Nobody's Friend

War

2009-12-15T01:16:00.004Z

This is totally warry.

Strange

2009-12-05T00:58:00.012Z

Snob.

I

...but that's enough about me.

Selling a russian-language artsy-voguesy hypheny-hypheny phoo phoo magazine in a box for £4.50 out of W H Smiths at Charing Cross Station is blackholeuarly way more fuck off than poor Jeremy Clarkson's pitiful doing puddles on your carpet. Using Cyrillic script as a marketing tool is... BUY THINGS YOU DON'T UNNERSTAN'

Which is hem hem th'zeitgeist innit no.

Yes I bought one but I know how to deal with substances. Also emanations - free tip here, if you are approached by an ectoplasm just hit it with your walking stick and watch it unfurl or snap back into the groin of the emanator. I have much wisdom but I can't afford to give everything away for free I am a poor man too, and if you won't pay for advice you won't act on it.

Whatever

2009-11-13T01:32:00.005Z

Heat in the flat -
Stink of white spirit
We will hide at the station
Where nobody asks.

Pornography

2009-11-10T04:20:00.002Z

It may not work.

November

2009-11-10T03:58:00.004Z

I would have put a £10 on my card for the gas so I can warm myself. Also you need £10 on another card for the electricity to set fire to the gas.

They get you both ways.

Readers: Pity you drank it before you even got to the shop.

Self: Now I am cold.
wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww

wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww

sorry, just scraping some poo off my "w" key.

Readers: How sure are you that sea-going pterodactyls were coloured the same way as gulls?

Self: One of them fuckers ate my gas card.

Us 51-Year-Old Alcoholics...

2009-10-18T01:22:00.007+01:00

... do not give a shit about screamy white people who can't sing to save their ass and if Mr. S. Cowell wants to make money promoting them as screamy white people who could not and indeed do no (axtualllly that is rthe whole point S Cowell)
t sing to save their ass and everybody writhing in the lesbian snake-pit that is Radio 4 wants to promote them as girls who could or can or might sing to save their little tushies from the flames

I raise a glass to every body who has sailed around th'world all alone in tehrir yachy and who mhas then turned up on Desert island |Discs.

Pity about those screaming whiteys tho.

National Rail Enquiries - be there or be square.

National Rail Enquiries

2009-10-15T03:23:00.006+01:00

There was I trying to look up a link on YouTube to a "Happy Song" but instead I clicked on the wrong thing on my bookmarks and got National Rail Enquiries instead.

Fire away, don't mind me.

Glad to have brought you this.

Oh No

2009-10-15T02:25:00.011+01:00

The karaoke machine appears to have come from a far superior alien planet whose inhabitants are ahead of ours*** technichologhicallhy. We can only ask you to remain calm and listen alertly and yet humbly to their communications.

Listeners: Can't we go back to the sort of homely collation of 'facts' that Radio 4 is so good at presenting?

United Nations Emergency Talking Shop: Having a writerly lesbian present every single radio clip you've got about the moon landing stuff plus anything that has ever had the word 'moon' in it...

Listeners: Yes but now we've got a serial about radishes throughout human history presented by a person of a darker but not necessarily worse persuasion at 11:30 on Wednesdays with an omnibus edition at 10:00 on Sundays and then there's the Archers and Falloon might have or be about to fuck somebody or eat them and on television Sir Richard Atenbo is got some pics of one animal eating enothe and fucking it which is Nature and they eat each other specially the penquins and th'bears and radishes were a form of currency in Early Hirsute Turkey but by the Medieval Ages the radish became a "salmagundy" which is the sort of salad grown in Anglia...

Aliens: That's really badass seals eating th'penquins.

***Listeners: Isn't an "ours" a sort of bear, they eat salmon you know. And they're hairy.

Wretch

2009-10-10T03:16:00.018+01:00

After dinner, drinkies and an evening of passion with your lovely Jamaican girlfriend do you:

a) wait until she falls asleep, drink a bottle of Famous Grouse in the kitchen with the lights out; wish that the local offie was open all night so you could buy another bottle of Famous Grouse; greet the dawn with bogus enthusiasm when she awakes,

or

b) not a).

If you answered mostly a) you may well be a Wretch.

What the Fuck?

2009-10-10T02:14:00.002+01:00

Readers: What the fuck.

Hostess Trolley: Move along now please. Nothing to see here etc move along now.

Readers: I wouldn't be surprised if you were to reveal your Infallible World Domination Plan in the post after this one.

Blogfeld: Less of the Infallible, please. It might not work.

Readers:

BlogJamesBlog: Either way you won't feel a thing.

You Wanted to Vote for Something?

2009-10-07T00:53:00.004+01:00

Enjoy your "voting experience".

"Journey", obviously I meant "journey".

Anyone can have an "experience".

Recessional

2009-10-03T00:07:00.006+01:00

Perhaps we could have a word in my office.

Doors closed. Y'unnerstan'

Those Bloody Tenants

2009-10-02T03:50:00.002+01:00

Hola!?!

All is well with the world! Don't worry! Be happy!

Ceux qui ont avancé que tout est bien ont dit une sottise; il fallait dire que tout est au mieux.

Fat Bastard Makes $$$ Off Of Capitalism

2009-10-02T03:37:00.006+01:00

You would cry tooo

if it happened to youooo

Gardeners' Question Time

2009-09-28T04:00:00.004+01:00

Just a few questions for you gardeners.

Tenants

2009-09-25T03:48:00.014+01:00

Mr. Potato Head (to the Potatoe Head Family): Sssssh will you shut the fuck up. I keep telling you, there's nothing to lose by trying. Here we go.

Am I not your Brother?

If you prick me, do I not bleed?

Blogista: No. And when stabbed you just leak potato juice.

Mr. Pototo Hod: So we can be on your blog then?

Blogista: You can have the second floor all to yourself and family, as long as you take your shoesies off and don't wear your hats indoors. Tenants are expected to shave regularly. We do not entertain guests of a less-than-latte persuasion.

Mr. Poteoteo Horde: So we will be reduced to being potatoes with big false plastic pink ears. Alors. You undertake not to bake us with cheese'n'benz or tuna mayoniosse?

Blogista: Your children are wearing yellow slag bands. In my book, that means I can eat them with a little chopped chive and a plain French dressing. Nom nom nom.

When you die thin k Accessories like man-dibles

2009-09-25T02:04:00.006+01:00

Blogista: When I die I want to go suited and booted.
Death: This isn't a job application. You can wear what you like.
Blogista: Well shucks, anyhow I never really quite believed in in the Austin Reed navy-blue double-breasted. Good as it was.
Death: You should learn to play the jass cornet. Just joking. Try chess.
Blogista: You play chess?
Death: No.
Blogista: Many people find relief in Gararararedeners' Question Time. In Radio 4 generally...
Death:
Blogista: There's that Mr Humphreys and Sue and Sooty. And Sweep. WELSH PEOPLE and others of an ethnic origin. Their name is Legion, because they are many!
Death: ~

Gentleman Rankers

2009-09-24T02:51:00.013+01:00

To the legion of the lost ones, to the cohort of the damned,
To my brethren in their sorrow overseas,
Sings a gentleman of England cleanly bred, machinely crammed,
And a trooper of the Empress, if you please.
Yea, a trooper of the forces who has run his own six horses,
And faith he went the pace and went it blind,
And the world was more than kin while he held the ready tin,
But to-day the Sergeant's something less than kind.

We're poor little lambs who've lost our way,
Baa! Baa! Baa!
We're little black sheep who've gone astray,
Baa--aa--aa!
Gentlemen-rankers out on the spree,
Damned from here to Eternity,
God ha' mercy on such as we,
Baa! Yah! Bah!

Oh, it's sweet to sweat through stables, sweet to empty kitchen slops,
And it's sweet to hear the tales the troopers tell,
To dance with blowzy housemaids at the regimental hops
And thrash the cad who says you waltz too well.
Yes, it makes you cock-a-hoop to be "Rider" to your troop,
And branded with a blasted worsted spur,
When you envy, O how keenly, one poor Tommy being cleanly
Who blacks your boots and sometimes calls you "Sir".

If the home we never write to, and the oaths we never keep,
And all we know most distant and most dear,
Across the snoring barrack-room return to break our sleep,
Can you blame us if we soak ourselves in beer?
When the drunken comrade mutters and the great guard-lantern gutters
And the horror of our fall is written plain,
Every secret, self-revealing on the aching white-washed ceiling,
Do you wonder that we drug ourselves from pain?

We have done with Hope and Honour, we are lost to Love and Truth,
We are dropping down the ladder rung by rung,
And the measure of our torment is the measure of our youth.
God help us, for we knew the worst too young!
Our shame is clean repentance for the crime that brought the sentence,
Our pride it is to know no spur of pride,
And the Curse of Reuben holds us till an alien turf enfolds us
And we die, and none can tell Them where we died.

We're poor little lambs who've lost our way,
Baa! Baa! Baa!
We're little black sheep who've gone astray,
Baa--aa--aa!
Gentlemen-rankers out on the spree,
Damned from here to Eternity,
God ha' mercy on such as we,
Baa! Yah! Bah!

Blogista (sings): "We have done with Hope and Honour, we are lost to Love and Truth".

Roadsters: You haven't got laid recently then.

Blogshaw: I am not an Egg.

Rickrollers:

Blus 280 from Mitcham 'Fair Green' to Sutton-'Times Square': Point is, I write all this shit. Except for the bits I cut'n'paste, obviously. Either way I can't lose.

Organ Donatgion

2009-09-18T03:58:00.009+01:00

Saint Thérèse of Lisieux died of tuberculosis in 1897, age 24.

Her 'relics' have just completed a tour from London to Southampton.

Readers: Quoi?

I quote from the Telegraph...

St Thérèse's body was divided into three after her death, and the relics on display here comprise portions of her thigh and foot bones. The remainder are in France.

Just need a Saint and a saw, and you're in business.

Tramp Stamp

2009-09-16T02:44:00.020+01:00

For me, this does'nt work as a tramp stamp.

Well, wha'td work for you you ask..?

1	And they came over unto the other side of the sea, into the country of the Gad'arenes.
2	And when he was come out of the ship, immediately there met him out of the tombs a man with an unclean spirit,
3	who had his dwelling among the tombs; and no man could bind him, no, not with chains:
4	because that he had been often bound with fetters and chains, and the chains had been plucked asunder by him, and the fetters broken in pieces: neither could any man tame him.
5	And always, night and day, he was in the mountains, and in the tombs, crying, and cutting himself with stones.
6	But when he saw Jesus afar off, he ran and worshipped him,
7	and cried with a loud voice, and said, What have I to do with thee, Jesus, thou Son of the most high God? I adjure thee by God, that thou torment me not.
8	For he said unto him, Come out of the man, thou unclean spirit.
9	And he asked him, What is thy name? And he answered, saying, My name is Legion: for we are many.
10	And he besought him much that he would not send them away out of the country.
11	Now there was there nigh unto the mountains a great herd of swine feeding.
12	And all the devils besought him, saying, Send us into the swine, that we may enter into them.
13	And forthwith Jesus gave them leave. And the unclean spirits went out, and entered into the swine; and the herd ran violently down a steep place into the sea, (they were about two thousand,) and were choked in the sea. Least you've got something to read.

2009-09-05T05:25:00.006+01:00

I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently this country is at war with Grararargharargharrrrh

Seventy years on and at last those of us who were conceived at the exact moment that Britain declared war upon Germany have had our own parade, through Mitcham town centre.

What Me?

2009-08-28T01:20:00.010+01:00

Dear Diary: Spent most of today feeling ill and incapacitated by a hangover as ever.

Jammed a stapler with the wrong size of staple. Removed staple with key pinched from colleague's desk. 1/2 hr. There is nothing that can go wrong in an office that cannot be solved by things you can find in the office, which somehow amounts to a futile and circular argument*.

Went 'home' to the local Weatherspoons for the usual gallon of medicinal Wifebeater.

Went home v. hungry and nothing in the larder but a small pot of honey, which ate.

Tomorrow another day working on my Project, "X---- Primary Care Trust: Mental Health Strategy for 2015".

Well, it is now 0130 and I am not sure I am feeling any better.

* except in the US postal service where a colleague might "go postal" at any moment. But they have cool stuff like guns.

True Love

2009-08-26T00:27:00.011+01:00

Tap tap tap-tap-tap-tap-tap

Everybody loves my baby and everybody loves my baby except me.

She don't want my penis (honest) on this island Greek
No-one loves the penis, she's my genius, I'm a cheek.

Buttock. Pause for excitiing trumpet break.

You can see how well the Temperance 7 are expressing why not to holiday in Greece. One up to the jass legends.

I have never been nearer to th'Aegean than the Isle of Wight (aficionados will remember the Ventnor paddig pool as it was in the early 1960s) but this is a just-in-case I ever go to Greece.

Readrers: Don't you mean, "paddling pool"? Did you have a cold or something?

Blogista: No, last time I was on the Isle of Wight I got the shits. But I could still communicate.

re
adaers: I bet.

Blogista: "Hey I'm still in here". And I was only six.

Buzzzy Bankerzzzz Bonusezzzzzzz

2009-08-06T01:01:00.022+01:00

So what did you expect?

Sweating: put a few gold coins in a bag and rattle them around a bit until some dust has got rattled off. Collect the dust.

Clipping: shave the unwanted edges off inaccurately-minted gold coins, just to even up the coins. Keep the shavings.

She was poor but she was honest
Though she came of humble stock
And an honest heart was beating
Underneath her tattered frock
Oh you poor takspayers, oh oh oh.

Phwoooar. And all for the price of a small ('otel) port wine. And the 'otel room, obviously.

What, you wouldn't????

What is she a'doing of?

A Small Step For A Man

2009-07-20T23:36:00.016+01:00

I must be about the only person on the planet who did not witness Mr. Neil Armstrong take his (and Our! and OUR! Our?????) first step onto the moon.

I was only 11 and cannot remember precisely why I refused to watch the Great Event, and instead went up to my bedroom. Certainly I was too young (by a year or so) for Masturbation: it cannot have been a More Pressing Priority. And I did not have an Airfix Kit to finish. Yet.

As I remember it was because the whole circus was presented on a grainy b&w AuntyBBC TV set by the gruesome James Burke*, a kind of pre-Celebrity celebrity.

Readers: Just get with the flow, Johnson. Push that broom.

* and Patrick Moore and Cliff Michelmore... Jesus H. Christ no wonder I bridled. But J. Burke was the frontman for the Landing, I am certain.