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Errrr yeah, right, hello, bet you wish you hadn't bothered clicking on my profile now. However seeing as you are here now why not say hello...... or not.
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» Tramps
There is a ceratin breed of cyclist that simply oozes mug self righteousness
"I'm saving the environment" they say.
"I'm fit and healthy" they show off.
"I actually quiet like the feeling of lycra against my frank and beans" they probably think.
Anyway, there are plenty of these tools around London whizzing in and out of traffic, zipping straight through traffic lights and squishing under lorries.
One beautiful sunny day in London town I saw a swarm of these brightly coloured piss weasels pull up at the side of the road for a hydration session (drink to you and me).
As they glugged down their isotonic hydrating glucozoidal treacle something wonderful happened. A tramp came around the corner on "his" bike, he was giving it some beans as he was probably late for a dinner party or some such thing. He going fast enough that the rudimentary cloak that he had fashioned from old plastic bags flew majestically in the breeze like some kind of Tesco value superhero, SuperWino!
When he saw his cycling brethren he slammed on the brakes and pulled up beside them, lent down to the lower cross bar of the frame of his bike where there was a water bottle holder and pulled out a shiny can of Special Brew.
The cyclists looked on in disgust as he raised it up, opened the top, shouted/burped "CHEERS" and downed the lot, before crushing the can with snarl and riding off to his next SuperWino adventure fortified by his magic potion.
(Fri 3rd Jul 2009, 13:01, More)
There is a ceratin breed of cyclist that simply oozes mug self righteousness
"I'm saving the environment" they say.
"I'm fit and healthy" they show off.
"I actually quiet like the feeling of lycra against my frank and beans" they probably think.
Anyway, there are plenty of these tools around London whizzing in and out of traffic, zipping straight through traffic lights and squishing under lorries.
One beautiful sunny day in London town I saw a swarm of these brightly coloured piss weasels pull up at the side of the road for a hydration session (drink to you and me).
As they glugged down their isotonic hydrating glucozoidal treacle something wonderful happened. A tramp came around the corner on "his" bike, he was giving it some beans as he was probably late for a dinner party or some such thing. He going fast enough that the rudimentary cloak that he had fashioned from old plastic bags flew majestically in the breeze like some kind of Tesco value superhero, SuperWino!
When he saw his cycling brethren he slammed on the brakes and pulled up beside them, lent down to the lower cross bar of the frame of his bike where there was a water bottle holder and pulled out a shiny can of Special Brew.
The cyclists looked on in disgust as he raised it up, opened the top, shouted/burped "CHEERS" and downed the lot, before crushing the can with snarl and riding off to his next SuperWino adventure fortified by his magic potion.
(Fri 3rd Jul 2009, 13:01, More)
» Have you ever seen a dead body?
Back when I was young little ape
I was exploring my friends back garden (snigger) looking for treasure/porn/buried civil war swords.
We were, all in all, having a smashing day simply beings boys, climbing stuff, breaking stuff and generally enjoying a sunny outdoor pre computer game world.
Our explorations eventually took us to the back of the old garage, which according to my fellow conspiritor was still full of rubbish from the previous owners who had moved out over ten years ago.
A quick sortie turned up nothing of interest,but it had exposed a massive floral sofa pushed flush against the rear wall.
Mustering all the strength our frankly stick thin arms could manage we prised the forlorn DFS reject from the wall to expose the potential treasures behind.
What we saw frankly made us both jump a little and then laugh manically.
It was a mummified cat!
The poor wretched creature must have been trapped behind the sofa all those years before and died of starvation. It was flat as a pancake along it's vertical axis, and its mouth was gaping , teeth exposed as it exclaimed it's final strangled meow at the cruel world that had led to it's awful fate.
With the help of gloves, a stick and a lot of, "oh urggh you touched it!" we managed to extract the mousing Mumra and we skipped happily back out into the light with our crispy spoils.
What to do? What to do? We pondered, and with some sort of divine intervention our sisters giggled their way around the corner, probably talking about boys/ponies/sylvanian families.
This was too good an opportunity to miss and a plan was soon hatched so fiendish in it's inception even a 'devious plan' think tank including the pure evil of Hitler, my old French teacher and robert Kilroy Silk could not have bettered it.
We climbed to a level of the garden slightly above our, obviously, stinky sisters and launched the flattened feline like an undead frisbee from hell!!!
It flew with the grace of a swallow and the excocet accuracy of a peregrin falcon towards it's targets and as it reached the point of no return my friend wailed at the top of his lungs.
"MEEEEEOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWARRGHHHHH"!
Just the sound a mummified, undead frisbee cat would make I'm sure you'll agree.
The sisters looked skywards, the sisters screamed and the sisters in their haste to escape this flying hell cat jumped and ran into each other so hard that my sister lost a tooth.
I swear to God something popped inside me I was laughing so hard.
The punitive measures bought down by our parents were harsh, but by God it was worth it.
(Thu 28th Feb 2008, 14:39, More)
Back when I was young little ape
I was exploring my friends back garden (snigger) looking for treasure/porn/buried civil war swords.
We were, all in all, having a smashing day simply beings boys, climbing stuff, breaking stuff and generally enjoying a sunny outdoor pre computer game world.
Our explorations eventually took us to the back of the old garage, which according to my fellow conspiritor was still full of rubbish from the previous owners who had moved out over ten years ago.
A quick sortie turned up nothing of interest,but it had exposed a massive floral sofa pushed flush against the rear wall.
Mustering all the strength our frankly stick thin arms could manage we prised the forlorn DFS reject from the wall to expose the potential treasures behind.
What we saw frankly made us both jump a little and then laugh manically.
It was a mummified cat!
The poor wretched creature must have been trapped behind the sofa all those years before and died of starvation. It was flat as a pancake along it's vertical axis, and its mouth was gaping , teeth exposed as it exclaimed it's final strangled meow at the cruel world that had led to it's awful fate.
With the help of gloves, a stick and a lot of, "oh urggh you touched it!" we managed to extract the mousing Mumra and we skipped happily back out into the light with our crispy spoils.
What to do? What to do? We pondered, and with some sort of divine intervention our sisters giggled their way around the corner, probably talking about boys/ponies/sylvanian families.
This was too good an opportunity to miss and a plan was soon hatched so fiendish in it's inception even a 'devious plan' think tank including the pure evil of Hitler, my old French teacher and robert Kilroy Silk could not have bettered it.
We climbed to a level of the garden slightly above our, obviously, stinky sisters and launched the flattened feline like an undead frisbee from hell!!!
It flew with the grace of a swallow and the excocet accuracy of a peregrin falcon towards it's targets and as it reached the point of no return my friend wailed at the top of his lungs.
"MEEEEEOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWARRGHHHHH"!
Just the sound a mummified, undead frisbee cat would make I'm sure you'll agree.
The sisters looked skywards, the sisters screamed and the sisters in their haste to escape this flying hell cat jumped and ran into each other so hard that my sister lost a tooth.
I swear to God something popped inside me I was laughing so hard.
The punitive measures bought down by our parents were harsh, but by God it was worth it.
(Thu 28th Feb 2008, 14:39, More)
» Housemates
I have never had a dishwasher.
This isn't the greatest hardship endured by man, but sometimes I think it would be nice to simply drop the plates into that magic white box and have them pop out steaming and clean in the morning rather than have them growing mould on my work surface for a week before I get around to chiselling the now rock hard "food" off them.
The worst thing about this yearning for a dishwasher is that I had once, for one day only.
It was the beginning of my second year at Uni and as a group myself and some of my chums were moving into a new house, it was a bit of a shithole, but it had a large living room, large garden, huge kitchen and the all important dishwasher.
We had a long day carrying boxes, unpacking porn collections, building Ikea furniture and smoking more weed than is good for anybody. The evening came and we were al fairly shattered and decide an early night was in order, K who had not been smoking and was less tired proclaimed that she would stack the dishwasher. No probs we thought as we all slunk off to bed.
I was first up the morning as I had raging thirst. I stumbled to the kitchen, went back to my room to put on some clothes as I remember that I lived with people, stumbled back to the kitchen and retrieved a glass from the dishwasher. Without paying much attention I filled the glass with cool, refreshing water and took a deep gulp.
Oh good god, it felt like I had ingested the crushed bones of mummified Gandhi! I ran the tap to see what the problem was, it was running clear and fresh, how queer I thought to myself. I moved my attention to the glass which I now realised had a strange frosted appearance. I picked at the glass and white powder came away under my nail.
This really was a conundrum and when I checked inside the dish washer I found that all of the crockery, cutlery and glass wear were covered in a thin film of some sort of white powder. Gradually my housemates emerged and we all began to discuss what could have left our eating implements in such a state.
Eventually K arrived and we quizzed her on her dishwasher usage skills. She explained that she had taken the dishwasher powder from under the sink and ran the machine as the instructions indicated.
This seemed like a fairly good explanation, until someone made the salient point that none of us had brought any dishwasher powder with us. “Yes” exclaimed K “but I found some under the sink!”
She duly retrieved the dishwasher powder to show us.
It was plaster of fucking paris!
The heat from the dishwasher had baked it onto every plate, every knife and every glass; it all had to be binned as we couldn’t clean it. As for the dishwasher we tried to flush it out, but after a couple of unsuccessful attempts it coughed, burped, farted and died for ever more. If we cut away the outer shell and piping I guess we would have had a perfect ceramic model of the inside of an Indesit 4200.
And that was the closest I ever came to having a dishwasher.
(Thu 26th Feb 2009, 15:15, More)
I have never had a dishwasher.
This isn't the greatest hardship endured by man, but sometimes I think it would be nice to simply drop the plates into that magic white box and have them pop out steaming and clean in the morning rather than have them growing mould on my work surface for a week before I get around to chiselling the now rock hard "food" off them.
The worst thing about this yearning for a dishwasher is that I had once, for one day only.
It was the beginning of my second year at Uni and as a group myself and some of my chums were moving into a new house, it was a bit of a shithole, but it had a large living room, large garden, huge kitchen and the all important dishwasher.
We had a long day carrying boxes, unpacking porn collections, building Ikea furniture and smoking more weed than is good for anybody. The evening came and we were al fairly shattered and decide an early night was in order, K who had not been smoking and was less tired proclaimed that she would stack the dishwasher. No probs we thought as we all slunk off to bed.
I was first up the morning as I had raging thirst. I stumbled to the kitchen, went back to my room to put on some clothes as I remember that I lived with people, stumbled back to the kitchen and retrieved a glass from the dishwasher. Without paying much attention I filled the glass with cool, refreshing water and took a deep gulp.
Oh good god, it felt like I had ingested the crushed bones of mummified Gandhi! I ran the tap to see what the problem was, it was running clear and fresh, how queer I thought to myself. I moved my attention to the glass which I now realised had a strange frosted appearance. I picked at the glass and white powder came away under my nail.
This really was a conundrum and when I checked inside the dish washer I found that all of the crockery, cutlery and glass wear were covered in a thin film of some sort of white powder. Gradually my housemates emerged and we all began to discuss what could have left our eating implements in such a state.
Eventually K arrived and we quizzed her on her dishwasher usage skills. She explained that she had taken the dishwasher powder from under the sink and ran the machine as the instructions indicated.
This seemed like a fairly good explanation, until someone made the salient point that none of us had brought any dishwasher powder with us. “Yes” exclaimed K “but I found some under the sink!”
She duly retrieved the dishwasher powder to show us.
It was plaster of fucking paris!
The heat from the dishwasher had baked it onto every plate, every knife and every glass; it all had to be binned as we couldn’t clean it. As for the dishwasher we tried to flush it out, but after a couple of unsuccessful attempts it coughed, burped, farted and died for ever more. If we cut away the outer shell and piping I guess we would have had a perfect ceramic model of the inside of an Indesit 4200.
And that was the closest I ever came to having a dishwasher.
(Thu 26th Feb 2009, 15:15, More)
» Accidental animal cruelty
Have a pearoast
Not me but some Japanese tourists...
It was a beautiful summer’s day amongst the dreaming spires of Oxford, no-one could have predicted the abject horror that would come crashing down from the sky.
A good mate of mine was whoring himself out as a labourer on a buiding site for the summer holidays. After a hard mornings work he stopped to eat a light lunch of fois gras and tongue sandwiches. Chatting idly with a co-worker on the third floor scaffolding he dislodged a brick which, as would be expected, plummeted towards the hungry earth.
Unfortunately directly below him was a fat, one footed sky rat, A pigeon, going about it’s business pecking at mouldy food and trying to rape other pigeons. The brick struck with exocet accuracy, crippling, but not killing the pigeon.
Racked with guilt my friend scuttled down and retrieved the mortally injured bird. Once back on the third floor he asked his colleagues opinion as what to do with it, “it’s fucked mate” came the eloquent response, “break it’s neck!”
This seemed like a relatively sensible idea; break neck, put suffering animal out of pain and dispose of the resulting corpse, job done. My friend takes the pigeon in his hands grips tightly on it’s body and it’s head. Twist and pull. As it turns out a pigeons neck is’nt especially strong and with a gentle pop it’s head was separated from it’s body.
Shocked at this gruesome turn of events my friend did what any self respecting bloke would do, squealed and threw the offending carcass off the scaffolding. The body flapped and twitched in a graceful arc before landing in the middle of a crowd of Japanese tourists who screamed and ran. That is apart from the ones who gathered around the still flapping bird took photos of Oxford’s famous headless pigeon to show the folks back home.
Length…head and shoulders below the rest.
(Mon 10th Dec 2007, 11:34, More)
Have a pearoast
Not me but some Japanese tourists...
It was a beautiful summer’s day amongst the dreaming spires of Oxford, no-one could have predicted the abject horror that would come crashing down from the sky.
A good mate of mine was whoring himself out as a labourer on a buiding site for the summer holidays. After a hard mornings work he stopped to eat a light lunch of fois gras and tongue sandwiches. Chatting idly with a co-worker on the third floor scaffolding he dislodged a brick which, as would be expected, plummeted towards the hungry earth.
Unfortunately directly below him was a fat, one footed sky rat, A pigeon, going about it’s business pecking at mouldy food and trying to rape other pigeons. The brick struck with exocet accuracy, crippling, but not killing the pigeon.
Racked with guilt my friend scuttled down and retrieved the mortally injured bird. Once back on the third floor he asked his colleagues opinion as what to do with it, “it’s fucked mate” came the eloquent response, “break it’s neck!”
This seemed like a relatively sensible idea; break neck, put suffering animal out of pain and dispose of the resulting corpse, job done. My friend takes the pigeon in his hands grips tightly on it’s body and it’s head. Twist and pull. As it turns out a pigeons neck is’nt especially strong and with a gentle pop it’s head was separated from it’s body.
Shocked at this gruesome turn of events my friend did what any self respecting bloke would do, squealed and threw the offending carcass off the scaffolding. The body flapped and twitched in a graceful arc before landing in the middle of a crowd of Japanese tourists who screamed and ran. That is apart from the ones who gathered around the still flapping bird took photos of Oxford’s famous headless pigeon to show the folks back home.
Length…head and shoulders below the rest.
(Mon 10th Dec 2007, 11:34, More)
» Dumb things you've done
English rage....
One wet and miserable afternoon where the heavy leaden skies merged with the grimy cityscape I decided a bit of Hollywood escapism was needed.
As is traditional when wanting to watch a film I deposited myself in the sticky floored chav breeding ground that is the modern multiplex.
Upon entering the theatre it was already dark as I had spent ten minutes explaing to a pus filled dimwit of a sweet vendor that his popcorn had risen in price by more than 17% in the last year tracking way above inflation and that I was loath to part with almost £5 for something that is 50% air.
Alas my lamentations and sound economics fell of deaf ears and I parted his company with a small bag of popcorn, a heavy debt and a seething resentment towards anything and anyone involved in the corn or corn popping industries.
I took my seat and resolved to enjoy the film with no more ire inducing episodes. This was not to be the case foir behind me seemed to be the noisiest people in the world.
Snippets of whispered conversation buzzed around my head like so many malarial mosquitoes, the incessant crackle and crunch of sweet bags felt as loud as gufire, the soft sucking of humbugs pulled at the marrow in my bones the and random kicking of the back of my seat did little to ease my back pain.
I should have asked nicely for some peace and quiet, but past experience had taught me that these dark dwelling monsters would only increase their attacks if provocked with reasonable requests. Hence I sat and I seethed for felt like hours, I balled up my rage in a way only an emotionally stunted Englishman can.
Like Krakatoa the pressure became too much and I exploded! Swivelling around in my chair a shouted in no uncertain terms for this utter shower of shits to, and I quote, "SHUT THE FUCK UP BEFORE I RIP YOUR FUCKING HEADS OFF!"
All was silent, for a brief second I thought I had done the impossible and won against the tyranny of teenagers. Unfortunately as my eyes adjusted to the dark I saw quivering chins and frightened watery eyes.
In a line sat 6 very scared and on the verge of tears children with Down Syndrome. My heart absolutely sank. Their carer lent forward and apologised only making things worse, i begged her and the children's forgiveness and sank so deeply into my seat that my arse got stuck to the fetid sticky floor. It was where I belonged. I have never felt so guilty.
Luckily after the movie I managed to apologise properly to all involved and we all went away happy, but I have learnt how stupid it is to let the rage grow inside you and to release it with out doing some pre flight checks.
*starts walking to hull*
(Mon 31st Dec 2007, 10:28, More)
English rage....
One wet and miserable afternoon where the heavy leaden skies merged with the grimy cityscape I decided a bit of Hollywood escapism was needed.
As is traditional when wanting to watch a film I deposited myself in the sticky floored chav breeding ground that is the modern multiplex.
Upon entering the theatre it was already dark as I had spent ten minutes explaing to a pus filled dimwit of a sweet vendor that his popcorn had risen in price by more than 17% in the last year tracking way above inflation and that I was loath to part with almost £5 for something that is 50% air.
Alas my lamentations and sound economics fell of deaf ears and I parted his company with a small bag of popcorn, a heavy debt and a seething resentment towards anything and anyone involved in the corn or corn popping industries.
I took my seat and resolved to enjoy the film with no more ire inducing episodes. This was not to be the case foir behind me seemed to be the noisiest people in the world.
Snippets of whispered conversation buzzed around my head like so many malarial mosquitoes, the incessant crackle and crunch of sweet bags felt as loud as gufire, the soft sucking of humbugs pulled at the marrow in my bones the and random kicking of the back of my seat did little to ease my back pain.
I should have asked nicely for some peace and quiet, but past experience had taught me that these dark dwelling monsters would only increase their attacks if provocked with reasonable requests. Hence I sat and I seethed for felt like hours, I balled up my rage in a way only an emotionally stunted Englishman can.
Like Krakatoa the pressure became too much and I exploded! Swivelling around in my chair a shouted in no uncertain terms for this utter shower of shits to, and I quote, "SHUT THE FUCK UP BEFORE I RIP YOUR FUCKING HEADS OFF!"
All was silent, for a brief second I thought I had done the impossible and won against the tyranny of teenagers. Unfortunately as my eyes adjusted to the dark I saw quivering chins and frightened watery eyes.
In a line sat 6 very scared and on the verge of tears children with Down Syndrome. My heart absolutely sank. Their carer lent forward and apologised only making things worse, i begged her and the children's forgiveness and sank so deeply into my seat that my arse got stuck to the fetid sticky floor. It was where I belonged. I have never felt so guilty.
Luckily after the movie I managed to apologise properly to all involved and we all went away happy, but I have learnt how stupid it is to let the rage grow inside you and to release it with out doing some pre flight checks.
*starts walking to hull*
(Mon 31st Dec 2007, 10:28, More)