Stranded on Gaia

Seven jealous fools playing by her rules

2009-06-26T13:53:00.003+01:00

Who knows what sport Gimme hates the most in the whole wide world?

You, yes, you at the back with the painted on moustache, what's your answer? Rugby? Wrong. I can see why you might think that what with the almost infinite trauma and humiliation that this game inflicted upon my both fat and weedy person as a child. But no, Kellissa, rugby does not hold the top spot.

How about you, the tall lady with magnificent hair, jigging up and down in your seat, pumping your arm repeatedly in the air, making that keening 'I know the answer' noise? Go ahead. Hurling, you say. Hurling. I'm afraid not. Again, it's a reasonable guess, given my well known aversion to pointless pig-fucking savagery. But no dice, Fats.

Shush, now Common Law, we all know that you know the answer. And feel free to ease back on the uproarious laughter. As nobody else knows where this is going, you're just making yourself appear to be afternoon drunk again. And you've cut that out, right?

Yes, the not overly hairy headed recently unemployed looking gentleman. What's that you say? No, no. Speak up. Don't be shy. You have the look of a sports journalist abou you, sir. I think you might have hit Gimme gaming gold. Just one more time so that everyone can hear you...

That's it. Congratulations. Although I do prefer to use the term 'stupid fucking golf'.

Gimme hates golf. He hates the game. He hates the clothes. He hates the rich cunts who play it. He hates the rape of the land that it requires. He hates the fact that it's a fucking verb. We don't football. We don't go tabletennissing. He hates it all, and the rest of it too. And come 7.30am on the morning of July 4th, the morning of the opening of the Tour as it happens, hungover to fuck from the wedding rehearsal dinner, Gimme will, for the greater good, golf.

I asked a friend whose enjoyment of this 'sport' I have decided to temporarily overlook, for advice. It seems that along with 'dress pants' whatever the fuck they are, and a sense of appropriate sobriety, this wedding trip now also requires me to find a t-shirt with a penis on it. Someday my trials will be at an end, but it's not going to be any time soon.

I didn't call on the phone to say I'm alright

2009-06-26T07:46:00.005+01:00

You'll be expecting some comment, no doubt, what with my sparkling reputation for slagging off the recently dead. Let's see, I've done Jesus (recently dead in relative terms), Wendy Richards, Bobby Fisher, Arthur C. Clarke, Katie French before she even kicked it, Paul Newman, Tom Murphy and most satisfyingly of all Jonathan Ryhs Meyer's ma.

But I've got fuck all on this one. A lot of good tunes, but it's not like he was going to be producing another Billie Jean or even another Dirty Diana so no loss there. First black crossover artist, he turns himself white. Not quite MLK. Possibly a paedo, probably a paedo, possibly not. I don't fucking know.

My big problem is that I can't remeber where I was when I heard the news. This is going to rule me out of many a dull discussion over the coming weeks.

Winds of my thoughts passing by

2009-06-25T15:37:00.004+01:00

So the weirdest thing happened. Okay, maybe not the weirdest. Certainly not as weird as the time I cycled drunkenly around town going from Darragh Doyle haunt to Darragh Doyle haunt hoping to finally meet him in person so that I might tell him that I don't really think he's a tiresome tosser but am secretly and car crashingly in love with him. That was somewhat more weird.

So, a slightly weird thing happened. Some randomer landed on this good green gaia yesterday with a google search for 'Robert Eagar'. Robert Eagar was my grandfather. I clicked on the post in question which went by the name of 'Robert Eagar Notes'. Robert Eagar was my grandfather, he wrote Notes. As I clicked I tried to recall having written about this great man, but as it turned out the post was not about him. It was about me. Quelle fucking shocker. Clearly this was not the weird part. The weird part was that the post marked my first bleugh birthday. What was seriously freaky deaky is that totally unbeknownst to me yesterday marked the second. Same date. Like I say, not Darragh Doyle desperate drunken passion weird, but weird all the same.

It's meaningless, of course, particularly considering my many sulky sabbaticals over the last twelve months, but still, happy fucking belated bleugh birthday to me.

The sun is shining as it's always done

2009-06-24T15:38:00.004+01:00

As a rule the folks I come across in my daily life are shit at their jobs. People in shops, for example. Rude. Telephone agents for just about any company you might care to name. Clueless. Everybody in my place of work, rude, clueless and ironically overweight. There are some almost exceptions. I have experienced the odd competent and even friendly bus driver. But I no longer take the bus, so they don't count. That chick at the toll bridge nearly always hands me my change in a satisfactory manner. But she too, could be a lot friendlier. At which point she'd be creepy. So in summary, everyone whose livelihood appropriation has some influence on the smooth running of my day to day existence could be doing a whole lot better. Get it together, fuckers.

And so we come to Michael. Michael has taught Data to swim. Michael has taught many a three and four year old to swim. And he does it with a patience, grace and humour even one of which I have to work hard to summon when faced with just a single traumatised post-toddler. But Michael does it every afternoon for hours and hours with up to ten of these occasionally hysterical children at a time. He charms, splashes, cajoles. He seems instinctively to know when to let them stand at the side of the pool howling and when to dispense unearned high fives. He's a fucking genius and has decisively wrested from the grasp of Paula Radcliffe the accolade of Gimme's all time hero.

Congratualtions, Michael.

Women and children first, and children first, and children

2009-06-23T08:49:00.000+01:00

You know that bit in that Radiohead song off of Kid A where he goes "Ice age coming, ice age coming"? I can't remember what it's called so now I'm going have to go and look it up now. Stupid internet.

'Idioteque'. It's called 'Idioteque'. I quite like it. But I really like the 'ice age coming' part. Because he sings it with excitement as well as fear, like he can't fucking wait even though it'll mean he will die, because at least it will be different. Something different.

This is how I feel about my upcoming trip. Chances are that I won't actually die, I suppose. But you never know. Planes are always crashing after all, weddings are always being bombed. But either way, I've got the apprehension, the sweaty fear of speaking to and in front of many, many strangers. But I have the excitement too. Oh the excitement of being somewhere else, doing something else.

And I'll be wearing a tux. I am going to be so fucking sexy.

Have you ever kissed the sunshine, walked between the rain?

2009-06-22T21:33:00.001+01:00

This guy is on my wheel.

We drop a lot of people, this fucking leecher and me. Up and up we climb, passing, dropping, passing, dropping, rider after rider. I have a magic rhythm in my head, and the puffed words one, two three four, one two three four on my lips. I have recently overheard a grunted 'Slieve Mann' and I know now that this is the big one, and that I have it in me to conquer it, to debase it, to fucking fly up the fucker. I am grinding out my lowest gear, but with some serious spright. Quick turnover. Light legs.

And this guy is on my wheel.

Fair enough, fine. I was dragged up the first third myself, by Chris the Courier. But now Chris is far, far below us. And I'm the one doing all the work. He's on my wheel, right on my wheel so I can't see him, judge him, judge his bike, his clothing, his leg hirsutitude, without a big fat turn around in my saddle. And doing this will cost me not just rhythm but also a modicum of the cool aloofness that I suddenly find myself aggressively cultivating. I make my one two three four a little quicker.

And this guy is on my wheel.

On and on. Up and up. There is beauty, I'm sure, spread out to my left. I can't see it. My eyes stay on the road just ahead, my focus on the rhythm and the avoidance of all these dangerously weaving slow coaches that I'm flying past. My lungs sear, but bearably. My quads sing, but tunefully. Now I see the yellow Powerbar tent in the middle distance and know that the end is nigh. I glance back one last time, yes, he's still fucking there and then I'm out of the saddle, one kick, two kicks, three. And I'm gone.

This guy is no longer on my wheel.

I look around at the summit, trying to identify this wheel sucker, this parasite, so that I might bask in his eternal praise and gratitude, but I don't know what he looks like so a thankless thankless task is what this search turns out to be. Did I imagine this pale or not so pale rider? Was he really there at all? He was, of course he fucking was, the ungrateful bastard.

The generals hate holidays, others shoot up to chase the sun blues away

2009-06-21T16:30:00.008+01:00

What a stupid load of happy horseshit. You all feel better now? With your green backgrounds and your retweeting of videos and poxy proxy numbers? You do, don't you? Well, you fucking shouldn't. Here's what's happening, what's going to happen:

Khamanei says that Ahmadinejhad is president. So he's fucking president. You need almost total support and a wavering military to pull this kind of shit off and neither is in place for this particular revolutionary hue. The sooner these admittedly brave if somewhat naive people realise this, the sooner they're going to stop getting beaten and shot and then taken to hospital where they will be arrested so that they can be beaten and shot some more.

And the sooner the Western media and every asshat with a laptop stop reporting this forgone conclusion as if it were all about us, us wonderful cunts with our twitting machines, the sooner I can turn my attention to the Nevada City Classic and ultimately the upcoming Tour.

That's right Armstrong you scummy fucking doper, you're fucking next.

Cock not Koch

2009-05-02T21:41:00.004+01:00

I am a disgusting person. I am constantly and brazenly unfaithful to my wife. She knows to expect a beating if she complains. I ignore my stupid, fat, whining kids. I'd drown them in the tub if I thought I could get away with it. I have stolen from charities and once kicked an ageing dog to death. Fuck it, I'm a practising paedophile. Why not? I practise all the time.

But it's all okay because I can write about it on an anonymous blog and thus, inexplicably, feel good about myself.

Hearts fail, young hearts fail

2009-05-01T21:19:00.003+01:00

This is what I get for getting it together and sorting shit out. Observe as I struggle to express my sickening disgust at the triumvirate of motoring bastardosity that has fallen across my path.

Three days before the NCT: In for a service. Back brakes need to be entirely replaced. They can't do it in time. Hundreds of euro anyway.

Two days before the NCT: In to generic overcharging garage. Get brakes fixed. Hundreds of euro.

One day before the NCT: On the way to endure through 'Hannah Montana: The Movie' some cunt randomly fucks a stone onto a dual carriageway, hitting my front windscreen and causing a crack only just noticeable enough to be almost certainly spottable by the testers.

No, I don't have windscreen cover. I can't afford it. And I certainly can't afford this. I just can't afford it. Yes, yes, I know that I am a cunt and deserve all the misfortune that is heaped upon me by life and in fucking fairness it's not like I've lost my job or been burgled or bum raped, but if karma could see to widening, by just a teeny smidge, the time scale of this justifiable retribution, then that would be just fucking super.

Gypsy death and you

2009-04-30T14:37:00.004+01:00

For the most part, I will be found here in the coming weeks. For the all part, you will be found bored off your tits.

While I have you, and just so's you know, everything about cars and car ownership is cunt.

I was a hero early in the morning, I ain't no hero in the night

2009-04-27T21:03:00.003+01:00

Train, eat, sleep. Train, eat, sleep. It is a selfish and ultimately pointless pursuit, no doubt, but it makes me slightly happier, I believe. I believe as I face first my late night steamed fish and brown rice. Protein, complex carbs. Protein, complex carbs. It's not like I owe you cunts anything, you know. And I'd rather not sully my many moments of endorphin induced ecstasy by scribbling them down for your slobbering.

We'll talk when I'm 67 kilos. Or when I break 30 minutes for five miles. Or when I don't die in the Wicklow mountains.

One of these events is surely relatively imminent.

I met a man in Katmandu who claimed to have two willies

2009-04-16T16:12:00.003+01:00

I would be a shitty paraplegic. The mere fact of being unable to move my right arm above shoulder height for 48 hours due not to a dramatic and exciting smashed collar bone bicycle crash but to the deeply unimpressive ailment commonly known as 'sleeping funny on it' turned me decisively into a immobile, chocolate stuffing, Simpsons Hit and Run playing, hot water bottle demanding, Cormac McCarthy's 'The Road' reading in one sitting, miserable cunt.

I hate not being able to do stuff with my limbs. Limb stuff doing seems to me to be a Gimme birthright and having to submit to 45 minutes of charmingly named, turns out I have met a nice South African Reetha inflicted agony to get said right right again was a heavy price to pay.

Gladness will no doubt reign with the knowledge that I have my full range of motion back with just the minor inconvenience of a sickening shoulder click on full extension. I am therefore off the Playstation and once again talking to the internet. Lucky fucking you guys.

We'd all be speaking German, living under the flag of Japan

2009-04-11T19:36:00.002+01:00

What, both?

And while I admire the rhyming of 'beaches' and 'leeches' (France has jungles?), I think you might have done better than 'shoulder' and 'forward'. I seem to remember McCartney having the same problem, but at least he had the self-possession to blame it on John.

I know. Picky, picky.

Minimum, maximum, beats per minute

2009-04-09T16:41:00.003+01:00

I can think of few things more irritating than lifestyle pieces about cunts who are attempting to commute by bicycle for the first time. I'm pretty sure even that sexy bitch Ingle did one once. They're always jolly and 'Oooh look at all the potholes!' and 'My, don't the buses come awfully close!' and 'Didn't I feel wonderfully smug as I passed by the lines of cars!'. These pieces always conclude with the acceptance of the fact that cycling is quicker, healthier and cheaper but that the writer won't ever be doing it again. They have a car!!! Who are they, Eamon Ryan??!! Hahahaha!!!!!

But this one takes the week old cheap Super Valu yellow pack custard cream. An electric bike is not a bike, you fat lazy pig, it's a shitty little scooter. You're not commuting by bike, you're commuting by cunt. You're a fucking menace to both real cyclists and on the upside, to cars. You will have burnt more calories performing your daily out-licking of Geraldine Kennedy on your return to the offices of The Irish Toss. And you did what? You fucking 'paused for a cappuccino'? How did you write that, read it back and not go 'Jesus H. Christ on a rich child's toy, how fucking pompous and cuntish do I sound? A million. A million pompous and cuntish I sound.'

Did diddums's feety weety get wetty betty? When you were outdoors? Moving through the rain? Who the fuck would have seen that coming? If you'd done any sort of research you would have realised how easy this is to remedy, you twat.

And just so you know, 'Tim', the reason you got a puncture is that you went into one of your beloved potholes, like the idiot prick that you are. I guess you were too busy not exercising to pay any attention to what was happening on the road ahead of you. And what kind of coat is that? And have you seen your fucking hair recently?

Should have got a proper bike, 'Tim'. Cheaper, and exactly the fucking same when sat in the garage as you drive to work because cycling an electric bike in the rain is just too hard. But at least you used an ill-thought out and pointless scheme to dick the taxpayer out of a bit of cash, huh?

One flash of light but no smoking pistol

2009-04-08T14:50:00.008+01:00

Bull Island, Friday, April 10, 2009. A light drizzle falls on a sombrely dressed group who stand listening as a tall, middle-aged woman performs yet another oratory for her recently deceased sister. Some of the group shift uncomfortably, some listen intently, others, not being English speakers, concentrate on looking Mediterraneanly sad. There are wet eyes among each contingent. The speaker holds a large silver urn.

The drone of helicopter is heard, faint at first, but quickly becoming louder, nearer. Its whirr is answered by the violent screech of tyres. Instantly it seems, the helicopter is overhead, drowning out the persistent eulogy. A voice is megaphoned from the chopper as four police cars fly over the sand dunes and skid to a stop twenty feet from the mourners.

'Put down the urn! Put down the urn and step away!'

My oldest aunt stands paralysed, the most senior now of the Zealot sisters. The police captain speaks into his walkie talkie from a crouched position behind a car. 'Let her have the warning.' A shot rings out. A puff of sand an inch from my mother's sister's foot. She drops the urn, the lid falls and the ashes spill out onto the nature preserve.

'That's it,' intones the captain with a hint of regret. 'That's a scattering. Open fire.'

A rain of bullets cuts through the breezy spring morning. Screams. Moans. Death all around. Hans Brinker, shot through the shoulder, shrieks 'I told you so! I told you filthy Catholic hippies so!'

Remember when my step father Hans wouldn't drive us to Riker's communion, because of the law? He is currently concerned that the scattering of ashes is just as illegal as having four in the back of a car. Oh, how concerned he is.

One night he woke from a vision of his own death

2009-04-07T21:58:00.003+01:00

I am changed. How I am changed.

I stepped out of double spin to discover a wild and windy downpour. No Purple in which to cower as I stick strongly to my new 'no more than one commute a day by car' meaningless rule. And I though not:

'Motherfucking, cunting, bastarding, fucking cunt bastard.'

Nor even:

'Perhaps I should fake a puncture and get a cab.'

But:

'This last ten kilometres of the night is going to increase both my fitness and my mental strength.'

A single race, that briefest of competition tastes, has transformed me straight back into a smug, non-smoking, goal-driven go getter who actually relishes half an hour in the battering wind and rain. All the way home I looked forward not to a big fat doobie and a double Caucasian in a pint glass, but to the waiting broccoli salad, with the refreshing accompaniment of lashings of tap water. My latest goal is the Wicklow 200, and by all accounts mental strength is something that I will be needing in abundance. Dear reader, you are going to fucking hate it around here until, in a moment of weakness, I take up crystal meth with the same enthusiasm that I am currently applying to my training regime. And that could be a while. Or, you know, tomorrow.

But in the meantime there remains hope and sustenance for the car crash rubber neckers of my sick psyche. I had a dream last night. It was a sexy dream. Roisin Ingle was in it. Being sexy.

You'll be wanting to tell me what that means now. Though I think I'd prefer it if you were to just kill me dead.

I can't spell away this hurt that's drippin' down my cheek

2009-04-06T21:49:00.004+01:00

Riker's report came in the post today. It's great the way they write 'em up and ship 'em out in April, thus providing my child and her friends with tacit permission to do what the fuck they want for the next three months. Go for it, girls. Burn the fucking school down. None of it's going on your permanent record.

The report runs as follows: in each subject one can be very good, good, fair or has difficulties. Fair as Riker is, she got no fairs. Difficult as her prematurely launched adolescence is, she got no has difficulties. And so I scrutinise every little good as if it said useless little bitch. There were only two. One was in 'English Spelling Ability'. Remember that for me folks, tuck it in the back of your very good minds for the conclusion of the post.

Then we have a section entitled 'General Comments'. Here's how that one panned out:

'Riker is a friendly, diligent pupil. She applies herself well in all areas of the curriculum, particularly the arts.'

Sic, folks. Fucking sic.

What the fuck am I talking about? This may upset, so you might want to get a drink or light a smoke or cook up a hit. Gimme was going to write hilariously about how the teacher misspelled the word 'diligent.' Except that she didn't. Gimme misspelled it in his head. Gimme didn't realise this until the internal spell checker pointed it out. Gimme the fucking pedantic spelling scold fucked up a spelling. Call the social services people, and have these children taken from me before I pass on any more of this good stuff.

I know this road leads straight into Cairo

2009-04-06T00:51:00.000+01:00

Bock hates women, Medbh hates Bock, Twenty loves a good dust up.

You don't need to concern yourself with all this shit. All you need to concern yourself with is Gimme and how close he is to giving it all up, to walking the Earth, to car gassing himself now that he finally has a car.

There is no self-knowledge like the self -knowledge doled out in a road race. I reached the point this afternoon where I could do no more and hideously recognised that feeling. I am, in my everyday life, at the point where I can do no more. And there is so much more to do.

This is why I am a feminist. I am living in the world of women. I cook and clean and it is never enough. Sure, I walk through life with all the privileges of a man, but I come home to the oppression of a woman. So, I know. But I won't walk the Earth and I won't gas the car, because, weirdly, of this:

http://kidsmobilemarathon.com/home.html

If this little goal can inspire in my Riker even a millisecond of the perfect agony I felt with 200m to go, then my work is just about done. Apart from the whole being alive and succeeding in her eyes bit. I guess I'll be going for that shit too.

The only thing that's real

2009-04-04T10:37:00.004+01:00

There exists a picture of me, standing shivering in the early Canadian morning sun, socks pulled up to a ridiculous height in accidental homage to Paula and her squeezy tights, looking scared. Scared, scared, scared.

Shifting from foot to foot on a starting line bears some comparison to standing by the side of a stage, waiting for a cue. The sick sinking stomach feeling, the slight tremble, the mixed result attempts to control one's heart rate and bowels. But there is a single big fucking difference. Unless the play in which one is performing is 'The Real Life Beating of That Effeminate Guy Off Of Glenroe' then one can be fairly confident that one is not stepping into anything from seventeen minutes to an hour and a half of reasonably intense pain. Nerves before a show. Fear, fabulous fatalistic fear, before a race.

So a little 10k jaunt on the morrow, a brief lope about the park. Except that it won't be. I just sent a mail to the lady who conned me into partaking in this first race in five years saying that I am not after all, going to pace her around, hurling abuse like the abuse hurling pro that I am. No, I'm going to race the motherfucker, and attempt to break a pathetic 45 mins. And with two weeks training, I know how even this snail like 7'12 pace is going to feel. Really fucking sore. Super burny, in legs, arms, back and lungs. Right from the top and all the way through until about a klick to go at which point I will attempt to make it stop being sore and try to find the most sustainable agony that I have felt in half a decade. I'm looking forward to it.

And I'm really fucking scared.

It's not your business anyway

2009-04-03T18:07:00.004+01:00

Riker was off early today for the Easter holidays, and I was running calmly late from my morning's class. My route home takes me past the school and I spotted her from a good way off, walking by herself and struggling mightily under the weight of the school bag that she had forgotten, once again, to empty. I was about to proceed with a little shock and awe demonstration of my new skid stop skill, but something gave me pause.

It's an unoriginal sentiment which gels nicely with my cliché-ridden opening paragraph, but there are few things more heart-wrenching that watching your child merely be, while you yourself remain unobserved. Even from behind there was much to be read, in her loping Gimme gate, the kicking and dragging of her feet, the turgid pace of her walk. Why so slow, Riker? Don't you want to be home with us? You think you're fucking Luka or something? Your back looks sad, my daughter. Why does your back look so sad?

I skidded up. She looked up, seemingly unsurprised, certainly unimpressed.

'What are you doing here?'

'Coming home from work. What are you doing here?'

'Coming home from school.'

'Oh yeah?'

'Yeah.'

'Take your bag?'

'Thanks!'

And then she was off, skipping along with me, doing her babbling brook bit, goading me into more SUV scaring super skids. And so it must have been the weight, not of the world, but of her bag that was bearing down upon my beloved Riker. It surely must have been.

I have heard rumours all over town

2009-04-02T11:18:00.003+01:00

I get the papers, get the papers just once a week, on my Thursday, post 7am spin, drive home. As a rule I can't take current affairs too early in the morning, but when one or two (am I still doing the we thing, nah, I guess I've let that shit go) have been up since 5.30, Morning Ireland's 8.15 newspaper round-up seems positively afternoony. So here's the only item that managed to take my attention from abusing cunts in tanks through the closed window of my dearest Purple:

Queuing for food

I haven't read the article. Why would I? It'll only get me down. But allow me point out that if it was a lovely, sunny day and I wasn't doing anything else due to, I don't know, unemployment or some shit, and I had my iPhone with me and if I could be reasonably confident that my parcel would contain a Snickers or two, I would be quite happy to spend an afternoon standing in a free stuff queue.

People don't realize that two large pieces of coral, painted brown and attached to his skull with common wood screws can make a child look like a deer

2009-04-01T19:01:00.007+01:00

The most important aspect of Monday's throwaway post about the difficulty and pointlessness of debating with morons has been lost in the mists of rage that descended upon Gimme for daring to offer a three word critique of a 'faux-naive rage bait' presentation by the most widely read guy in the history of the world. Move the fuck over Old Testament author guy (Dan Brown? I can never remember) there's a new buck in town.

To be Krystle: Gimme stands by his 'incitement to misogyny' remark and thinks people need to either chill the fuck or be less fucking stupid. Either or. They both work for the G man.

So to the aforementioned aspect of importance. It's the title, folks. Did you catch the title.? So very, very many levels. If you're new to the wonders of Stranded on Gaia, and I know there's plenty of you still dropping by today, you may be unaware that all of my titles are taken from the lyrics of songs. And they are always multi-faceted and worthy of your research. But deep as these daily headlines doubtless are, they be a piss puddle on the bathroom floor compared to that last one.

'Just like that robbery in '62'

Get it? You think you get it, but you don't. Yes, it is from a song by the name of 'You Keep It All In' which includes the line 'the conversation we had last night when all I wanted to do was knife you in the heart'. So there's your first connection. But the name of the song too, folks! The post is about keeping it all in rather than engaging with twats! So far so fucking brilliant, right?

But if you can fucking Adam and Eve it, there is even more. I might have used the line 'Just like that murder in '73'. But I chose to not. Instead, I used the one with the word 'robbery'. Why? Because the comment that I quoted to prove my point came from a website written by this bunch of people called 'Bock the....' Oh yeah. That's post titling shit that you can take to the bank, baby.

Save your applause until you have read some of the others:

The recent but wonderfully obscure:

Her mother said 'Love is not that way. Dear God he'll pay.'

The little Biafra playlet:

If Jesus saw Pat Robertson what do you think he'd say?

And one from way, way back in 2007. Back in the day when we got on so very well, even if they was telling me what to do. Sniff:

You won't believe what Mr. Stitches saw

Just like that robbery in '62

2009-03-30T16:50:00.007+01:00

Gimme present (that's not a typo, we meant to use the first person plural there. We're a 'we' now, we've decided) a detailed look at how one might go about responding to the kind of comment that makes one want to reach aha like through the monitor and pull out the words in question so that one might set them on fire, piss on them, dry them out, set them on fire again and piss on them again before putting the resultant sodden pile of ashes in a tupperware bowl and posting said bowl, old school style, to their composer:

1) Read comment:

All too true Bock. The problem here seems to be that while the wife had another relationship she was not content to take his marriage away from him but also his family and his home and to set up the other man as a surrogate parent to his family.
While what he did was obviously wrong I personally can understand the pain and suffering he was going through. When someone is fucking with your mind you can get so deep into the mire that you can see no light at the end of the tunnel except maybe the train coming at you.

2) Physical and vocal but non-verbal reaction:

Do what feels right here. Grab your hair. Shriek. Realise that you don't really have any hair to grab anymore. Allow this to inform your shriek.

3) Verbalisation:

Mutter this to yourself, it's not suitable for the children. Something like: 'For the love of fucking christ fucking mary fucking the holy ghost, he fucking killed her.' Mutterings may be high in their pitch. Make use of this.

4) First draft:

Go on, get the mindless cursing, the ad hominen attacks, the scathing references to shitty, shitty tunnel end clichés out of the way. You'll want to open with something along the lines of 'He fucking stabbed her in front of their children you at the absolute best obtuse cunt.' Close with more cunts. Release the beast.

5) Second draft:

Do your smarty pants one.

'She was totally fucking asking for it, the bitch', works well.

'I'm not racist but...' is good too, but perhaps a little subtle for the kind of creep upon whom you are calling.

'You killed your wife too, didn't you?' on the other hand, fits the bill nicely.

6) Third and final draft:

This one is extremely labour-intensive involving as it does much thought, time, and trawling for the mot juste. It will be reasoned, logical and will have the power to lift the scales from the eyes of the horrible, the blind and the horribly blind. But you won't write it. It's too much work. Instead you should dial it back to smart-arse, and take it to your own bleugh where there's a chance not every fucker is firm in the believe that the ladies are our property to do with as we see fit.

This advice is applicable not just to the comment above but to the majority of comments on the same post. The post itself, being merely an incitement to misogyny, may need a different approach. We're guessing running repeatedly and face first into a brick wall might well do the trick.

Just victims of the in-house drive-by

2009-03-30T00:01:00.000+01:00

You know when you’re playing GTA, not IV, but San Andreas, and you're just cruising around, looking for people to interesingly kill and suddenly there’s only like two kinds of cars on the road and a limited selection of pedestrians to run over and it grates just a little because everything else about the game is so fucking fantastic? You know when that happens? I thought so.

This been happening to me in 'real' life. Every second car on the road in the last few days has been a BMW. I've been boxed in, cut off and on Jesus Killer, almost mowed down. All by these Beemers, driven to a man and woman, by cunts. Terrible, terrible cunts.

And yet still I am not allowed to run them off the road and then shoot them in the face.

And I felt like getting high

2009-03-28T20:34:00.005Z

We've fucked it all up and we will be extinct soon. Or as near as dammit. Post Zombie War levels of population is where we're going, if we survive at all, and it'll be all our fault. Even if a billion remain, incredible suffering and destruction will prevail. We know this.

Thing is, if you're reading this now, as opposed to when 'The Wisdom of Gimme' is bigger than the fucking Bible, then you'll be probably be dead before it gets too bad. Get in! We're the ones who fucked it up, we're the ones who had the chance to turn it around, but we don't have to pay! What an excellent deal. So whatever you fucking do, don't turn your fucking lights off. That would kind of mess with the plan for us to suck every available resource into our insanely comfortable lives.

So I just went outside. Walked to the middle of our L shaped cul de sac. Shrieked down both lines: 'Not one? Not one of you fucking cunts?'

And then I walked back to my darkened house. And turned all the lights back on. If they don't do it, I don't have to.