There really is a Santa Claus!!!!

Merry Christmas everybody.

Your favourite grumpy, psychotic bastard is sitting here with a big grin on his face. I have been remarkably free of vitriol and rage this Christmas, and it just keeps getting better.

Tony Pulis is going to be announced as the new West Bromwich Albion manager. Let me say that again: TONY PULIS IS GOING TO BE ANNOUNCED AS THE NEW WEST BROMWICH ALBION MANAGER.

Our venerable Chairman, Jeremy Peace, has finally appointed a manager 1) That we’ve actually heard of; and 2) That offers a glimmer of hope for the club. At last, we can dare to dream again.

By the time Roy Hodgson left to become the England manager, he had built and trained a team that could compete in the Premiership. We were looking at top-half finishes; dreaming of European qualification. Spirits were high; the force was with us; there was a sense of optimism we hadn’t felt for years. The Baggies were on their way up at last. We were in a position where we could attract better managers now; and no doubt our Chairman would soon announce one.

We waited with baited breath to hear who would be appointed to continue Roy’s great work and take us into the UEFA Cup. The excitement was almost palpable.

Then the announcement came: The new manager of West Bromwich Albion is…wait for it…Steve Clarke.

Who…?

Steve Clarke – you know – he used to be an assistant manager at Chelsea; and at West Ham and Liverpool.

Assistant…? So, he’s never actually been a manager…?

He was caretaker manager at Newcastle once.

Ah, well that’s good. How long did he do that for?

One game.

Oh…did they win at least?

Er…no…they lost; 5-1 to Manchester United.

Oh for fuck’s sake.

So, we sat back and watched as Roy Hodgson’s legacy ensured a good start for Steve Clarke. But all polish wears off eventually and then things started going horribly wrong.

Steve Clarke was sacked. Okay, that was just a blip. The Chairman’s bound to appoint a big-name manager now. Things were going to turn around and we’d soon be dreaming about Europe again

So, here it comes. The new manager of West Bromwich Albion is…wait for it…Pepe Mel.

Who…?

Pepe Mel – you know – the Spanish bloke. Once played for Real Madrid’s B team. Managed a load of Spanish sides – mostly second-division. Then managed at Betis.

Oh; mostly second division, you say? But he did manage Betis, and they’re not bad. Also, here in 2013, Spain are the reigning World Cup and European Cup champions. Maybe a bit of that Spanish flair will do us some good.

Fucking useless. 17 games in charge; won 3, drawn 6 and lost 8. He left at the end of the season “by mutual consent”.

Right then. New season coming; new dawn, new hope and all that. There are plenty of big-name managers out there; let’s us get one of those and ram ourselves into the top half of the Premiership. Oh yes; this is exciting now. We’ve been in the Premiership for a few years now; we’ve got some money to spend. The past is gone, so it’s onwards and upwards.

Okay; so here it comes. The new manager of West Bromwich Albion is…wait for it…Alan Irvine.

Who…?

Alan Irvine – you know – he managed Preston North End, and Sheffield Wednesday.

But they’re Championship teams; we play in the Premiership…?

Ah, well now, he has managed in the Premiership; for the last three years; at Everton.

No he hasn’t. It was David Moyes and then Roberto Martinez.

Yeah; I didn’t say he was the First Team manager.

Which was he then; the Reserves manager?

Not exactly…he was the Youth Team manager.

SERIOUSLY…? ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? ARE YOU FUCKING-WELL FUCKING KIDDING ME? WHAT THE FUCK…? WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK…? AAAAAAARGH…BASTARD…FUCKING BASTARD PEACE BASTARD FUCKING AAAAARGH.

Alan Irvine is by all accounts one of the nicest men in football. I have no doubt that if Mother Theresa had been a manager she would have been universally loved. But this is not a popularity contest; it’s a results game, where points count.

We’re one point above the relegation zone. As nice as Irvine was, he had to go.

Now, at last, the big-name manager is coming to West Brom. There’s hope for us yet.

I’ll keep my fingers crossed…

FIFA Pitch

As the furore about alleged corruption within FIFA plods on, I thought I’d write a few words about the World Cup; especially as this has been a World Cup year – albeit yet another disappointing one for England fans. If the idea of this doesn’t appeal to you then please feel free to go and read something else, because I’m going to write it whether you like it or not.

The first ever World Cup as we know it was held in Uruguay in 1930. As the country which invented football, you’d think the inaugural tournament would be held here. But we didn’t even enter. There were 13 teams, only four of which were European; the rest were made up of North and South American teams.

In case you’re wondering, Uruguay won. They beat Argentina 4-2 in front of nearly 70,000 people at the Estadio Centenario in Montevideo on 30^th July.

Anyone interested enough to still be reading this will know that the one and only time England won the World championships of the game we invented was 1966. You have to wonder why that is; especially when you think about the quality of the teams we’ve produced in my lifetime.

I think Italia ’90 should have been our year. When you look at the quality and pedigree of our squad and our manager, as well as the performances our boys put in, you end up scratching your head and just asking, “Why…?”

We did reach the semi-finals, only to be knocked out on penalties by our perennial rivals, West Germany. And I think that night in the Stadio delle Alpi in Turin illustrates why we don’t win the major tournaments. We bottled it.

There hasn’t been any shortage of quality players from England. I contend that that’s a myth; or an excuse. England has produced many world-class players over the years: Paul Gascoigne, Alan Shearer, Michael Owen, Steven Gerrard, Frank Lampard, David Beckham, Wayne Rooney, Ashley Cole, Sol Campbell…the list goes on and on.

What the England team has been lacking is that little bit of mettle needed to respond and come up with the goods when the pressure’s on. We see the evidence of this every week in the Barclay’s Premier League when we watch them put in sometimes breathtaking displays. But they just can’t seem to carry that over to the big competitions.

No doubt everybody has an opinion on where we’re going wrong. Mine is that the ridiculous policy of not allowing competition in schools is playing a large part. This pandering to the mommies of the spoilt little fat boys who don’t like it because they never win at sports has bred a kind of apathy among our children. Then there are the school football teams and leagues – where have they gone? I remember every Monday in assembly; our school football team’s captain would read out a match report on that weekend’s game. We should be bringing that back.

Whatever your own personal theory on why England doesn’t bring it at the major tournaments, I’m sure we all agree that there has to be fundamental change from top to bottom. Unless and until this happens, the years of hurt are just going to keep rolling on. I hope not. I’d love to see an England captain raise the Jules Rimet trophy. Just once…

Rest in Peace

No vitriol today; no hatred, bile or anger. I just want to take a moment to reflect on some of the people we’ve lost this year.

Peaches Geldof: So much was made of the fact that she had taken drugs in her earlier life. Then there was all the stuff about her mother, Paula Yates, committing suicide. But none of that was even the slightest bit relevant. The simple fact was – and the only thing that needs to be discussed in public is – a young woman died much too early. A wife and devoted mother was taken away, leaving two young children who’ve been robbed of someone who quite clearly doted on them.

Robin Williams: Who would have thought that behind that frenetic, quick-witted funny-man was a human being who was hurting? I’ve been a fan of Robin Williams since the days of Mork and Mindy. I used to have a couple of his stand-up videos. Good Morning Vietnam is one of my favourite movies. Looking at his career, you can see what a talented, naturally-gifted comedic talent he was. He was like a big ball of energy whose improvisational skills were un-matched. He made it so easy to forget that behind it all, he was just a man; a normal human being with all the frailties inherent in our poorly-constructed lives. I live with clinical depression myself, and I know how low you can get; I’ve stood on the edge of the abyss many times in my life. You’d think I could identify a fellow sufferer. But the thing about clinical depression is that the taboos surrounding it are still so prevalent that you quickly learn how to hide it. You learn how to wear the mask of other people’s expectations. One day it might be the strong, loving father providing the bedrock for his children to live their lives. Another day, it might be the friend who’s always got a smile and a joke for you. In this case, it was the Robin Williams who was bursting with energy and could always make you laugh. But behind the mask was Robin McLaurin Williams, born in Chicago, Illinois, who found himself in a dark place, and this time he couldn’t pull himself out of it.

Rik Mayall: This is the one that hit me the hardest. I’m of the generation who grew up watching Kevin Turvey; The Dangerous Brothers; The Young Ones; Filthy, Rich and Catflap; Blackadder; The New Statesman; and Bottom. Rik Mayall was a huge presence in my generation’s formative years. The Young Ones in particular was a show that we never missed. It was a show that typified all that was good (and sometimes bad) in Britain at that time. It was edgy, anarchic, silly, satirical, but above all, just about the best thing on television. When my children were old enough, I introduced them to this cultural crown jewel; and to this day, we can all quote huge swathes of dialogue verbatim. Rik’s poems are some of our favourites, and we can all recite them, like a sing-song, word-perfect. Then there’s Bottom – just thinking about it floods my mind with favourite episodes, lines, characters, situations. This was another one I introduced my kids to and it became something we watched almost religiously. I think that’s why Rik Mayall was such a big part of my life, and why it left such a hole when he died; his work brought my children and I together like nothing else. It was the common ground we could always rely on even when we disagreed on everything else. It was the bridge between my generation and theirs. It still is, of course; but it’s slightly different now; it brings a hint of sadness with it now. Anyway, I will give my own tribute to Rik by quoting a piece of his work:”Pollution; all around. Sometimes up, and sometimes down. Pollution, are you coming to my town, or am I coming to yours? Hah; we’re on different buses pollution, but we’re both using petrol…bombs.”

So that’s just a short goodbye to three people who left us way too soon this year. I hope and pray that I’m not saying goodbye to more next year.

Peaches, Robin and Rik – you each made the world a little better with your presence. Thanks for that.

At Death's Door

Peter William Sutcliffe was born on 2^nd June 1946 in Bingley, Yorkshire. He grew up to be one of the most evil men in British – even world – history. During a five-year reign of terror, this cunt murdered at least 13 women and tried to kill at least 7 more. So brutal and frenzied were his murders that he was dubbed the Yorkshire Ripper; an epithet I’m sure he loved.

Sutcliffe is a cunt; a violent and brutal monster who apparently managed to convince doctors he was a paranoid schizophrenic. Thankfully though, he was deemed to be sane enough to stand trial for his horrific crimes.

This man attacked and killed his victims with things such as ball-peen hammers, claw hammers, knives, and sharpened screwdrivers. He didn’t just kill those poor women; he decimated them; destroyed them with a savagery more often seen in animals.

And why did he do all this…? He says God told him to. He was working as a gravedigger when – he says – God spoke to him from an open grave and told him to go out and kill prostitutes. Isn’t it funny how when God speaks to these nutters he always tells them to kill people? How come he never tells them to go and do their gardens or clean their house? I wasn’t there at the time but I’m pretty sure that when God spoke to Moses and gave him the tablets with the Ten Commandments on them he didn’t tell him to go down and cave somebody’s head in with them.

I remember a few years ago, he asked to go to court to get a definite date for his release – like 20 concurrent life sentences didn’t quite clarify how long he was going to be locked up. What made the dickhead think he was ever going to be released anyway? He killed at least 13 women – the only way he should ever get out of prison is either feet-first or in numerous pieces.

The good news is that he’s said to be at Death’s Door. According to the Mail, he’s “on the brink of death”, following a heart attack and various other health problems, including Diabetes. God; where’s Terminal Testicular Cancer when you need it? One of the paper’s sources says he’s been waiting two months to see a specialist. Good. Let him keep waiting. I tell you what – make him keep waiting and waiting until he dies; preferably in agony, with his victims’ relatives dancing and singing around his bed, pausing only to piss and shit on him and stick needles in his eyes.

According to the paper, he’s also got a cough and is having trouble eating and sleeping. Well, at least he hasn’t been bludgeoned to death by a homicidal maniac; but hey – we can live in hope, can’t we. It’s time we stopped coddling fuck-bastards like Sutcliffe and just dumped them all in a hole in the ground to slowly drown in a gradual accumulation of their own shit and piss.

Queen - The Kings of Rock and Roll

Freddie Mercury, Brian May, John Deacon and Roger Taylor. Together they were Queen, the greatest rock band the world has ever seen. Leaving aside the fact that they were one of the biggest-selling bands of all time, they produced some of the most enduring music of any band ever; they were absolutely electric live, even managing to steal the show at Live Aid; and, in Freddie Mercury, they had a front-man whose vocals were unmatched and his stage presence was pure magic.

Sadly, Freddie died in 1991 at only 45 years old. This tragedy robbed us all of a genuine legend and cut short a career that still had much to offer.

I have been a Queen fan all my life. Their music has always been with me. I knew every word of Bohemian Rhapsody when I was just 5 years old, and my mom used to give me 10p to sing it. I had the A Night at the Opera album, and I wrote on the inner cover, just above the four little pictures of the band, “Queen is the besde.”

I would recommend everyone owning at least one Queen album; so, if you don’t mind, I’m going to give my two penn’orth on them. Here’s a list of their albums in chronological order:

1973 – Queen: Their debut album. I can’t understand why it wasn’t massive. It’s just one quality song after another; my highlights being Keep Yourself Alive, Liar, and The Night Comes Down. John Deacon is listed as Deacon John on this album. Apparently, a record executive thought it sounded better. John hated it.

1974 – Queen 2: I think this is one for someone who’s already got a few Queen albums, because it’s their least accessible, despite containing brilliant tracks like Seven Seas of Rhye, March of the Black Queen, and Funny How Love Is.

1974 – Sheer Heart Attack: The behemoth that was Queen was starting to gather speed now. This is one of their best early albums and contains their breakthrough hit, Killer Queen, as well as Now I’m Here, and one of my favourite songs; the anthem, In the Lap of the Gods…Revisited.

1975 – A Night at the Opera: What can I say about this album? It’s arguably their best piece of work, with every single track a winner. There’s not a single weak one on the album. Highlights are THE ENTIRE ALBUM, but if I had to choose three, I’d say Bohemian Rhapsody – of course; a song regularly found at number one in any survey or chart of the best song of all time, and deservedly so. Then I’d say The Prophet’s Song, and I’m in Love with my Car. But don’t forget, this album also includes the hit single, You’re my Best Friend, as well as the gorgeous Love of my Life, and ’39. The album is bloody brilliant; so buy it.

1976 – A Day at the Races: Like a continuation of A Night at the Opera. This probably explains why the covers are co-ordinated. But this album is strong enough to stand up on its own, and puts up a good argument as to why it should be their next best album. Like its predecessor, it contains an embarrassment of riches. Somebody to Love – do I need to say anything about this track? Really…? Okay, it’s one of their fucking best, and its gospel inspired vocals are mind-blowing. But the album starts with Tie Your Mother Down – and I defy anyone to listen to this track without banging your head, because it’s irresistible. My third pick would be Teo Torriate (Let us Cling Together) because it’s got a great melody and a real sing-along quality to it. But I’d have to mention the beautiful You Take my Breath Away; Brian May singing Long Away, and Roger Taylor’s Drowse.

1977 – News of the World: Queen must really have been eating their greens throughout this period, because they were just going from strength to strength. On this album, you’ll find We Will Rock You, We Are the Champions, and Spread Your Wings. Oh yes; the album is really that good. And that’s not mentioning It’s Late, Sheer Heart Attack, and All Dead, All Dead.

1978 – Jazz: This is generally regarded as one of their weaker albums; and I think it does represent a slight dip in form. But it can’t be all that bad when it’s got Fat Bottomed Girls, Bicycle Race and Don’t Stop Me Now on it.

1980 – The Game: This album seems to get a lot of bad press – unfairly so, in my opinion. It’s a bloody good album, and shows the band evolving their music rather than churning out the same stuff over and over again. Bear in mind, this album has tracks like, Play the Game, Save Me, and Crazy Little Thing Called Love. Oh, and there’s another little one you might have heard of, called Another One Bites the Dust.

1980 – Flash Gordon (Soundtrack): Flash…ah-aaah; saviour of the universe.

1981 – Queen’s Greatest Hits: The UK’s biggest-selling album of all time. It sold over 5.4 million in this country alone, and more than 25 million worldwide. I don’t think I need to say anymore, do I?

1982 – Hot Space: Hmm…this one probably gets my vote for Queen’s weakest album. I think with this album they weren’t evolving so much as trying to be someone else instead of Queen. But it’s not a BAD album. It’s got Under Pressure on it, so it can’t be that bad. There’s also Las Palabras de Amor (The Words of Love), and I quite like Cool Cat.

1984 – The Works: This was not a return to form; it was a fucking work of musical art. My God, what a fantastic album this is. This is Queen being Queen again, and doing what they do best – rocking and rolling the shit out of everybody. And it was only the first step in their domination of the eighties. Radio Ga Ga, Hammer to Fall, I Want to Break Free, Is This the World we Created, Tear it Up, Machines (Back to Humans). Sorry, I’ve done almost the entire track-listing; but trust me when I tell you it really is that good.

1986 – A Kind of Magic: And the Queen juggernaut just rolls on. This was a kind of cross between a studio album and a soundtrack for the movie, Highlander. But who gives a shit when it produces classics like A Kind of Magic, Friends will be Friends, and the heart-breaking Who Wants to Live Forever?

1989 – The Miracle: This is one of those albums that just gets better every time you hear it. You get a sense that the band were really up for this album, and it shows in the eclectic mix of tracks they produced, experimenting with soul and funk on tracks like My Baby Does Me and The Invisible Man. This album has been quite divisive in terms of hardcore fans’ reactions; but I don’t know how anyone could be unhappy when you’re presented with tracks like, I Want it All, Breakthru, The Miracle, and my favourite on the album, the brilliant Scandal.

1991 – Innuendo: This was released in the year Freddie died. And talk about going out on a high!!! This is Queen at their very best, and is a serious contender for their best album. The title track is a six and a half minute epic in the mould of Bohemian Rhapsody, and while it may not have had the impact of its predecessor, it is still fucking awesome. Then you’ve got tracks like Headlong, I Can’t Live With You, and I’m Going Slightly Mad, which serve as solid reminders of why Queen are such an important part of rock history. Tracks like All God’s People, These Are The Days of Our Lives, and The Show Must Go On took on a more poignant significance when news of Freddie’s death broke. But they are all painfully beautiful songs, and Freddie’s vocals on The Show Must Go On were arguably the best of his career.

1995 – Made in Heaven: There’s very little “new” stuff on this album. It’s a mix of the last things Freddie wrote and recorded, along with re-workings of b-sides and a couple of Freddie’s solo songs. But it’s all good, solid stuff; there’s no filler. Highlights for me are I Was Born to Love You, Too Much Love will Kill You, and A Winter’s Tale – the last song Freddie ever wrote. But towering over them all is the tour-de-force which is Mother Love. This is another track that takes on a heart-breaking significance when you think about what happened. This is the last song Freddie ever recorded, and he was too ill to finish it. It’s a song that will alternately put a lump in your throat and send a chill down your spine. Freddie’s vocals on the middle eight in particular defied his illness while making the hairs on the back of my neck tingle.

So, that’s my summary of Queen’s albums. I’m sorry, but I don’t have any bile or hatred when it comes to Queen; they were, are and always will be the besde.

Cheryl Cole to Leave X-Factor...?

I couldn’t really give a shit, to be honest with you. I’m not a fan of the X-Factor; I think it’s exploitative and cruel. As for Cheryl Cole – the only time I’d want to hear her singing is softly in my ear while I’m shagging her. But, of course, that’s never going to happen…because she always mimes. And me being a fat, ugly bastard is going to reduce the chances even further. But if she ever decides she wants to roll around the floor with a big, fat, sweaty lump of mashed potato then I’ll be the first in line.

I don’t dislike Cheryl Cole per se. I get the feeling she used to be a really nice person until fame distorted her view of the world and of herself.

My problem with Cheryl Cole is that I’m British. That means I am bred to despise anyone who becomes successful through working the system in her favour.

Before she went on the X-Factor in 2008 she was just another member of Girls Aloud. Fair enough, she was the best looking one, and the debate among men was whether to shag her first or last if given the opportunity. Occasionally, someone might say in the middle; the reasoning being that you use the first two to get yourself warmed up; then you hit your peak with Cheryl, and then the last two as you’re coming down. I’ve never heard anyone suggest she could go second or fourth.

Anyway, she went on X-Factor in 2008 and suddenly she was the nation’s sweetheart. Then, inevitably, her ego grew to ridiculous proportions. Those little voices started telling her she didn’t need Girls Aloud anymore; that they were holding her back and she should go it alone.

So, in April 2009 she started work on her first solo material. This resulted in her first solo album, called 3 Words. Then came her first solo single – Fight for This Love. It was shite. The video was okay as long as you watched it on mute.

There was the US X-Factor debacle in 2011 which saw the end of her first tenure on the show. Her solo albums each sold less than the one before. Her popularity was waning. Cue the reformation of Girls Aloud. But it just wasn’t the same as before; the people had moved on. In March 2013 they officially announced they were splitting for good.

2014 – our Cheryl had an album to promote. Hmm…so…a sex tape was out of the question…so how should she do it? Aha – a “secret” wedding; a “reconciliation” with Simon Cowell and a return to the X-Factor. Fucking genius. Sure to generate fame, wealth and loathing all in one huge lump of PR magic.

I would point out here that things might not have gone down like this. This is just my cynical, hate-filled analysis.

Yeah, so now she’s hinting that she might not return to X-Factor next year. I have, of course, filed that in my folder called Things I Don’t Give a Shit About 2014. But I can’t help thinking that she’ll be back the next time she has an album to promote. Well, it’s either that or the sex tape. I wonder if I should buy an extra box of tissues, just in case…

Jack the Ripper - He Was a Twat, Wasn't He?

What is it about the Whitechapel Murders of the late nineteenth century that fascinates us so much? Why does the man we’ve come to know as Jack the Ripper still capture our imaginations more than a hundred years after his horrific crimes took place?

I guess some might say the answer lies in the question, because the murders were horrific. And we like that, don’t we? That’s why horror movies have always been so popular; there’s something inherently wrong with us all that makes us enjoy the macabre and the gruesome.

I am macabre and gruesome, so it’s natural that I should be fascinated by this monster. Make no mistake – I consider him a monster; one that should have been captured, flayed, hung, drawn and quartered. Anybody who kills innocents should be treated this way, because that’s what we do to animals, and these people are animals.

Conventional theories point to there being five Ripper victims, starting with Mary Ann Nichols on 31^st August 1888 and finishing with the unholy act of butchery performed on Mary Jane Kelly on 9^th November 1888.

Mortuary picture of Martha Tabram

There’s a growing consensus that Martha Tabram, murdered on 7^th August 1888, was his first victim. The evidence of the post-mortem would certainly add weight to this theory since it tells the story of a savage killing in which Martha was stabbed 39 times, with the focus being on the breasts, belly and groin area.

Some have suggested that his first victim was a mysterious figure known as “Fairy Fay”. She was killed on Boxing Night 1887 in an alleyway off Commercial Street. She had apparently been taking a short-cut home from a pub in Mitre Square. The problem is; there is as yet no evidence to back it up. Fay’s name was just suggested by two authors, despite there being no doctor’s report on the murder and nothing concrete to link it to the Ripper Murders.

Anyway; I digress. The point is that whoever “Jack the Ripper” was, he was a cunt. The reason I’m writing about it now is that we’ve witnessed some rather high profile cuntery of late. There was the killing of two unarmed black men in the US; the coffee-shop siege in Australia; the horrific slaughter of more than a hundred children in Pakistan; an off duty policeman here in the UK, and two in the US.

I thought this was supposed to be Christmas. Isn’t this supposed to be the season of peace and goodwill to all men? I knew we’d strayed off the track a bit in recent times; but this is going off on a whole different fucking tangent.

Maybe the point I’m trying to make is that there’s a little bit of Jack the Ripper in all of us. The vast majority keep it buried deep down inside, along with their homosexual tendencies, closet racism and love of reality shows. But lately it seems a few more people are letting that little bit of Jack rise to the surface. I know this sounds hypocritical coming from one as full of bitterness and loathing as I, but you lot out there need to look at yourselves; make sure your “Jack” bit is kept deep down inside.

Electile Dysfunction

Machiavelli once said, “Politics have no relation to morals.”

Has there ever been a more appropriate description of modern-day British politics? The whole system is like Al Capone’s birthday party. And they don’t even try to hide it anymore; they sit there laughing while we read about astronomical expense claims, and they defend it by saying, “It’s all perfectly legal.”

Of course it’s fucking legal. These cunts made it legal, and they continue to do so, while trying to make out that claiming for a Kit-Kat is vital to them performing the job they’re already being paid a ridiculously large salary for. Oh, and they’re about to get an 11% pay-rise. It’s just raining fucking money on British politicians; these altruistic pillars of society who just want to make the country a better place – for themselves, of course. The rest of us can fuck off.

So, we’ve got to vote for these scumbags again in May. We’ve got to give these grinning, morally bankrupt rat-turds yet another licence to screw us like a Catholic priest at choir practice. And one single vote could be all it takes. If we all decided that we’d had enough of these sociopathic parasites and every one of us decided not to vote, they could just vote for themselves and still get the golden ticket. Then they and their latent paedophile cronies would run the country for another five years like pigs that invaded a wedding buffet. They’d make new laws to make sure they could carry on sucking the marrow out of this country. They’d make laws to stop us saying bad things about them; laws that take away any semblance of electoral power.

I look at the party leaders and feel my heart falling out of my arse. What a bunch of cunts.

David Cameron – posh bastard child-forgetting dishonest bandwagon-jumping twat. The man is like the unholy spawn of a one-night-stand between Margaret Thatcher and Adolf Hitler. He’s got a face that literally begs to be slammed repeatedly in a fridge door until it’s a bloody, noxious mass that’s still as deadly as the blood from the monsters in Alien.

Nick Clegg – Little Nicky limp-dick sellout unprincipled desperate cunt. He looks like one of those white dog-turds we used to see on pavements in the seventies. I can’t help thinking his mom must look at him sometimes and feel like she owes her fanny an apology.

Ed Miliband – back-stabbing fratricidal Squidward-looking moron. The man can’t even eat a bacon sandwich without looking like an utter twat. Who can’t eat a bacon sandwich? How the fuck does someone manage to fuck that up? Most men can eat a bacon sandwich with their brains still swimming in the previous nights alcohol and with all the co-ordination of Stephen Hawking with about 5,000 volts running through him.

Nigel Farage – xenophobic closet-racist homophobic anti-breast nugget. He’s the bloke down the pub who thinks he can manage the England football team, solve the financial crisis and still score 180 on the pub dartboard with a gob full of pork scratchings. He’s arguably the most viable candidate at this particular dark moment in the history of this country. It’s fucking depressing, isn’t it?

Not again...

So, terrorism has raised its ugly head again. This time, however, I don’t think anybody could have predicted where it would pop up. Australia has always seemed such a safe, laid-back country; so the idea of a terrorist taking hostage in the middle of Sydney would surely take anyone by surprise.

I struggle to understand terrorism. Its purpose is to deliberately upset and frighten people; make them feel vulnerable and insecure. But it doesn’t work. All it does is galvanise people and make them more determined to fight back.

It’s true that when Mon Haron Monis walked into that Lindt Chocolat Café and took dozens of people hostage, he did upset and frighten people. The numerous calls the police received reporting suspicious packages and persons across the city showed that he’d made the people feel vulnerable and insecure. But the siege has ended now; and come tomorrow the people of Sydney will go to work as normal; they’ll still pop in somewhere to get a coffee and a bagel; they’ll go about their business in defiance of those who wish to cause them harm.

Questions will be asked; security will be improved; people will become a little more vigilant. The world won’t have changed, or come to an end; it won’t even slow down. What Mon Haron Monis will have achieved is to make life harder for Muslims. People will look at them with suspicion. Some idiots might attack innocent Muslims who themselves will have condemned Monis’s actions. There will be more raids; more searches, and an increased risk of mistakes resulting in innocent, law-abiding Muslim men being arrested and detained – sometimes for years.

Since the 9/11 attacks most of the western world has been in a weird, open-ended “War on Terror” that has us in a permanent state of emergency. The idea of it is ludicrous – how can you wage war against a concept? But people like Monis; the 7/7 bombers and the men going out to fight alongside the Islamic State have put a face to this concept. They’ve put a face on a faceless idea; created a target for people’s hate and anger. They’ve created a tragic situation in which the “War on Terror” has essentially become the war against Islam. The Muslim has become the face of the enemy.

It shouldn’t be like that. The vast majority of Muslims are peaceful, law-abiding citizens making a positive contribution to society. But they’ve been unfairly demonised through the actions of a few extremists whose campaign of sieges and hostage-taking achieves nothing for their cause.

Another by-product of these atrocities is that they feed into the paranoia of the Conspiracy Theorists. It provides oxygen for their theories which are, at best, questionable; at worst, bloody mental.

Anybody who hasn’t been living on an island for the last 13 years will be familiar with the 9/11 conspiracy theories. Again, they range from, “Hmm, that’s an interesting story,” to “Don’t be so fucking soft. You need your head looking at.” But a lot of people are making a lot of money on the back of it, so I guess they’re going to be around for a while.

Setting aside the whole conspiracy stuff, it has to be stressed that terrorism achieves nothing. After 9/11 and 7/7, people didn’t go running to their nearest mosque to convert; military leaders didn’t suddenly adopt a pacifist stance. Quite the opposite, in fact; they went over to Iraq and Afghanistan and reducing large piles of them to rubble, creating humanitarian disasters at the same time.

So, Mon Haron Monis is going to get his fifteen minutes of fame. Now he’s dead, along with two hostages; but like those who went before him, he will soon be forgotten. No plaque will bear his name; no statue will be erected in his memory; and not one fucking thing will have changed in terms of foreign policy.

It’s time for a change of strategy. It’s time to stop the sieges, the atrocities and the threats; and get round a table and talk through whatever grievances you have.

Fair enough, that’s rich coming from a bitter, vengeful potential killer like me; but we’re talking about other people here; innocent people – on both sides of the religious dogma. And these people deserve better. So bloody behave yourselves – all of you. Don’t make me come over there…

Drive

Although 2013 was the lowest figure since records began in 1926, there were still 1,713 deaths on UK roads, which is more than twice the number of deaths from Heroin/Methadone, which totalled 765. Un-nerving, isn’t it?

Still, I don’t know why it should come as such a surprise when you consider the sheer volume of dick-heads on the road. My disability means I had to give my car up a couple of years ago, but even then it seemed like every other car was driven by some anti-social fuckwit. I can only scare myself shitless trying to imagine what it’s like out there now.

I watch those reality shows with traffic cops chasing joy-riders and all manner of other fuck-nuggets. I don’t know why, because they just annoy me. I guess I’m just hoping that one day I’ll get to see a copper giving one of these gobshites a well-deserved kicking.

You know what gets me; what makes me laugh and want to tear my eyes out all at the same time? It’s the way the courts put points on the licences these cunts don’t even have. Don’t they realise how stupid that is? These fuck-heads don’t give a shit about licences and points; they just do whatever they want, because they believe that the rules don’t apply to them.

It’s time for harsher sentences for these shit-bastards. Instead of arsing around with stupid points and bans we should be breaking their legs with baseball bats so that they can’t impose their cunt-status on the rest of us.

I say this as the victim of one of these bastards. I am disabled now; my life has been ruined by a drunk driver who smashed into my car. He, of course, fled the scene, but was picked up by police later following a high-speed chase which ended with this cunt hitting a lamp-post. It turned out the car he was driving wasn’t his, and he had no insurance. Oh, and he didn’t have a licence either because he’d been banned. That didn’t stop him driving though; he had been picked up for driving while banned 6 TIMES. What an utter cunt-bastard. His name’s Christopher Vasic, he lives in West Bromwich, and I would be very happy to hear that he had died a slow, lingering, agonising death from penis cancer.

Breastfeeding

New mothers are beautiful creatures. They remind me of willows; earth-mothers with a kind of ethereal glow.

I’ve had four kids. Caring for newborn babies is hard work. It takes a lot of patience, commitment and love. It’s particularly hard work for mothers, since they are the primary caregivers; so, as a society, we have a responsibility to help them and make things as easy for them as possible.

That includes allowing them to breastfeed wherever they choose. It’s the most natural, most beautiful thing in the world. So, to make it awkward or uncomfortable in any way is just abhorrent, and anybody that does so should be fucking ashamed of themselves.

But I do have one problem with it; a singularly male one. And that problem is BOOBS; TITS; JUBBLIES; MILK BEASTS. There’s a woman over there with one of her NORKS out.

Men are just about universally regarded as childish, horny, voyeuristic perverts. If we see a flash of knicker we can’t stop our eyes looking towards it. We can turn our heads but our eyes will still be drawn to it like iron filings to the world’s most powerful magnet.

Now, that’s just a brief flash of cloth; we’re talking about an almost fully exposed ELMER FUDD here. A great big FUN PUDDING on display. Men are weak; how the hell are we supposed to not take a peek at that? And then another peek? God, we’d be standing over them, gawping like a fat bloke at a free pizza buffet if it wasn’t for the fact that we’d probably get arrested.

So, ladies, please feel free to breastfeed wherever you like. It’s your God-given right, and nobody should even consider trying to stop you. But please remember how sad and pathetic men are, and remember that, although we do our best not to, we will be taking a peek.

I’m sorry about that.

Video Games - Get a Life

I’m a gamer. I have been for more than 35 years; since I had my first Grandstand TV Game console.

Back then, the equivalent of Fifa was two sets of two white bars that moved only up and down. You had to hit a white square that bounced around the screen and stop it getting through the gap on the side of the screen that represented your goal. It was pre-historic in comparison to today’s multi-million pound blockbusters, but it was just as much fun, and had the same kind of longevity, because – at the time – it was cutting-edge home entertainment technology.

Fast forward to now, and the behemoth that is Fifa is a good place to start. I played against someone online earlier this year. He had obviously spent a fortune on the game in terms of money and time. He had all the best possible players; a team that boasted Lionel Messi, Cristiano Ronaldo, and Franck Ribery, to name but a few. I had a team with only a few gold players and the rest silver. Needless to say, it was a very one-sided game. But this dipshit, rather than being a good sport, was totally disrespectful and displayed all the worst characteristics of the stereotypical gamer. So, at the end of the game, I messaged him, expressing my disgust at his conduct. He then messaged me back something I’ll never forget: “Ooh, well jel.”

I had to point out to him, of course I’m not jealous; I’m a grown up. Although I’m disabled now I have had a life. And I had to point out to him that being good at Fifa doesn’t mean you’re good at football in real life. You can be great at Fifa and still be the gawky fat kid who’s always picked last for the football team.

Gamers – get a life, for fuck’s sake. Stop getting too involved in your cyber life because IT’S NOT FUCKING REAL.

It’s like all that bollocks involving Leigh Alexander earlier this year. She was actually getting death threats.

Hey, all you little boys out there – just because you’re good at Call of Duty, it doesn’t mean you’re a real life fucking killer. If you’d like me to prove that to you, please get in touch. I’m NOT good at Call of Duty; however, I am a mental patient capable of real life killing. So come on, threaten to kill me, but do it to my face.

The same goes for trolls; those creepy little bastards that abuse others online because they know they can’t get their faces caved in. They call themselves cyber warriors and cyber activists. No; you’re all fucking cyber tossers. Again, I extend my invitation to you little turds: hurl abuse at me, but be a man and do it to my face instead of sitting there behind your keyboard.

I’m disgusted at the way some people are behaving these days. It’s these sad little mommy’s boys who bring gaming down. They need to go out, find out what it’s like to kiss a girl, and always remember that, yes you may be good at gaming, but IT’S NOT REAL.

MP - What Does the P Stand For...?

MP – does it stand for “Member of Parliament”, or is it “Member of Paedophile ring”?

Are the scumbags leading this country even worse than we thought? Are a number of them – as more and more people are saying – evil, perverted, filthy paedophiles?

My over-riding comment on all of this is the same that I and many others made when the Michael Jackson scandals broke, and that is, ‘There’s no smoke without fire.’ And, let’s face it, our so-called shepherds are not exactly known for their moral fibre.

In 1983, Geoffrey Dickens MP gave a dossier to the then Home Secretary, Leon Brittan. This document listed a number of VIP paedophiles that Mr Brittan, as the head of the British criminal justice system, was expected to bring to justice.

Nothing happened.

Why?

The only reason I can think of is that there were too many high-profile names in that dossier. Too many people with power, either through their political position or their wealth, could be forced to face the justice system just like the rest of us. And, of course, this could not be allowed to happen, because those bastards are better than us, and the laws of justice and morality don’t apply to them.

So the dossier disappeared.

Why?

When rumblings about it started recently, Brittan at first denied that he’d ever even been given the dossier. Then he had to backtrack and pathetically say that he had asked Home Office officials to “look carefully” at it. And then the pixies came and took that nasty dossier away.

Was Leon Brittan named in that dossier? Or was he just protecting vested interests by allegedly burying it?

Either way, something fucking terrible has happened, and there needs to be a proper investigation. There must be a copy of that dossier somewhere, and its contents need to be looked into. If not, then it has obviously been deliberately destroyed, in which case Brittan and his department at the time should be investigated.

But, of course, the posh power-bastards are covering themselves. They’re saying that there will be an inquiry. But it will be chaired by one of their friends. The first two Chairs of the inquiry have had to be dismissed because of how close they are to Leon Brittan. The current Home Secretary, Theresa May, is saying that she’s struggling to find someone to head the inquiry.

What an utter load of bollocks.

What she means is that she can’t find anyone that can pull the wool over the country’s eyes without them knowing and kicking up a stink about it. You could wear a blindfold, stand in the middle of the street, spin around and point to somebody and find someone to chair this inquiry.

So, what all this tells me is that the British establishment stinks even worse than I thought. Not only are some of these rat-shit-bastards immoral scum; but also they are evil, kiddie-fiddling monsters.

We really need a revolution in this country. We need to bring these bastards down and hold them accountable for their abhorrent behaviour. They should be hanging from the walls of the Tower of London.

I dream of blood running through the corridors of power. It’s dirty blood; tainted and foul. It gives off a sharp, terrible smell as it curdles and pollutes the very ground it runs across. It’s the blood of a hundred monsters that died without remorse or humility, whose indignant screams still echo in an air intoxicated with the fury of the ill-used masses.

A triumphant cry erupts from a populace finally free of the fetters and yokes forced upon them by a self-appointed ruling class. They glow as hope pours into their hearts and they dare to dream that there will be a better tomorrow; that, at last, people will listen to them; that finally they will be led by a group elected by the people, for the people.

Is that too much to ask?

The Falklands Redemption

Nothing says Britain like our overseas empire. This little island, situated at the top and in the centre of the world map, once boasted an empire so great that it was said the sun never set on it. Quite how we managed such a feat, I have no idea.

Now, I’m nobody’s fan of hegemony. On the contrary, I think invading and disregarding the sovereignty of a foreign nation is a crime that should be punished by death. But when a nation’s people say they want to belong to a particular country, then that should be respected.

That’s why the Argentine position on the Falklands pisses me off. The people there held a referendum and voted overwhelmingly to remain a part of Great Britain. So, that should be the end of the story; Argentina should just fuck off and get on with its own shit.

For those unfamiliar with the Falkland Islands; they are an archipelago on the Patagonian shelf in the South Atlantic Ocean. They have long been a bone of contention between Britain and Argentina - who claim it is they who hold sovereignty of what they call the Islas Malvinas.

They feel so strongly about those islands that on Friday 2^nd April 1982 they actually invaded and occupied them, igniting the Falklands Conflict. More than 1,000 soldiers died in the 10 weeks of war that followed. Nearly 2,500 more were injured. At the time, people like me thought that was a high price to pay for a few rocks with sheep and penguins on them.

Of course, back then, people like me had no idea there were vast oil reserves sitting under them. I don’t know if the politicians knew either.

But they do now. They all know that there’s billions of dollars worth of oil sitting under and around those few rocks with their sheep and penguin inhabitants. Needless to say, that raises the stakes somewhat. In 2010, Argentina brokered a deal with other South American nations to set up a blockade which effectively closed regional ports and bases to the UK Royal Navy ships and personnel.

This blockade was set up to exert pressure on Britain over its ownership of the Falklands. It sent a clear message that Argentina had no regard for the wishes of the islands’ population, and that they wanted them, no matter what.

It will come as no surprise to anyone who has read this blog before that such a stance offends me deeply. It’s wrong; and it’s unfair, and that bothers me. It’s like a bloke claiming a woman as his girlfriend. She has absolutely no desire to be his girlfriend and has told him so. She has made it quite clear that she is not his girlfriend and doesn’t want to be; she has told him that she’s your girlfriend and that’s the way she wants it to stay. But he still demands it anyway.

When I was a kid at school, there was this other kid – a real hard-knock – who fancied one of the girls in our class. He asked her out but she told him no; she didn’t fancy him. But he made it clear that nobody else could go out with her either; like he owned her or something. He couldn’t have her, so nobody else could. What a tosser.

My bitter, hate-filled mind simply ignites at all this. I hate unfairness; just as I hate bullying. Look – the Falklands have told you no; so fuck off; find another girlfriend.

I just hope that, if it does kick off, our Army and Navy are still capable of sending them packing again. I imagine it will be harder next time around, thanks to all the cuts the Posh Wankers Club have made.

Alex Salmond - Bravefart

I don't get it.
Five minutes ago Alex Salmond was shouting "freedom"; campaigning for an independent Scotland. Now he wants to be a part of that Parliament he wanted so desperately to break away from.
What a cunt.
Why hasn't anybody just stood up and told him, 'Hey - why don't you take your blue face and fuck off.'
I guess, like all politicians, he's an attention-seeking megalomaniac looking to stick his head into the public trough and bleed it dry, shouting, "It's all perfectly legal" while ignoring the question of whether it's moral or not.
I've never liked Alex Salmond.
Even putting aside my ingrained hatred of politicians, Salmond is one that I've always particularly disliked. I don't think I can quite put my finger on exactly why. He's just always struck me as a man purely out for his own self-interests and aggrandisement. He's the kind of bloke I can picture on the Titanic, nicking a lifeboat for himself and making a couple of stokers row him away so he doesn't have to share it.
I'm going to get on my knees and pray tonight that the electorate in Scotland tell Alex Salmond to fuck off.

The Return of the Grumpy Old Man

I am a bitter, hate-filled old man. There are very few people and things that I don't hate.

Josie Cunningham: Oh my God; why do the tabloids keep giving that ugly lump of gristle and wasted organs the publicity that she's so desperate for? They're actually feeding her and inspiring her to come up with more and more abhorrent ideas to get attention and make people hate her even more. She really is a vile, nasty little grub, and the sooner she is condemned to obscurity the better.

George Osborne: Posh wanker. Is there, anywhere in the world, a face that just cries out to be punched more than his? Every time I see him I get a kind of Tourette's; I can't watch him without a stream of abuse pouring out of me. He's fucking useless. He said the country's finances would definitely be fixed by the end of this Parliament. Now he's saying it will be fixed by the end of the next Parliament. If he's allowed to hold that position again he will be saying at the end of the next Parliament that it will be fixed at the end of the Parliament after that. The man is a septic anus and should be placed on a large, rusty spike, and people could pay £1 to punch him in the face. The finances would be fixed within a week. We'd be able to pay off the Third World's debt within a month. Twat.

TV adverts: Why do they try to be funny or clever? They're all just stupid. Oak Furniture Land is one particularly annoying arse boil. As are the Iceland ads with Peter Andre. Why is he even doing those ads? Who is he? He had one really crap hit about a hundred years ago; then he shagged a pointless, annoying slag for a few years. So, what makes this utter non-entity relevant? Why must we be subjected to his desperate, plank-worthy face when we're trying to watch the latest vacuous, insipid pap being thrown at us by a media employed by the government to keep us docile?

Charlotte Bevan - A Christmas Tragedy

I am a sad, bitter, hate-filled lunatic with little regard for humanity and even less for myself.
But when I read the news about Charlotte Bevan today my heart sank and I almost cried. What could possibly be so bad in her life that she would take the path she did? That poor kid.
This is a time for some serious questions. How and why was Charlotte allowed to sink to such depths of despair? Where was the support system and safety net to take that poor kid in hand and give her the help she so obviously needed?
Charlotte had a history of Schizophrenia and Depression, and suffered sleep-deprivation after giving birth. If ever there was a person who needed that extra bit of care and attention it was her. But we let her down. WE let her down; every single one of us who tries to brush mental health problems under the carpet, or who allow the care system specifically designed to protect sufferers to be dismantled by greedy, corrupt politicians and fall into such a desperate state that it's no longer fit for purpose.
It will come as no surprise to anyone to find that I have mental health problems. But I'm lucky. I have a support system and some fantastic people I can call on if I'm having problems. I reckon if Charlotte had been so fortunate then she and little baby Zaani would still be here today and looking forward to a beautiful family Christmas.
So, what makes me so special? Why should I be so lucky? Shouldn't everybody have the same support structure around them?
There's too much apathy and selfishness around; too many people who think if something doesn't affect them directly then they don't have to give a shit about it. And it's this kind of attitude that killed Charlotte and little Zaani; because it's this kind of attitude that means nothing gets done until it's too late; until the damage is done.
I think we all need to look at ourselves in the mirror today and ask if we really are doing enough to help each other.

Merry Xmas Everybody

So, it's that time of year again. We celebrate the birth of our lord and saviour, Jesus Christ, by spending a fortune that we can't afford on presents, food and drink. Then people eat too much, drink too much, fight, argue, top themselves, or act in a way that is socially abhorrent. It's like the last days of Sodom and Gomorrah; making you wonder how many people still know what Christmas is about.
I can't claim to be any better myself. Although I don't really celebrate Christmas anymore - so I don't indulge in the usual festivities - I used to be a Christmas maniac. I used to eat, drink and be a lot more than merry. There was one year when I was nicely drunk from Christmas Eve to New Year's Day. I'm only mildly ashamed to say it was one of the best Christmases I've ever had.
It's only since I stopped celebrating Christmas that I started getting grumpy about the whole thing. It's not schadenfreude; it's just that the tinsel-covered lenses have fallen away and allowed the light of pure cynicism to shine through.
I used to be like a kid. Every year, I would visit the Christmas shop in Stratford-upon-Avon to add more to my huge collection of Christmas decorations and ornaments. On 1st December, I would put on my It's Christmas Time CD and spend the day decking the halls and fa la la-ing my la's. Then, by the light of my Christmas candles and fairy lights I would settle down with my family and watch National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation. It was magical. It might not be everyone's idea of a wonderful Christmas-time but it did the job for me and mine.
Now, since my life came crumbling down around my ears, Christmas is not so much something I celebrate, as something I endure and get through as best I can. And - and I never thought I'd ever say this - there's a little part of me that's happier for it.
I still spend money on presents for my oldest children and my grandchildren because that's something I still enjoy. I don't think I'll ever tire of seeing the look on their faces when they get their presents. I think anybody who doesn't get a thrill at that isn't human. As for the rest of it - you can keep it. I'll sit here and enjoy my curmudgeonly misery. It's a lot less stressful.
So, merry Christmas; and bah humbug.

David Cameron: "No ifs, no buts..." No credibility. (As well as no integrity, no morals and no soul)

Let me just get this bit out the way first: David Cameron is a sly, filthy, lying, manipulative wanker. Just looking at the man makes me want to put my fist through the television.
So, after all the bullshit he shovelled out before the last election WHICH HE DIDN'T EVEN WIN, far from making anything better, he has made everything a lot fucking worse. He's like a reverse King Midas - everything he touches turns to shit; which is handy for him because he's full of it.
So, now he's telling us, I know I swore I would reduce net migration before the last election, and I know I haven't actually done a thing to try to keep that promise because I've been too busy making myself and all my posh bastard friends richer, but I promise that if you give me the opportunity to swindle my way into power again then I really will do something about it next time. I've already come up with some ideas, but they're all long term ones, so I need to be in power next time around or I won't be able to carry them out. I know I said "no ifs, no buts" and I told you to chuck us out at the next election if I didn't keep my promise on immigration, but this time I'm saying it for real: No ifs, no buts, I'll get net migration down, and if I don't then chuck us out at the next election. I mean it this time; this time it's for real.
What an utter tosser.
And James Worron casts aspersions on my character. Fucking hell. Although, he does support cunt-Cameron, so I shouldn't be surprised really. I guess twats will always gravitate towards each other. Yes, James Worron, I called you a twat. Gosh, so much hate on my part. I must have a very poor character to be that way. Well let me tell you, Worron: 1) wankers like you could never bring any kind of style back, let alone waistcoats - you have to have even the slightest atom of cred to do that; 2) You know absolutely nothing about me, so to jump onto something I said and judge me the way you did shows YOU are the one lacking character. Maybe if you'd ever had a girlfriend you might have developed one. AND YOUR MOTHER DOESN'T COUNT AS A GIRLFRIEND. NOR DOES YOUR DAD.
Worron, you tosser.

Hate

Who shall I hate today?
There are so many choices. One is a bloke on Twitter named Steve Clark, but I'm not going to give him any oxygen by talking about him on here. Suffice to say, he's a twat.
There's David Cameron, of course. Every day brings a new reason to hate that man. But I'm moving towards overkill on that subject so I'll give him a break today. Suffice to say, he's a twat as well.
I know - paedophiles.
As a victim of a paedophile myself, I hold a special chamber of hatred in my stomach just for them.
Even doctors are getting involved in kiddy-fiddling these days. That Myles Bradbury bloke - he was found with over 170,000 spy pen images in his possession.
He's a fucking doctor. He's in a position of ultimate trust; looked upon to help our children when they're ill. But it turns out he's a nonce; and our children are not even safe with him.
The punishment for a crime like his should be slow, and it should be brutal. First, full removal of all genitalia using an old butter knife with a rusty blade. To avoid too much blood-loss, a hot steam iron should be applied to cauterize the area. Finally, he should be dumped in a hole, seven feet deep, and four feet around. On top, there should be a sturdy door with just enough air-holes to keep him alive. He should not be given food or water. But once a day, a bucket full of human shit or piss should be dumped on him. Finally, when he eventually dies, simply fill the hole in and replace the door with a dance floor so everyone can dance on his grave.
Now, all of that might sound extreme and graphic; even disturbing. But go and have a man's penis shoved forcibly into your anus and then see how you feel afterwards.
Paedophilia is not an illness; it is an aberration.

Ignorance is Bliss

It really is, you know. It must be, for so many people to wallow in it.
I've been verbally accosted by someone on Twitter tonight who actually quoted me - except he hadn't read my blog; he just assumed I'd said it. Strictly speaking, I could sue him for libel, but frankly, I can't be arsed. People like that just bore me. They actually make me feel physically tired. They're so desperate to be considered intellectual they'll just jump into any conversation, even if they don't have the slightest idea what's going on. They come along, trying to sound like the voice of reason, desperately cobbling together sound-bites they hope will sound intelligent.
The man who joined in on Twitter tonight is Alan O'Connor; an Irish Barber. He came along, trying to sound clever, mis-quoting me and generally displaying the level of ignorance you usually find in a brain-damaged hippo. And he's one of those desperate fuckwits who doggedly pursue the conversation and try to justify their fuckwittery while showing over and over again that they would be more suited to a tyre on a rope.
Why do people like that think they have the right to just jump in like that? What is it that supposedly makes these fuck-knuckles relevant?
James Warron's another one. He jumped in with an unwarranted comment about my character. He works in Government Relations, so obviously he was just desperate for attention. Perhaps jumping off a very tall building and landing on top of David Cameron, killing them both and putting the country out of its misery, would have been more appropriate. It's just a suggestion, that's all.
Well, it's getting late. I'm going to take my great big ball of hatred and go to bed. There, I'm going to think of new ways to hate people.
Goodnight all.

The Worron Position

Wow!
I'm getting grief about my views and my prejudices from a Conservative. I can't believe it. James Worron has been criticising me on Twitter because I have certain prejudices. That's like Saddam Hussein telling Adolf Hitler he's a bit of a cunt.
Is there anywhere in the world a bunch of people more prejudiced and unpleasant than the Conservatives. And this bloke works in Government relations. So I have no doubt that he spends his day kissing the arses of rich people while looking down his nose at the rest of us.
Thinking about it; our country is led by the least among us. The least honest, the least moral and the least fair. This man works in relations for these people, so how low does that make him?
Joseph Goebbels did relations for the Nazis, and we all know how fair they were.
Perhaps Mr Worron has an inferiority complex since he spends his life not quite good enough to achieve the post of one of the people we all hate so much.
I'm amazed that my hatred is creating such a reaction. I'm also quite flattered. Also, to know that a Tory hates me is a good thing, since I hate them right back.

The Great Parliamentary Swindle

So, they've got away with it then.
The filthy, corrupt pieces of dog-shit that seized power in this country without gaining any kind of mandate, have made sure nobody can investigate their expenses theft anymore. How? They've burned all the fucking evidence.
I don't think, in the history of the world, there has ever been a system more openly and arrogantly corrupt as the one running the UK into the ground right now. I can't believe they're getting away with it. Why aren't we rising up and hanging these posh, in-bred, arse-fucking cunts from the walls of the Tower of London?
They deserve it; every dirty criminal one of them.
I dream of punching David Cameron in the face. I can almost feel the ecstasy of my knuckles connecting with that smug face; his lip splitting; nose breaking. God, it would feel so good. It's like my new wet dream.
George Osborne - that grinning, smug bastard. He's another one I would actually pay to punch in the face. Oh, think of the sheer joy of slamming that self-satisfied grin off his ugly, posh face. Follow it up with a kick in the bollocks. Knock him to the floor and then kick him until he cries for his mommy.
Nick Clegg. I wonder if he's actually worth the bother, so irrelevant is the man. He's so pathetic that I would bet anything he suffers erectile dysfunction. It makes me wonder if his kids are actually his. I bet his wife told him she really, honestly could get pregnant simply from holding his hand, then shagged the milk man when he'd gone to work.
Ian Duncan-Smith. An embittered, pathetic, bald man with an inferiority complex that drives him to take out his frustrations on anybody that can't fight back. Nobody would vote for him as the Conservative leader, so now he wants to get his own back by hurting everybody. Oh, the feeling of shoving his bald, pathetic fucking head down while I bring my knee up into his twisted face. The sound of his nose breaking; the crunching feeling, followed by the spatter of blood hitting the floor.
Fight the power, people. Literally, if you ever get the chance.

Bland Aid

I was there when the first Band Aid single came out. It was a big deal. There'd been nothing like it before, and we all got caught up in this effort to help the poor starving people in Ethiopia. On top of that, the song was actually quite good.

The enthusiasm and excitement grew, and carried on into the summer, culminating in Live Aid - one of the greatest achievements, and one of the greatest days in the history of man.

The whole Band Aid/Live Aid thing was a unique, special moment in history.

So why the hell has Bob Geldof decided to piss on it and permanently mar this shining example of humanity?

The first remake of the Band Aid single was produced by Stock, Aitken and Waterman - that should immediately set the alarm bells ringing. It was fucking crap, and provided the first dent in the Band Aid legacy.

The next remake had rapping in it!!! It was horrible. I've got nothing against rapping - in fact I quite like it. But not in Do They Know it's Christmas. Like I said, that was a special moment in history; and what they did was akin to having the Queen repeat her Silver Jubilee in a shell-suit and Burberry cap. It was fucking disgraceful, and sat like a massive, stinking turd dumped on the legacy of Band Aid.

Now we have another one. And this time they've changed the lyrics. Jesus fucking Mary and Joseph. I refuse to listen to it, and so far have been able to successfully avoid it - one of the benefits of a sedentary lifestyle I guess.

But I know that this latest bastardisation is pissing all over that turd, smearing it all over and then flushing the whole mess down the toilet.

The unique triumph that was Band Aid has been destroyed. Now it's just another song from the eighties.

Bow your head in shame, Bob Geldof. You attention-seeking twat.

Four Walls

My world exists within four walls painted light brown. The only journey I ever go on nowadays is the steady trudge towards insanity.
I know I'm going mad. But I don't care. There's a huge part of me that sees it as a blessed relief. You only have to look outside or read a newspaper to see why. I reckon I've got a long way to go to be as utterly mental as the world's gone anyway.
You won't catch me going out there. It's fucking bonkers; dangerous, as well.
But I've reached a point in my life where I'm just as dangerous. I've spent my life being battered and abused, and I've reached the tipping point now. If somebody tried to force me to go outside, or somebody tried to get inside my home when I don't want them to, I would stab them in the throat with a steak-knife.
I would point out, though, that I would never harm any of the healthcare professionals who do a great job of taking care of me. I hate people who attack ambulance or fire crews, or doctors or nurses. These people are there to help us; I reckon anybody who hurts one of them should be fucking hanged. I'd gladly put the rope round their neck and pull the lever.
I think I'd better bring this to an end for today now. I'm just getting more hostile, so it's best I get myself off to bed; try to have a half-decent night's sleep.

Fall Out

I fell out of bed last night. Fortunately, I have a special bar on the side of my bed which prevented me hitting my head on the floor. Unfortunately, my arm slipped through the bars and I ended up straining my shoulder. I also bruised my ribs on the way down.
Needless to say, I'm a bit sore and tired today.

Let's do the Hokey Chokey

I only choked twice last night and I counted myself lucky. How bad is that? I guess you know you've got problems when only choking twice is considered a good night.
I watched that "See No Evil" on YouTube. It's that film about the Moors Murders.
The punishments Hindley and Brady got were woefully inadequate. They should both have been kept alive as long as possible, with every day spent in agony and misery.
I know Brady's still alive. It's not too late to start torturing that bastard and exacting some small measure of revenge for the evil he committed.
As for Keith Bennett's grave; give me five minutes in a room with Brady and a steak knife and I'll have him singing the location in no time. The evil bastard. What degree of sick, twisted cunt do you have to be to do what he and that shagnasty Hindley did?
We really need to start making the punishment fit the crime in this country.

Animals

They're at it again.
The followers of the so-called "peaceful" religion of Islam have beheaded another innocent victim who was just trying to help them. Abdul-Rahman Kassig was an American aid worker. He was in Syria, trying to help refugees there when he was abducted a year ago. Now, the IS militants have beheaded him. He hadn't committed a crime; he was a Muslim convert, and he was over there trying to ease the suffering of his fellow man.
It just shows what animals these Muslims are. It shows that they're not really interested in recruiting westerners into their faith. They just want to take over, and spread their foul plague all over the planet.
There needs to be a new crusade. Muslims should be driven out of the civilised world and left to implode in one of their backwards countries.
These people are the most dangerous disease to ever threaten this planet. Wherever they go, they spread death and destruction; human rights atrocities and fear.
Why should we in the west fall victim to them?
It's time to throw them out.

Another bad night

Shit, balls and buggery.
Okay; last night's cough-up shit: Brown, gelatinous and - as usual - tasted horrible. But on the upside, at least there were no visitations from my dead mom.
It's strange; I feel guilt over the night my mom died; there are times when I wish she was still here; but I hated her as much as I loved her. She abused me for 37 years - physically, mentally and emotionally. I've still got the scars, inside and out, from her systematic negligence and abuse. I guess I'm like a mongrel dog - not matter how much you beat and abuse it, it still loves you.
Not that I condone beating mongrel dogs - or any animals, for that matter. I'm of the opinion that crimes against animals should be treated in exactly the same way as crimes against people. After all - what makes our lives and health any more important than their's? They feel pain and fear just as much as we do. They bleed if you cut them. So the laws that exist to protect us should apply equally to animals.

I put my DVD of Born on the Fourth of July on earlier, and then slept most of the way through it. It's so annoying when that happens.
Watching the X-Files now. I'd forgot how good it was.

Serial Killer

Are you still considered a serial killer if you have a pre-determined list of victims before you go on your killing rampage? Do your victims have to be random?
I have a list of three people I would like to kill if the opportunity ever arose. So, if by some miracle I recovered my health, was able to leave my house and managed to wipe out the three evil people on my list, would that make me a serial killer or just a simple nut-job?
I would like to point out that the three people on my list are genuinely evil people that the world would be much better off without. I sit here every day praying that some fatal accident will befall them; preferably a slow one which involves excruciating pain to offset the agony they have caused people over the years.
I realise this makes me a nutter. I'm self-aware enough to realise that my numerous health conditions that keep me within these four walls are also gradually eating away at my sanity. Maybe I should rename this blog "Nonsensical Ravings of a Man on the Road to Insanity", since I know that's where I'm heading.
If you're reading this, you can come along with me if you want. They say misery loves company, but insanity means you're never alone, so you might as well join the party.

Do Putin and Russia think we're all stupid?

Putin's gone to the G20 then. You've got to admire his balls. He's like that cousin you invite to the family party but you secretly hope he won't show. Everybody knows he beats his wife, so when he walks in there's lots of nudging and whispering; snide remarks are made; and some will even have words with him about his behaviour.
Russia is behind the unrest in Ukraine. The evidence is so blatantly clear that only the most pig-headed denial-spouting knob would even try to argue with it.
So, why is Putin being that knob? Does he honestly thin the rest of the world is that stupid?
I'd have more respect for the man if he just stood up and said, "Yeah - we're behind the Ukraine crisis; what of it? Nobody stopped America marching into Iraq and Afghanistan, so fuck you and the NATO you rode in on."
At least then he wouldn't be taking us all for idiots. Doesn't he realise there's no shame in hegemony anymore? Everybody's doing it. Hegemony is the new "intervention". America does it, Japan does it, the EU does it; so why shouldn't the Russians join in and get their piece of the pie?
Come on, Putin - tell the truth. You'll feel a lot better for it.

Polonium 210

Well, the best way to describe the stuff I coughed up last night would be luminous. It was bright orange; almost glowing in the dark. It looked liked I'd been drinking Polonium 210. There was quite a lot of it as well. It took ages to cough it all up.
Sometimes it feels like I'm going to drown. There's so much - solid and liquid - at times that it feels like my lungs are full and I'm never going to get it all up and breathe again. Sometimes I wonder if that would be such a bad thing. It would certainly put me out of my misery. My waking times are bad enough with the pain, the endless chest infections and the catalogue of my many other health problems; you would think I at least deserve a decent night's sleep.
I don't get a lot of sleep. I choke a lot; sometimes it feels like I only go five minutes between each one. Frustration can kick in at these times and I don't want to go back to sleep. So, I'll hurt myself, or start playing video games to try to keep myself awake.
Things aren't helped much by my mom appearing at the bottom of my bed every now and then, as she did last night. She never does or says anything; she just stands there, hands set wide on my baseboard as she leans on it, staring accusingly at me. It doesn't scare me, but it's not nice to have your dead mom staring at you from the bottom of your bed.
I've got a few issues about my mom's death. I have a lot of guilt. It's because when my dad died of cancer in 2004 I was alone with him in his hospice room. I held his hand as he passed. And it was the most traumatic thing I'd ever gone through up to that point. I cried like a baby. Of course, my two older brothers, who like to pretend they're big men, were nowhere to be seen. One ran off to the pub to get drunk, and the other wouldn't come to the hospice for ages, and when he did come, it took us half an hour to get him into the room because he was too scared. Such big men, my two brothers.
Anyway, my mom died in 2007, and the night she died, I knew she was going. They had moved her to a side room; she was unconscious, and her breathing was so laboured I knew there was no way she was going to make it through the night. But I didn't say anything. I chickened out. The memory of my dad going was too raw, so I ran away like a coward. So, my mom died alone in a side room, and that fact has haunted me ever since.

Frankie Boyle - Legend

I love Frankie Boyle. I've got all his DVDs and books.
He's a throwback to the days of rock n roll comedy. He doesn't give a shit what the namby-pamby left-wing dickheads say, and he refuses to compromise his art for anyone. He just gets up there, tells his jokes, and you can either laugh or fuck off. Of course, he'd rather the former, but he couldn't give a shit if you don't like what he says.
It's important to point out that Frankie is extremely funny. If he wasn't, then he couldn't get away with saying the things he does.
He's a great leveller; an expert at puncturing the egos of people who - let's face it - are just crying out for people to laugh at them. He destroys members of his audience with savage, razor-sharp wit, and they love it. We all love it. Getting a roasting from the venerable Mr Boyle is like a badge of honour. I personally would love to be insulted by him.
Frankie says the things we want to say but are too afraid. He makes the jokes mere mortals like us could never get away with. But there's no genuine animosity in his comedy. He's not racist (official); sexist or bigoted. He just believes - and rightly so - that when it comes to humour, everybody is fair game, especially if they're celebrities or wannabes. He made jokes about Jordan and her disabled son, which created a storm, but if that fame-desperate slag doesn't want jokes made about her son then she shouldn't drag him into the limelight.
Frankie is a comedy god. He is the king of the true character of the British sense of humour, and long may he reign.
It's about time he released a new DVD though.

Angus Sinclair

Potentially Scotland's most prolific serial killer. Certainly the killer of two 17 year old girls - Helen Scott and Christine Eadie.
He's been sentenced to 37 years in prison. But he's 69 years old. So let's face it - that sentence is no punishment at all. He's just sorted himself out a comfortable retirement home where they'll take care of him, make sure he's warm in the winter, keep him clean and give him three meals a day.
What he should be doing is hanging on the end of a rope. Think about it - he's never going to get out of prison; all he's going to be is a burden on public finances. Hanging the bastard will save a fortune. Plus, it will be a proper punishment for once.

Choke

So, last night was my usual choke-fest. I woke up four times, choking on various unpleasant substances.
It's a horrible experience. The choking in and of itself is bad enough, but there's the taste as well - bitter; acid; sickly-sweet sometimes. I cough this foul stuff into a tissue, and the sight of it turns my stomach.
Is it any wonder I get frustrated; especially when you take into account the fact that I've tried everything to try to stop it happening? Sometimes I cut myself so that the pain will keep me awake. I sleep in an almost upright position.
I've spent most of today in a drug-addled stupor; sleeping on and off for most of it. I've blacked out three times.
In between these periods of unconsciousness I've been watching the episodes of disc three, season nine of The Simpsons. Some of the best episodes they've ever done are on that disc.
I've also been watching disc two of season six of The X-Files. Not as strong as some previous discs but still very entertaining.
Among my vast array of health problems is my reduced liver function. I also get pain in that area which I'd had under control for a while but it's started getting bad again over the last couple of days. I'm going to be really pissed off if that starts getting really bad again.
My entire life has been a case of dealing with pain of one kind or another. My mom used to say, "God only gives you as much pain as you can deal with." That's bollocks. I have had way much more than anyone can be expected to deal with and the bastard still keeps piling it on.
If the Rapture comes, and I get to stand in front of that bastard, and I'm to kick him in the bollocks and gob in his eye. There's going to be no falling to my knees and lowering my eyes. There'll be no praising him or begging for absolution from my sins. I'll be looking him square in the eye and say, "Hey, bastard. Stick your bible up your arse, because that's where my foot's about to go, you twat. All the shit you've piled on me all my life - fuck you and Adolf Hitler. Amen, you bastard."

My health

I suffer from a number of health conditions, both physical and mental. I'm disabled and housebound.
I hate it. I feel like life has taken a huge shit on me.
I suffer depression, and have done since before it somehow became fashionable. I cut myself, and am often suicidal.
One of my physical conditions is that I choke in the night. I'm not talking about sleep apnoea; I actually regurgitate food and acid in my sleep and inhale it. I wake up choking and have to cough it up. But sometimes it doesn't all come up. Sometimes it feels like my lungs are full of shit. Needless to say, I get a lot of chest infections, and have to take antibiotics on top of the 46 other tablets I have to take every day.
The last couple of days have been bad. I had to have the doctor in today because I've been feeling shite. My doctor is great; a really lovely lady. Dr Hughes. She gave me the once over and had a chat with me. Thankfully, I haven't got a chest infection today, but my blood pressure - which I have problems with - is right up in the red again.
I want to die. I honestly do. If it wasn't for the fact that I need to be here for my kids I would top myself immediately. I'm genuinely not scared of dying, although I do want it to be on my own terms. For once in my life I want to call the shots.
I used to have a plan for my death. I would kill my brother using a knife and a baseball bat before going over to lie on the railway tracks and let a train run over me.
Unfortunately, my worsening health problems mean I'm no longer physically capable of carrying out that plan. So I'm trying to come up with a new one. It's not easy. I get out of breath literally within a few feet. I have to use adapted crutches. How the hell am I supposed to kill my brother in this state? Killing myself is no problem - I have pills; I could open a vein. But I want to end that evil bastard brother of mine before I go.
It may seem odd that I want to kill my brother, but trust me when I tell you, I would be doing the world a favour. He is a genuinely, truly evil man. He's a nonce, a thief, adulterer and bully. He has absolutely no redeeming features. Honestly, there's not so much as a glimmer of goodness in him. He is a monster, and the world would be much better without him.
So, I'll carry on trying to come up with ways to take him out before I check out myself.

PS Professor Jon Raphael of Birmingham University is a corrupt, short, ponce of a man, and if I ever meet him again I will stick a knife in his throat.