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.