Well, what other conclusion can you arrive at from the paragon of middle England, the arbiter of taste and decency, the voice of the nation, the Daily Mail…
That’s right. Dress it up how you want, but you are, aren’t you…. Of course SOPHIE BORLAND wrote that piece… bless him.
So, there I was on Sunday, walking around the shops in one of Chavscum’s prime locations, Bromley. If I can quote the article on the area from Chavtowns website, which I will, Bromley is…..
Settle down boys and girls, and I will tell you a story. A story of the borough which ended up with all the chavs even the chavviest towns in Britain disposed of. If you don’t already know, I’m talking about the rancid stench that is the London Borough of Bromley.
Bromley is full of chavs for many reasons. An easy-going council who give to the chav and take away (or can’t be arsed to deal with) anyone who can spell their name with no mistakes. Stores loved by chavs popping up EVERYWHERE. More two-bob, traffic warden fake police officers than there are real ones. And the fact that there are lots of stones for these pikeys to crawl under when the weather gets bad.
Anyway, there are a couple of decent shops there, and one is called Sussex Stationers British Bookshops. Their cheap books are one of my main sources of reading material and I paid a visit there last weekend to find something for the usual office humdrum of Secret Santa. There, in a whole section, was a collection of the literary equivalent of Phil Tufnell’s Cricket Bloomers DVD – the “comedy” book, with such great titles as “Is It Me Or Is Everything Just Shit”.
And the fact is that I could probably have bought a few and thought they were worth a read, because, in truth, everything is just shit.
I have to be careful here because of the potential readership, so family, friends and work are out of the equation, and dear God, I’d like to do a piece on the last one, but this is a state where freedom of speech is decidedly frowned upon if you are “off message”, so I’d better not say that Stevie Wonder could have seen what would happen to us in a downturn but highly paid strategists have their heads in clouds and just do what they are conditioned to think. That would be wrong.
I sit here thinking “why is my American wife waiting for an office clerk to say she can, or heaven forbid, can’t come over and live with her husband?” Why couldn’t she present her paperwork, which is all legal and correct, to a trained chimp at the airport and have it stamped there and then? Why couldn’t she get cleared in the UK, instead of having to spend the early days of her marriage away from her husband who has to work? How absolutely fucking shit is that? All because this country has become a welcome home to any old fucking illegal, we clamp down on those who are prepared to toe the line and follow the rules. How come the rude bastards haven’t even acknowledged that they’ve received my life’s documents.
So that is shit, for starters. How about the fact that I was sitting in a queue this morning for the Blue Bridge on the Isle of Dogs to open, which went back a couple of hundred yards. At one point I had Old Bill behind me in a marked car. Two minutes of waiting and PC Plonker had obviously had enough of waiting and put his flashing blue light on – I’ll wager he had an important call, the impatient prick – so he could jump to the front of the queue. We get the police we deserve, and it seems to me we’ve got impatient gobshites not prepared to wait with the proles, and a greater revenue collection service than Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs. So they are shit.
I have already said my piece on TV and the media, with their obsession over dull trivialities. While this country is going to hell in a handcart, we have the lead political story as a “gaffe” by our terminally shit PM who said he’d saved the world. Yes, a gaffe, an error, a slip of the tongue, a minor aberration, a word on the wind. No, as the pound sinks further against the Euro, as our retail sector perishes in the wind, as our savings get eroded by shit interest rates, as houses get repossessed, these cretins are more concerned about a gaffe. Words fucking fail me.
If my mate keeps sending me cards with Season’s Greetings on them, I’m going to send him Bon Jovi records. Two can play that shit game.
This week BBC Breakfast News has had James Blunt and James Morrison on. Can that programme get any more shit?
Fosters. Carlsberg. Carling. Shit Shit Shit.
Who gives a flying one about the Champions League. Woooo, Chelsea qualified. Great. Let us all rejoice as that cash bonanza gets a few million quid more. Oooooh, and Liverpool too. I’m so pleased for them. What, Manchester United and Arsenal are also through. Great. Truly the best league in the world. Pity it’s shit.
Then there are life’s little annoyances. This morning, on the way to work, my car’s CD player, moody at the best of times (no comparison with the owner, please) decided to tell me to foxtrot oscar when it came to playing my CDs. Given Vanessa Feltz is on BBC London at that time, this is the very definition of karma – my CD player obviously has been possessed and is paying me back for sins in a past life.
I’m also a mite cheesed off that even in winter Setanta doesn’t work on my fucking satellite. I pay my subs for NASN, which worked all year this year, but not the year before (do my trees shrink?), but Setanta must be sending its signal down by carrier pigeon, or the satellite equivalent of the two tin cans joined together by a piece of string. Then my Sky Box downstairs has taken to switching itself off when it fucking feels like it. My Ipod has lost compatability with my desktop PC so to update it I need to wipe it. Great. My washing machine dribbles water, my kitchen cupboards are fucking falling apart, the locks on my windows lock, but you need to treat it like Manny Pacquaio treated Oscar De La Hoya to close them, someone’s nicked my broom so I’m leaf infested, and… do you want anything more, for crying out loud?
By popular demand I bought a cafetiere the other day. They said the coffee is nicer than instant. It isn’t. It’s shit.
What about those shitdippers “Plane Stupid”. How shit is it that common vandalism is now lauded as a cause? I’m sorry, Human Rights Act or otherwise, I’d have kept those planes flying and seen how keen these do-gooding arseholes were to “save the planet”. At worst, they’d have ended up deaf. Yes, I meant at worst. Instead people are totally inconvenienced by a load of layabouts on a “cause”. Shitheads.
So, I face a shit journey home through the paragon of shittyness, the Blackwall Tunnel, home to my house, which is in a shit condition because I’m lazy and my wife is in the USA, and I’ve forgotten to get anything out for dinner so it is either a shitty takeaway, a purchase in a food emporium (petrol stations we used to call them) or I starve. Shit any way you force it, really. On the TV tonight is the shitty Champions League. I might get to speak to the wife, which is shit because in any civilised world we should be together instead of begging the state to “allow” me to be with her in the flesh. And I’ll bet the CD player isn’t working. I’ll the threaten the fucker with Sinitta.
Back tomorrow. Have a good night.
Who the f*cking hell are these people. Hell, this bird was on my TV screen this morning and she could barely string a sentence together. Why are people so wrapped up in these utter non-entities? Who the hell cares if a “talent” show failure has dumped her squeeze and that bitter prole has the hump with someone else on this “talent” show. And yes, Daily Mail, don’t start haranguing and lecturing us about how Britain is going to the dogs and then you publish this old swaddling.
He told a friend on the social website: ‘I know the gimp. They’re just best mates. Nothing’s going on at all.’
Great. Happy now? The Mail gets its big stories by trolling Facebook pages. Dumbing down? Not the Mail.
I look forward to the Mail on Sunday’s CD giveaway this weekend – Sinitta’s Greatest Hits… rhyming mountain with fountain….. pure genius.
But not as much pure genius as the Mail getting all street on us to explain a chav term for the Women’s Insitute…
The phrase ‘gimp’ is slang for someone who is feeble, or a fool.
Of course. Irony.
It is the pre-Christmas period and all those interminable contests that have polluted our screens for weeks on end are drawing to a close. Pressed to fill the space in their dreary webspaces and media outlets, the scribes are looking for any angle possible to draw in the public “interest”. While I sit in my own private space muttering “leave me the f*ck alone” I come across this headline, which in its own way, says all you need to know about a country sleepwalking its way into an authoritarian nightmare. Keep the proles diverted with desperate, meaningless, vacuuous inanity such as this…
“Sinitta spills beans on sex with Simon Cowell”
Please, in the name of all that is living and all that we cherish dear, could you just not have done this. Sinitta isn’t so much a has-been as a never-was. Her drivelling (made up word, but seems appropriate) witless fucktoonery on “So Macho” should have been classified as a war crime. She would probably have called Toy Boy a Seminole Classic, and outside of gay men, who on earth could possibly have bought this ridiculous old twaddle. But more to the point, this assault on our senses gives her carte blanche to witter on about her bedroom antics with some cocktrumpet on a reality show? Could life get any more painful?
I couldn’t give a flying f*ck if he scores well “between the sheets”. Woopty-do-da-day. I care more than another droning wailer will be imposed on this country in the name of “talent” and we’ll be force fed more totally manufactured old pap by Mr Bedroom Gymnastics. It is appropriate for this country – talent shouldn’t rise to the top through hard work, dedication et al, but by being marketed by knobjockeys like Simon Cowell. Good luck to him, he’s making money and gets to shag Ms Love on a Mountain Top (I’m reporting that strumpet to the War Crimes Commission in The Hague over that abomination).
I challenge anyone to read this and not want to reach for the nearest gun and end it all now…
Everbody’s talking when ther see me walking
with this little boy of mine
He’s my play thing and I love him
I dress him up looking fine.
He ain’t got money
people think it’s funny
he gives me everything I need
He’s my playboy and my love toy and I want everyone to know:
May the Lord save my soul.
