist.

At least it made the blood test seem enjoyable in comparison!

Humans Are Mad

Humans Are Mad

It has long since come to my attention that we, human beings, as a species, are stark raving mad.

Getting past the fact that we’re all just bloody weird creatures (some more wonderful than others), a lot of the things we do and eat and wear don’t make the slightest bit of sense.  I guess after religion stuck it’s filthy paws in and repressed our natural animal instincts, it’s not all that surprising.

Here are some of the reasons:


You look untidy… untidy… still untidy… wrap a totally useless bit of material around your neck – Oh, you must be an honourabel and dapper gentleman!

No, if this wasn’t ‘traditional’, you’d look like a dick.


WTF do we need flat clothes for?  Any hippie tells you they’re saving the world, tell them how much of the Earths natural resources they waste on ironing!

We don’t have flat bodies.  Your freshly ironed clothes stay that way for about 4 seconds until you have aq sit down, put your coat on, or move at all.  And you want to kill all the worlds baby seals for THAT?!  Shame on you!


Fling your arms around, jump up and down and move about… that’s cool!  Do it slightly differently, and people laugh?! It’s ALL mental!

We all love to see animals doing a cute little ‘dance’, don’t we?  Well that’s you.  And that’s your mother.


We’ll happily eat chicken, but a pigeon?  Hell no, you dirty git!  And who the Hell first discovered cow milk and why?!  Or frying things in oil?


The one time of year when, all of a sudden, that orange peel you throw away in disgust is suddenly more appealing than a kebab from Charlie’s after a night down The Black Cross.  Get it eaten!

Raw lemon peel?  Mmm – why not put that shit in a cake!  Lovely!

And that wine you enjoy, but insist it needs to be chilled to the same temperature as a polar bears heel?  Heat that stuff up!

Hell, lets throw some bloody cloves in, too!  Everybody suddenly turns into a garbage-eating, pot-pourri munching tramp for Jesus’ birthday!

Keep on doing your big pink talking monkey thing, folks, and I hope you all have a great 2014!