Killing for a home of your own Tuesday, 21 June 2011

Up and down the country there are 30 something’s contemplating how to off their parents, they are upstairs in their bedrooms pulling down tired old posters and plotting.

The average age of a first time buyer is 38 which is enough to drive anyone to murder, in my parents day they were married and owned thier own home by 25 anyone who didn’t was treated like McCloud from Highlander, jeered, spat at, headbutted and banished from the local community.

Kids, no sorry 38 years olds are risking their own life’s to pop the parents off, climbing up onto the roof and blocking the chimneys, loosening the steering wheel on mums Toyota Yaris , faking their own deaths in the hope their parents will die of a broken heart,  double booking premier rooms at the Swiss euthanasia clinic

It’s the Baby Boomers generation that have caused this, our grandparents celebrated the end of war with plenty of fucking which resulted in our parents, who if you have a home of your own are thankfully living longer because of advances in medication and better diets.

My thirties have been preoccupied with trying to get a place of my own, my parents breathed a sigh of relief when I pulled their heads from out of the bath and gasped that I could have some money, so they and I are getting on with our life’s, mine burden with debt and theirs no longer preoccupied with my whereabouts and whether ive been drinking or not.

  

   

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You won't catch me with shit on my hands Monday, 20 June 2011

One of the few things that make me feel uneasy is watching someone pick dogshit up, its worse seeing someone pick up dog shit with no dog in sight that’s creepy but seeing the owner with the dog when its doing it can become an awkward encounter.

Your dog really can be mans best friend but sometimes that friend can be your undoing, your dog is almost forgiveable in all situations but one.

Shitting at the feet of a beautiful woman you've just met in the park, its a conversation killer there's no way back when your best friend pulls a face of strain and plops one out, there’s nothing that can be said that can ever put that right it's better to lose face and cut the conversation short and pick the curly mound up and walk away without your dignity in check, no point prolonging the agony and then avoid that park for months. 

The only place Ive seen where the rules are relaxed is Hastings but you can't blame a dog when the owner is just as likely to shit in the street.     

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Clint Squint

Ive worked out by employing the ‘Clint squint’ I can command more respect.

Clint Eastwood would squint to give his character more angst, A word of warning though you need the correct dialogue as well simply looking at someone with the Clint squint may imply you’ve farted and followed through, of course you could reverse the process and should you fart and shit yourself reach for the Clint squint and remove yourself from said pub, cinema, dining experience making sure to make eye contact with everyone as they try and avert your gaze in fear of you.

You may want to smoke a cigar to as this will help remove the air of shit that orbits you as you drift manfully towards the exit, I would hold fire on blowing smoke in anyone’s face, save that for another day.  

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Mork lives above me

The TV series starring Robin Williams saw a loveable Mork on our planet after being sent to earth to observe human behaviour, my Mork I feel has been banished from his planet ‘Ork’, I fear for the same reasons that make me want to end his family tree.

Mork has managed to infiltrate our complex benefits system and is now living off incapacity benefit and has convinced officials his got a bad back and that work on this planet wouldn’t be good for him, spending his days on his back and his evenings what can only be likened to auditioning for the famous stage show ‘Stomp’ upon my ceiling.

Morks lived above me now for 2 years, I don’t believe he will ever be called back to the home planet he came from I think he probably leeched off the system there, his somebody’s else’s problem, namely mine and Earths.  

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Sky2 sent Charley Boorman to die in the desert.

The Dakar rally is considered one of the most dangerous races to partake in, its held once a year and I think it was brilliant broadcasting to stick posh boy Charley Boorman on a high powered motorcycle and put him in the middle of it all, the absurdity of the premise can only be comparable to the scene of Diehard 3 when John Mclaine’s forced to walk through the ghetto wearing a sandwich board that read “I hate black people”.

Charley set off with two others who were like his Nepalese mountain guides on bikes, one a little known English guy just grateful to be away from home and the other a prima donna harden Aussie who had cheated a Dakar death twice before.

The two guides took off as soon as the rally started and left clueless Charley to effectly die in the desert if it were not for the very expensive production crew commissioned to follow him.

Charley’s Dakar came to an abrupt end when near exhaustion a speck of sand obscured his vision and he hit a rock and nose dived into the sand, unlike ‘The Rock’ in the movie ‘Scorpion king’ he didn’t arise heroically from the sand he lay there whimpering until the production crew who were all of ten feet behind him the entire journey and in constant radio contact disembarked the truck and lavished him with sympathy, hot beverages and praise.


It was the end for Charley he would have to nurse the suspected broken bone in his hand in the comfort of an entourage and catering tents, he seemed to recover enough to text his wife, meanwhile the Aussie ploughed on and on knowing he had Charley’s full support which was radioed through to his helmet by Charley at the other end of a walkie talkie as he starred lovingly into the camera lens  which made all the difference as Aussies are remarkably sentimental.


Days later the Aussie came into the finishing flag blind and gagging on desert flies with Charley waving gayfully at him, there was a brief sombre moment when it was announced a few people had died trying to conquer the course, but Charley’s mood quickly lifted when his best bud Ewan McGregor arrived as a publicity stunt to raise the profile of the event oh … and the catering tent was again open for business.

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God hates Wimbledon

It’s the summer commonly known in June as monsoon season and when the dark clouds begin to gather around this time of year, it’s a clear message from God, he too hates Wimbledon!

Every years the same middle class people crowd into the place like girls at an all girl’s boarding school pushing and shoving there way to the front of the queue at the only phallic shaped dorm door handle in the school after dark.

Tim Henman can no longer embarrass the nation both with his dismal inability to hit the ball back and his boring monosyllabic monotone voice which im advised is played at abattoirs to help destroy cattle some say its cruel but when you’ve shot a steel bolt through a cows head and its still looking at you like “what did you do that for” there’s no choice but to do a ‘Henman’ on it, the cow simply gives up the will to live and voluntarily swallows its own tongue.

This year like every year we will believe our man the Brit Andy Murray will win it, when I say Brit I obviously mean Scottish but as his the Islands only hope he has been saddled with the Brit label  just like the other famous British tennis player we had around the Henman days the strange sounding “Greg Rusedski” he was the very American sounding guy who spoke and looked like he had been a victim of a hit and run road traffic accident to be fair he played like he had been in a road traffic accident, keeping true to form I last saw him dancing like he had been in a road traffic accident on “Come Dancing”.

Yes Andy Murray will capture the nation’s heart and then volley it into the ground at 120 m.p.h when he crashes out the tournament after round 3, it will piss down, Federer or other guy will win, Andy Murray will again be Scottish.   

Its Gods will!    

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K.I.T.T killed people Sunday, 19 June 2011

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David Hasselhoff can be considered lucky not because his sat on a judging panel of Britains Got Talent with what looks like the early onset of Alzheimer’s wondering where he is and why his there except to say "You rock man", No he escaped the evil clutches of  K.I.T.T. The Pontiac Firebird which could drive itself and caught the imagination of the American public in the early eighties which saw a surge in young men buying black Trans Am's  and tight leather jackets and then driving them into rockfaces trying to leap caverns, they failed to realize Michael Knight and K.I.T.T were fictional characters, it turns out that if you try to leap a moving train at speed in a regular Trans Am you disintegrate on impact, evidence suggests a spike in Trans Am sales and deaths involving the Trans Am around the time of  Knightrider’s popularity (fact)!    

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