In Blog We Trust

It’s that time of the year when we look back over the last 12 months to see what we’ve accomplished and how well our life is going. And as I sit here and think about 2008 I congratulate myself on a few things; not catching AIDs, not ODing, not getting arrested, not getting killed, eventually having sex in my new house (yes, I did it in the end people), but most of all I applaud this very Blog; The Misadventures of Ben Broughton.

I started this Blog so I could put forward my personal opinions on such topics that are deemed unacceptable by society; my hate for ‘emo’ music (Ban Emo Music, Save Lives!), underage drinking & sex (Underage Drinkers and Sexual Abuse), my hate for Religion (Letter to God), my love of cannabis (Legalise Weed, Don’t Get Stabbed) and a few other topics close to my heart. I have attempted to assist my followers with my detailed insights into life with my Self-Help posts too. To begin with I believed that this Blog, like many others would just be read by the sad fucker that writes it, but I was wrong. People actually comment on my posts, while a large percent of these people are my ‘friends’, I still do get comments from other people. Plus people talk to me about it when I bump into them at the pub. It’s good too know that there are some people out there that appreciate my subject matter, because many times I’ve tried to discuss these issues in the real world and been looked upon as if I’m some type of weirdo. So thank you people.

So, the looking back on what-was, is over, now it is time to look forward too what-is-to-come in 2009. And as the old saying goes; “If it ain’t fucking broke, don’t fucking fix it, you twat”, so expect much of the same. But I do have big and better plans in mind, such as actual videos! Time will tell if I’m up to the challenge.

Coming back to my Blog, there’s a few interesting facts I’d like to bring up. When you Google my name (Yes – I Google myself, don’t act like you don’t!) many pages come up, it seems as if Ben Broughton is a popular name. But the point is that my Blog does not appear until the third page on Google and even then it’s at the bottom (Click Here). I later found out that if you type in my name followed by any explicit word (such as; penis, pussy, twat, fuck, sex, piss) my Blog is the first to come up. For example; “Ben Broughton Fuck” (Click Here). I’m so proud of this!

I also recently discovered that if you type “faggot-fucking foetus-features” into Google my Blog is the only one to come up (Click Here). I know what you’re thinking, and yes I waste plenty of hours in my day typing random shit into Google.

Lastly, if you click on View my complete profile (situated to the right), my profile comes up (shockingly!). Take a few seconds to take in my beautiful picture, then click on my Occupation (Media Studies), this allows you browse profiles with the same Occupation settings as me, there’s something like three pages I think. But here’s (what I find) a coincidence that one of my best-friends’ (Jattinder Singh) is a few people below me. I knew he had a Blog but I’d never seen it until I discovered this in through sheer boredom.

So people, thanks for reading. Tell your friends about the magic that takes place here, more are welcome to join us. One last thing, I would like a few comments from people on this post if they have time. Don't talk about this post, I'd like to ask:

What has been your favourite post this year?

Please leave a comment.

My 6 Days in Sutton/Hell

Hello readers, I hope you all had a Merry Christmas. I understand it couldn’t have been too great seeing as there have been no updates on my Blog, but don’t worry people, step away from the oven, don’t put your head in yet! I’m back to tell of my Christmas. For those that don’t know, I live, study, work and pleasure women (and girls) in Derby but I’m actually from Sutton-in-Ashfield. Sutton (as it’s commonly known) is a small town in Nottinghamshire, right next to Mansfield, another purposeless town. For Christmas I returned to Sutton to ‘celebrate’ with my family and drink with my friends.

Monday 22^nd December
I caught the bus from Derby to Sutton and my journey began. While on the bus my mind was wondering away and I started to have random thoughts. This often happens to me if I have nobody to talk to. I was thinking about a few years ago and how all these rumours came about that surrounded possible terrorist attacks on random places. The main two I remember were Sutton’s ASDA and Centre Parks, of course there was never any terrorist attacks planned on these places, I’m willing to bet that terrorists don’t even know these places exist. I kept with these thoughts on terrorists and I began to think about what if a terrorist was on my bus, totally unlikely of course, but sometimes my mind just doesn’t stop thinking. As I thought about this, I began to think if a terrorist did blow up my bus I would totally support it, even though it would kill me. Think about it I was on a bus from Derby to Sutton, this was a bus full of scum! Undoubtedly I’m great and the world would miss me greatly, but if 30 or so oxygen-wasters get killed, I’m in full support.

So, I made it to Sutton and nobody blew up my bus. I carried my heavy bag to my house and went out to get pissed.

Later on I ended up in ‘Spoons (the HQ for me and my friends) to see my friends who I haven’t seen in a while. So we had a little chat and I told them about my experiences because for some bizarre reason they don’t all read my Blog. Which I don’t understand, hopefully the ones that can read will start reading it as a New Years Resolution. Anyway, I got talking to Ash, who had clearly been reading my Blog (shout out to Ash!) because he had grown an outstanding beard. Personally I think this was in response to my brilliant “Where’s My Bloody BEARD???” Blog, just in spite to show me he could grow a beard. So after a few beers at the pub, a few of us went back to Graham’s house.

Now, as many of you may know I spent much of my youth, and killed off many of my brain cells, at Graham’s house. So, on my return I thought I better not change tradition and began drink and smoke. But I wasn’t drinking larger or bitter! I was on Graham’s dad’s homebrewed ale. Which I can only describe as George Best’s blood! This stuff made Special Brew taste like shandy. After a while it took its grip on me and I had to go and sit outside for a while. Just like the good old days. After I came back around I chilled out for a while then made my way home.

This should be the end of this day, but it’s not because someone had left the keys in the front door, which meant that I couldn’t get in to my house. So I had a phone my sister to let me in. I then climbed into bed, which was a task seeing as I have to share a bunk bed with my younger brother. The first problem with my bed is that I’ve been forced into having the top bunk. Now ten years ago, when I was 12, having the top bunk was cool, now I’m 22 it’s far from cool. In fact it’s a massive fucking challenge to climb into bed after a couple too many beers. The second thing is that this bunk bed is quite old now, and I’m not sure it was built for a 22 year old to sleep in seeing as the whole thing creeks and shakes if I move slightly. And I couldn’t stop moving because I was extremely uncomfortable seeing as my duvet was too small, it didn’t have a duvet cover, I had no pillows either, in the end I used a rolled up mattress cover. It’s a good job I was pissed or I never would have fell asleep.

Tuesday 23^rd December
I took it easy on Tuesday. I went to see Danny, seeing as his parents had gone away for Christmas, maybe they were sending some kind of subliminal message to him by doing this. I mean, leaving your son home alone for Christmas, the most family orientated holiday of the year, I think there’s something they’re hinting at. One day in the not too distant future I think Danny might return home to find the locks changed and all his stuff on the street – but seeing as Danny (like me) lives in ‘Lemo’ (the rough area of Sutton – although my street is quite nice) all his stuff would be stolen before he returned home, if it was left on the street … but back to the subject at hand. I went to see Danny seeing as he’d be Macaulay Culkin’d* because I felt sorry for him. Of course Danny being Danny, he was already drunk and stoned by the time I got to his, so I took it on myself to get in the same state as him.

There’s a few things about Danny that sum him up quite well, he’s ginger, he loves getting wrecked and he has a weird taste in films. Well it’s not really weird but he watches some of the most obscure movies ever. And I was in for a treat seeing as he had a new movie for us to watch; Frontier(s). A film about Neo Nazi Cannibals … that was in French. It was a brilliant yet disturbing film! After that we chilled for a while and we were joined by my biggest fan; Dave (a/k/a Batch). Some more chilling was done, Danny fed me, I stole some of his dad’s sweets then I left Danny and Dave to watch Frontier(s), I was tired and didn’t want to watch it again.

So I made it back to my house and once again tried to unlock the front door, but I was unable. So once again I had to ring my sister. She came and let me in again. I then released that I was using the wrong key! I climbed into my terrible excuse for a bed and fell asleep, seeing as I was drunk again.

Wednesday 24^th December (Christmas Eve)
The excitement was brimming in me as I woke up, seeing as I didn’t have a hangover. I then released it was Christmas Eve and I was low on funds and I still hadn’t bought anyone a Christmas present, but fuck it, I said I was boycotting this bullshit holiday. I hung around my house for a while then headed to ‘Spoons to meet my friends.

At ‘Spoons the usual stuff happened I drank, I called my sister’s fat friend “Fat” and she got offended! Observational humour is sometimes not well received … especially by fat bitches. Also I had to make this guy, for the purpose of this story I’ll called him Faggot-Fucking Foetus-Features, apologise to my sisters because he said some horrible shit about their dad. And I love my sisters very much and more than that I’m the only one that gets to say horrible shit to them, I can’t let Faggot-Fucking Foetus-Features move in on my patch. I was expecting a fight or at least a little attitude but Faggot-Fucking Foetus-Features was surprisingly nice and he apologised. So we all continued to get drunk.

After the pub, some of us went to Danny’s again; I don’t think I stayed long … although I can’t really remember. But I do know I made actually opened my front door on my own, third times the charm. I once again crawled into my top-bunk and fell asleep.

Thursday 25^th December (Christmas Day)
I woke up around 11.00am and went downstairs to discover approximately four gifts for me under the tree. “What did Santa bring you Ben?” is probably what you’re now thinking. Well people, Santa bought me the same things as last year; misery and disappointment.

Me and the family sat down for Christmas dinner, all apart from my youngest sister she managed to escape to her boyfriend’s house. So we all starting stuffing our faces and after that I thought it’d be a good time to start drinking while I waited for someone to get in touch with me telling me the plans for today. This took longer than I expected and by the time I made my way out I was already quite pissed. Shockingly it was Danny that got in touch with me and I once again went to his.

Then the both of us attempted to kill off our livers while watching five films; Dark Ride (another random Danny film), Alpha Dog, Harold and Kumar Get The Munchies, Planet Terror and something else. I can’t quite remember because I was totally hammered by this point. Somewhere in between all these films Dave arrived at Danny’s to join us. At the end of the night Dave was nice enough to give me a lift home. Which saved me having to stumble along the road for the three minutes it takes me to get from Danny’s to mine.

I once again mastered the door! Go me! Bed. Sleep.

Friday 26^th December (Boxing Day)
My mum woke me around noon to inform me food was ready. I wasn’t feeling too ‘fresh’ but I was hungry. Sadly it wasn’t what I was expecting. My mum had prepared a little buffet with cobs (rolls), crisps and all that shit. Not the breakfast I was expecting but apparently everyone else had already had their breakfasts! Fuckers, do they not even care I was out until 5.00am? So I munched on some BBQ Ribs and went back to bed.

A little while later I found myself in ‘Spoons, I told you it was HQ for me and my friends. Liam had been nice enough to invite me out. So once again I started drinking. But shockingly we actually went to another pub; The Swan to play pool. After The Swan we went to … Yes! We went to Danny’s again!

We chilled out for a bit, but around midnight everyone decided to go home. I think by Boxing Day everyone was wanting an early night, I know I was. So I went home to get some sleep. But sadly for me, it was next to impossible to fall asleep in my bed when I was sober. Finally I did nod off.

Saturday 27^th December
My last day in Sutton! I started the day off by going into town to see if the cheque my dad had sent me had cleared yet, but it hadn’t. This left me with £5.00 to my name and I was really looking forward to having a haircut while I was home, I guess that’ll have to wait until I’m next in Sutton. I returned home, but not before posting some sweets threw Danny’s letterbox – I’d been munching his dad’s sweets for the last couple of days and I’d hate for that to be the final straw that ends Danny’s current living arrangements. Once home, I borrowed some money off of my little brother. There’s nothing sadder than borrowing money from someone that’s too young to work.

I started packing my bag to get ready for Derby. But I couldn’t fit all my ‘misery and disappointment’ into my bag so I to leave some stuff. I also checked my Facebook before I left for Derby, and I had a message from Faggot-Fucking Foetus-Features! Which, as I could decipher through the terrible spelling and stupid ‘text language’, basically sad he’d “let me off” but if I ever did that again “I would see” and then he asked me if I’d like to “meet up and settle it on our own”. Here’s what I wrote back to him:

Look Faggot-Fucking Foetus-Features, what you said to my little sister upset her. I'll tell you now I'm not a guy that settles stuff with his fists, that's why I came up to you like I did, I could have just jumped you, but that's not what I do.

If you've got a fucking problem just say, mate. I just wanted to clear the air. But fuck it.

Which is the truth, I’m not a fighter, I’m a writer (and a lover).

I then got my shit together and went for to catch my bus back to Derby. Now, this part of the day may seem strange but I swear it is all true. I got on to the bus and sat on the back seat because I’m on for the whole journey and the backseat has more foot room for my massive bag. I was sat there with my phone in my hand, which now was probably the worst thing I could have had in my hand! I was joined on the backseat by some guy who saw me holding my phone and starting talking to me about phones. This guy went on for about 30 fucking minutes talking about all the phones he has. Apparently he has four, all on different networks because he uses them for different things. For example the one he had (an O2 phone) was just for calling his girlfriend seeing as she was also on O2, now this is quite normal, but what’s not normal is the fact that they are constantly on the phone to each other. And when I say this I in no way mean they are constantly talking to each other, what I mean is they are always on the phone. He had his earpiece in and she was on the other end of the phone doing whatever the fuck she was doing, they weren’t talking to each other, they were just on the phone, but not talking! I hope you understand, the guy even showed me his phone and sure enough it said that the current call was at something like two hours and 30 minutes long. Now this was the first sign that this guy is not all there. Secondly was the fact that he was drinking Super Skol on the fucking bus. Thirdly, he wouldn’t stop mentioning the fact that he’d been to prison. But the time we’d got to Alfreton he got off and I was counting my blessing, then at the next stop he got back on the fucking bus. It turns out he’d just got off to take a piss, he’d got off at one stop, cut across the town centre as the bus looped around on the long slow moving road. Luckily some people had taken his seat so he couldn’t sit next to me again, sadly for me the seat in front of me wasn’t taken so he fucking took it! Now he was right in my fucking face. He then starting telling me about how he was building a motorbike illegally and how to get around it all, I really couldn’t have given a shit. He told me about how he gets all his bus rides for free because he complains to them and they send him free tickets. I thought about writing a letter to Trent Buses actually, asking them why the fuck they let people drink on their buses.

He didn’t spend all his time just talking to me and did try to draw me into conversation by asking me if I was a student, I told him yes and what I was studying (Media Studies), he asked what that involved so I told him; journalism, writing, TV Production and so on. He then decided to tell me that I was learning how to be bias. I just let him chat his shit. At one point he did actually start talking to his girlfriend over the phone, this was because he’d hit a black spot, a place were his signal cuts out on his phone, so he had to call her back, the conversation went something like this; “Hey Honey, just hit that black spot on route to Derby, here do you want to talk to my new friend?” Then he passed the fucking phone to me. I didn’t want to talk to him, never mind his missus. He then went on to tell me about the inventor of the bouncing bomb, he daughter, his alcoholism, his first marriage – which ended when he caught he wife fucking the window-cleaner – who he then kidnapped, or so he told me.

We were getting to the outskirts of Derby, the fucking racism started. All the stuff before was annoying as fuck, but if there’s one thing I can’t fucking stand it’s racism. He started chatting bollocks about how Muslims are trying to take over England and turn it into an Islamic state and all the bullshit that Daily Mail readers spout off. He was complaining about how Muslims get off their holidays (such as Ramadan) but also holidays such as Christmas, I think this also tied into something about while they were working in prison, at this point I wasn’t too interested in what he had to say. A few minutes before we pulled into the Derby Bus Station I thought I’d give him a piece of my mind seeing as I’ve had to listen to his bullshit for what seems like a lifetime; “Look mate, if you’re moaning about the fact that Muslims get time off working in prison for their holidays and Christian holidays, that’s not their fault! It’s the systems fault. If you could have Ramadan off you would, wouldn’t you?” To which he replied yes, which made my point, but I thought I’d echo the point seeing as he was such a cunt, “Well you can’t blame the Muslims for it then can you, you’d do the exact same. If you want to be pissed off at anyone be pissed off at the system!” And with that the bus finally arrived, I grabbed my bad got the fuck off that bus and lit up a much needed cigarette.

* Macaulay Culkin’d means to be left home alone by your family during Christmas.

Wanking, Wet Dreams and Wanting to get Laid (in my House)

So, this is an extremely embarrassing situation that I will now share with you. But firstly let me just explain “wa’ gwan” in the house I call my home. For those of you that don’t know, I live with Leon and Kate in a 3 bedroom house. They both have bedrooms upstairs, while I have the bedroom downstairs. It just so happens that my bedroom is the room that leads directly to the street via the front door. Now this causes me a few problems, the first one being the draft; my room can get extremely cold sometimes. The next and perhaps bigger problem is the amount of privacy I get. See as people are able to enter my room at anytime. Of course we do have a back door, but to get to that you have to tackle a gate, a simple task you may think, but this gate is fucking confusing and if we don’t shut and lock it correctly we may bump heads with our coffin dodger of a neighbour.

Now I’ve explained the back story, I will go on to embarrass myself. Because of this fact I do not have much ‘personal time’. And of cause by ‘personal time’, I mean I don’t masturbate that often. Which isn’t too bad, I’m not the biggest fan of masturbating anyway. I’m slightly homophobic, so touching any penis makes me feel slightly queer (queer as in odd). But as all males should know, if you don’t “let the boys escape” on a regular basis they will build up. Once they’ve built up to a certain stage they will plan a break out, usually while you are sleeping, in the form of a wet dream. This leads me nicely to my next topic of discussion.

There’s nothing more embarrassing than having a wet dream at my age. Wet dreams are for young teenage boys, not boys my age. Recently, with the amount of ‘personal time’ and getting action (more on that later) on a permanent low, my wet dreams have been more often than ever. And even worse, when I do have a wet dream I always prematurely ejaculate in the dream. It always happens. I’m about to “get inside”, then boom! Last time it was gallons of cum hitting some ugly bird in the face, I think she drowned at the end of the dream. I promise (especially to any foxy ladies reading) that I have never had this problem in reality, not even once. Sure there’s been problems getting it up sometimes, but I never ejaculate prematurely. There’s another thing about my ‘Wet Dream Girls’, they’re always the worst looking women ever. This raises many questions in my head. The main one being; How come I prematurely ejaculate over terrible looking women?

Lastly, and probably the worst of all is since I moved into this house I still have not had sex here. I’ve had sex in other places, just not in my house. The year is almost up too. If I don’t get laid in my house before 2009 I might kill myself. This is worsened by the fact I’m limited with my ‘personal time’ and I can’t even get laid in my wet dreams! And you wonder why I’m atheist! I know sperm banks with less sperm than me! Honestly people, everyday that passes more sperm builds up inside my sack and my skin seems to be getting paler and paler.

All About the Down-and-Outs

I remember once that I was in Derby city centre, I was sat on a bench smoking a cigarette on my own. Then I witnessed a homeless man delving into a bin. He pulled out a pizza box, inside it were two stale slices of ham and pineapple pizza. This sickened me to no end. This instance shows the problem with society, I’m not talking about the homeless man having to eat stale food from a bin, I am of course talking about pineapples being on pizzas, it’s just not right people!

I would like to use this blog to talk about homeless people or the seamen stain on the pants of society, as I like to think of them. I’m sure being homeless is hard, I once locked myself out my house for a couple of hours and it was not fun so I think I fully understand what it is like to be homeless. Of course one problem with homeless people is they are everywhere. It seems like I can’t walk from point A to point B without coming across one. The second problem is they always want money, not just do they want money, but they want MY money. Sometimes, I do actually feel ‘compassion’ for these shop doorway dwellers (these moments of compassion are usually when I’m intoxicated or drug induced) and I do give them some money. But why is it as soon as you give them a penny then transform into an auctioneer; “Do you have 20p, I’ve got 20p I’m looking for 50p, 50p? Anyone? 50p? I’ve got 50p, I’m now looking for £1, any takers? You at the back … £1?” and so on. I think it is about time that these beggars cut the bullshit too. I’m tired of hearing; “Can you lend me 10p for a phone call?” Who are these people calling? I’m willing to bet that homeless people don’t know many people with phones. Homeless people befriend other homeless people, much like people with homes befriend other people with homes. Homeless people don’t have phones; I’m willing to bet 100% of homeless are also phoneless. Plus you can tell these haven’t actually made a phone call for years seeing as the minimum amount of money you can now put in a public phone is much more than 10p. We know what you really want the money for; drugs! Heroin, crack or crystal-meth! We’re not stupid. I’d be more willing to hand over my money to a beggar if they just told me straight; “Dude, I need a fix, any chance you can help me out?” I can actually connect with people on this level, I’m a drug addict, you’re a drug addict, and I understand what you are going through. I can completely understand that homeless people need drugs. When you’re hobbies are sleeping rough, retrieving food from bins and stinking of your own piss, drugs are the only thing you have to cheer you up. In fact, if you are homeless (which you’re probably not seeing as you have internet access – but this is hypothetical) and you aren’t depended on some type of substance you need to re-evaluate your life. Things aren’t going too well, maybe drugs are the answer. It’s not like drugs are going to make life much worse.

I would now like to take aim on a certain type of homeless person. The homeless people that have dogs. What the fuck are they thinking? They can barely feed themselves but still they have a pet. I fail to see the point of this. Is the dog for protection? I highly doubt it seeing as all the homeless dogs I see look as if they have severe cases of HIV. These dogs can hardly stand never mind defend their soiled masters. Is it for more pity? This nation is admittedly an animal loving nation and the introduction of a poor dog is likely to pull on the heartstrings of any true Brit. Maybe homeless people think that having a pet will increase their ‘profit’, but I like to think that the only thing that changes is they receive more tins of dog food. That they inevitably have to eat themselves, leaving the dogs starving. Or maybe I’m wrong; maybe homeless people make a steady income breeding dogs for Korean restaurants. Although this argument seems floored seeing as I don’t see many Korean restaurants around. It truly is a mystery to me and will remain that way, seeing as every time I ask a homeless person about the matter they get extremely aggravated. Sure, you can look down on them, not give them money but heaven forbid you inquire about their dog; it’s like asking a woman how much she weighs.

An other thing I’ve noticed about the ‘property impaired’ is the amount of racism there seems to be within their world. How come I never see any homeless Asian people? Talk about segregation! I thought that people with nothing would be more sympathetic to others, but no. Apparently Asians aren’t allowed to be homeless. This is despicable, so remember that next time you give some money to a tramp, you’re supporting racism!


On a more serious note, while we are on the subject of homeless people I'd like this chance to promote my good friend's Blog; Bart Brodzki's Photoblog It features some brilliant images of homeless people and other images too. Of course it's a great Blog seeing as I only surround myself with greatness.

Dear Bitch

Dear Bitch,
Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule of sucking random guys’ cocks to read this letter. I will try to use simple language so you can fully comprehend what I’m attempting to get across to you. Shit, there I go already, using ‘big’ words. Comprehend means understand.

Anyway, firstly I would like to thank you for the time we spent together. I now know that no matter what happens to me in life I will be able to deal with it because of the way you treated me. Spending the rest of my life in Guantanamo Bay, would be paradise when compared to the time we spent together. I’ve also become able to point out girls such as you, to save me from heartache and loss of money in the future. Because you my dear, are a condom chick. I know what you’re thinking; “How am I a condom chick? I don’t even like rubbers”, well trust me it has nothing to do with the fact you ride bareback unaware of sexually transmitted diseases. You are a condom chick, because much like condoms you spend more time in a man’s wallet than on his dick.

I would also like to take this time to forgive you; yes your illiterate eyes read that sentence right. I FORGIVE YOU for all the lies you told me. I have now come to understand that you are predisposed to being a lair because you were born with a vagina. Like all females before you, you are nothing more that a fucking lair. I’ve been told many lies in my life, from many different women. My mum started the trend by lying to me at a very early age, telling me such untruths as; “I’ll buy you a MegaDrive”, “I love you” and “I know who your father is”. But when it comes to leading me on, you take the cake. After a while it became fun watching you try to lie yourself out of the previous lies you told. Of course, I lied you too, but what I told were little white lies, such as “I’ll be home soon” and “Of course I not cum in your face”. Seeing as I forgave you for the lies you told and also seeing as you have full vision back in your left eye, I think it is appropriate that you forgive me for the lies I told.

Now please pay attention now, because there are some truths that you really need to take onboard. You are no different from any of the other little skets that are around. For some reason you have this strange belief that you are somehow better than everyone else, but sadly your not. It may be depressing to read, but it’s the truth. You surround yourself with scum, so what does that make you? You have no reason to look down on other people, you are no better. Also, please stop with this self pity bullshit, you are a spoilt little brat and still you complain. Like an idiot, I did everything that you asked of me, but that was still not enough. But heaven forbid, if I’d ask something of you I was a “lazy fuck”. Of course, being a relationship with me must have been hard for you, seeing as I didn’t cheat on you or slap you about, although you probably deserved it a couple of times. But to me it’s clear to see that you need drama in your life, but instead of sitting down with a nice cup of tea and watching Eastenders like most normal folk, you take it upon yourself to create your own drama. This is of course going to lead to problems for you. Maybe if you avoided drama, like most people do, you’re life wouldn’t be so shit (of course I’m quoting you here, you’re life isn’t that bad).

You claim you’re at a stage of your life where you need to discover ‘who’ you are. I know you very well, I have a decent understanding of your life (although I get the feeling you lied about most of it) but I can’t tell you ‘who’ you are. I am at liberty to tell you ‘what’ you are though. I won’t though; I’m trying to stop swearing. I’m sure if you take a glance into a mirror and see your make-up covered face, the skimpy clothes that you wear and the crusty seamen in the corner of your mouth, you’ll realise what you are. As for ‘who’ you are, I get the feeling that you’ll never discover that.

I’ll wrap this letter up now, seeing as it’s getting quite long, I know you’re only used to reading the cooking directions on the back of microwave meal boxes, which compared to this are quite simple. So I wish you all the luck for the future, you’re going to need it. Peace.

Fuck the Friend-Zone

How did it happen? I can’t even remember! I liked her, she liked me, then BAM; FRIEND-ZONE!!

The motherfucking friend-zone, the worst place for any man to end up. I’d rather be in Joseph Fritzl’s sex dungeon than the friend-zone. Since I’ve entered the friend-zone, Palestinians have been campaigning for my release; “Free Ben (from the Friend-Zone)”. That’s how fucking bad the friend-zone is.

And the major problem is the friend-zone is much like quick sand, once you’re in, you’re not getting out, in fact it will probably kill you.

Like any male before me that has entered the friend-zone, one single thought entered my head. Let me explain the scenario. I liked this girl. I had a feeling that she liked me. We flirted slightly. But when I finally came around to telling her how I felt about her say told me she only sees me as a friend. And then that thought entered my head; “Well fuck you, I don’t want to be your friend.” Because that is the instant thought everyman has once his is unwilling entered into the friend-zone. Which makes the whole term “friend-zone” quite irrelevant. It may as well be called the “there was a possibility that we’d possibly have something going on but you took too long to make a move so now I just want to be your friend even though once you find this out you not want anything to do with me-zone”, but I suppose that’s quite a mouthful.

For as long as the friend-zone has been in existence there have always been myths that a few lucky men have made it out of there, much like Alcatraz! But I’m here to piss you on your strawberries, because no man has ever made it out of the friend-zone. And despite the movie ‘The Rock’, nobody ever made it out of Alcatraz either.

So what options do you have in the friend-zone? Quite simply none. If you are in the friend-zone, I feel for you, I really do. But you should learn from your mistakes. Don’t ever let it happen again. Next time grab the bull by its horns, actually, scratch that, that metaphor is too masculine when talking about pulling a woman! So instead; Next time grab the cow by its udders and hold on for dear life.

The Most Wasted I Have Got #3

Welcome again to a true life story of me getting too wrecked. Now this story took place when I was the young tender age of 18. Back then I was extremely naïve and stupid.

This story starts with me and two close friends of mine going shopping after school. Me, Tom and Will had finished school early and decided to go to Mansfield (the town next to my hometown) to spend some money seeing as it was pay day for me and Will. After having a wonder around a few shops we decided to head to the pub for a drink. Of course over all the years I’ve known Tom there’s one thing that stands out the most, when Thomas says; “Shall we go have a drink?”, what he actually means is; ‘Let’s getting fucking hammered’. And surprisingly one drink turned into two, two turned into three, three turned into four and so on. We had been out so long that the pub we were in had changed from a pub to a club. It was also a Thursday night, and Thursday nights in Mansfield is student night. We’d been talking to this random guy and had a few drinks with him. Then it got the point that Will and Tom had decided to leave and go home, this is where I made my first mistake by not going with them. So they left and Will had told me to look after his watch that he had lent me. It was a Rolex … but it was fake, of course, he wouldn’t leave me with his real one, something to do with me being a thieving little shit.

As I’ve stated my first mistake was not leaving with Tom and Will, my second mistake was running off my mouth that I’d been paid to a random person I’d just met. So I hung out with this dude for a while and had a few more drinks. Now this is where it gets a little ‘fuzzy’ for me. What I can remember is downing some shots then after that all I remember is being dragged down some stairs by two bouncers while I tried to fight them off some I could get my bag (like I said, I’d just come school). Then I was thrown at the club onto the street. Here is where I made the third mistake of the night by entering the next pub. I bought myself a drink and sat down; I was quickly interrupted by the bouncers of that pub and told that I had to leave once I finished my drink. At least they were nicer than the bouncers in the last pub. Although they wouldn’t even let me sit down because I was falling asleep. So I finished my drink and finally made the decision to go home.

What I remember from here is not much. I remember leaving the pub and walking across Mansfield market. After that I remember getting off the bus in Sutton (my hometown). After that I remember finding myself on my way home. But for some reason I wasn’t walking the usual way, I was going a longer way. I have no idea why. Then the last thing I remember of the night is falling flat on my face. As I lay face down on the cold pavement I noticed I’d smashed Will’s watch on the concrete. I climbed to my feet and told myself I had to get home, I was only about 10 to 15 minutes away.

The rest of this story is made up from what my mother told me. According to my mother I woke her up at gone 1.00am trying to unlock the front door. I then proceed to try and make myself a cup of tea. My mum took over and told me to go upstairs and she’d bring my drink to me. My mum helped me get upstairs, and then she returned to the kitchen to make my tea. Then for some unknown reason I went back downstairs to make the tea myself and my mum had to take me upstairs again.

I woke up the next morning with a massive headache and my brother telling me that my tea was on the floor. As it turns out I’d fell asleep as soon as my mother had bought me my tea.

The story doesn’t stop there, let’s just rewind to me falling over and breaking Will’s watch. The next day when I looked at it the time read 11.30pm. From this I can conclude that I fell over at 11.30pm. And if you have been paying attention I said the point I fell over at was about 15 minutes away from my house. So from the point of falling to my front door, it took me one and a half hours. I have no idea what happened in this time, which is extremely worrying.

The moral of this story is never go for a drink with Tom. And if you do, leave when he does. Also don’t talk to strangers in a bar because I suspect that this guy spiked me in an attempted to rob me later, seeing as I’d been chatting about how I’d been paid. Also if you get thrown (and I mean thrown – catching air and everything) out of a pub you should probably call it a night.

Boycotting Xmas

I have come to a decision this year that I am boycotting Christmas. Now there are many reasons behind me deciding on this matter. But let me first defend myself! Why do I have to defend myself? Well, avid reader, I have come under attack from the few people I hold dearest to me; my family and friends. I know this last sentence contradicts what you thought about me, but the fact is I do actually know who my family are and I do have friends. I know this comes as a shock to many, who, for some reason, think I’m so kind of antisocial orphan, left to fend for himself with no education or social skills. But I do have a (limited) education. But I’m getting off point here. Anyway, my family and friends don’t support me in my one man mission to boycott Christmas. “But why do they oppose you, Great One?” is what you are thinking. And the answer is; because they won’t be receiving gifts this year. As it turns out both my family and friends are extremely materialistic. That fact came as a shock to me. How could I have possibly got to this point in my life, being as great as I am, when all this time I have amerced myself with such people? Anyway I’m sure these people will realise their mistakes and welcome me back into their circles soon enough.

I will now explain why I am boycotting Christmas. I’ve come to notice that Christmas; the celebration of Jesus being born, is no longer a Christian holiday. Face it; Christmas is celebrated by Christians, atheists, agnostics and even Jews, Muslims, Sikhs and Buddhists. So Christmas is no longer a Christian holiday, instead it’s a Capitalist holiday. I’m willing to bet you will see more ‘Santa’s’ this year than ‘Baby Jesus’’. It is big companies that truly profit off the Christmas season. So instead of finding myself in debt from buying expensive gifts that I can’t really afford I’m not going to do anything.

I do like the idea of a day in which family and friends show how much they love each other. But personally, I think materialism is not the best way to show it. It is about time we banded together and come up with a new way to show our love for each other. Some type of way that doesn’t leave us in debt.

There are many pros of boycotting Christmas, in my opinion. This year I don’t have to spend my time in busy shops trying to find gifts for people, only getting stressed out trying to think of what people will like and fighting with other customers over products. This will leave me more time to do more important things like study or actually spend time with my loved ones. I not have to spend time wrapping gifts with paper that is only going to get thrown in the bin. Think about it, wrapping paper is possibly the most idiotic product to buy ever; it’s destined for the bin. You may as well take the money you are going to spend on wrapping paper and put it straight in the bin, cut out the middle man (wrapping paper). If I’m not buying people gifts, they aren’t buying any for me, so I not have to pretend that I like a gift when I don’t. I’m a terrible actor and no matter how hard a try to muster up an “I love it”, it’s clear that I don’t love it, which only makes the buyer miserable, which I hate.

So, that’s my argument for boycotting Christmas. No matter how you view the holiday, either Christian or Capitalist it has lost it tradition and has turned into the worst time of the year. Robberies and suicides always go up at this time of the year, and I’m sure the myth of Jesus wouldn’t support this. So join me and boycott Christmas.

Letter to God

Dear ‘God’,
Thanks for taking time out of your busy schedule to log on to the greatest Blog on the internet. I understand that it must be hard to find time to read this, seeing as you’re always up to something and you’re nonexistent. I just thought I’d write to you seeing as we haven’t spoke in some years. I know we’ve lost touch; of course this isn’t your fault. I place the blame directly on my shoulders, but also some blame lies with science and Richard Dawkins (did you read his book?).

Just recently I’ve been wondering if you could possibly do some of those miracles that I heard so much about at school. The world seems to be quite fucked up at the minute and I blame you. Religious people seem to have gone crazy, is it possible that you could smite them all? If you don’t I will simply take that as a sign that you don’t exist and I will take it upon myself to rid the world of religion. Which is a big task, but I’m willing to kill a few thousand people every other Sunday … I don’t have Church to go to or anything else to do, so I may as well.

I’ve been thinking of starting my own religion. That’s the main reason I’m writing this. I wanted a few tips. I know it’s going to be hard to live up to the standards that you set, I mean I can’t make a world or humans (I’m firing blanks). Well I can’t just yet, but you never know what scientists will come up with next. Sorry, I mentioned scientists; I forgot you don’t like them much, because of their logical thinking and theories on Natural Selection! But to be fair, if you didn’t want us to figure out you didn’t exist you shouldn’t have made us so clever. Maybe if you made every human with limited thinking abilities it would be a better world. A world filled with Redneck-American types. In which we all followed our lives to a really old book, which some other Redneck-American types wrote a long time ago. But then again, that book would never have been written, because Redneck-American types can’t write, so I suppose there’s a method to your madness! You see, these are the things I’m over looking! So how should I start up my religion?

The basic idea for my religion is that there is no God, crazy I know. Well there’s no God living in Heaven, in fact there is no Heaven or Hell. The only type of deity is the one inside us all. I’m going to teach my followers that our religion doesn’t want war with people because what they believe is wrong, something you should mention to your followers. Also in my religion, there will be nothing to worship. Followers not have to go to a certain building at any point. They don’t need to do anything apart from treat each other and everyone else with respect and try to do good things. This is what religion should be like. There is no need to dedicate yourself to your belief so much. People should dedicate themselves to themselves and each other, that is how progression is truly made.

Yours sincerely, Ben Broughton

Where's my bloody BEARD???

Hello my loyal followers, I’m glad to have you all back. Today’s Blog is all about me and my feeble attempt to grow a beard.

Now, I think beards are cool, really cool. But there’s one problem, I can’t fucking grow one. All I get is pathetic bum fluff on my chin, top lip and stupid little hairs on my cheeks. It’s as if I’ve gone down on a hairy obese woman, she’s cum so hard that her pubes have been splattered across my face. Which is not a good look. But what is this need I have for a beard? I think it has something to do with one of the most important people to have ever walked the Earth. He’s probably the most famous person to ever live; he’s a religious character and even has followers, no not Jesus! I’m talking of Adam French. Frenchie (as he’s known to his friends and enemies alike) has one of the greatest beards ever, and I think all the knowledge he possesses is due to his beard like Samson. Frenchie’s beard is so good that he hasn’t had any Christmas presents since he grew it because Santa Clause is jealous of him and his fantastic beard.

I’m all out of ideas to grow a beard. I was told at a young age that once I hit puberty my body would change; I’d grow body hair, I’d get taller, my penis would get bigger and I’d develop facial hair. I’m now 22 and in the last ten years or so, I’ve grown taller and I have some body hair, but that’s it! I’ve tired steroids, thinking they’d help my beard grow, but sadly they just made my penis shrink even smaller. I’ve tried praying to fictional Gods, but still nothing. My last idea (which I’m not to sure about) is possibly tattooing a beard on my face. This kills two birds with one stone; I want a beard and I want a tattoo.

If anyone else has any suggestions, please leave a comment. Thanks.

Virus Rap

My Beef with Social Networks

MySpace

When I’m really bored I go on MySpace to look at foolish fucks and how they live their pathetic lives. Lonely bastards talking to fake friends, get a fucking life. I will now single-handily dismantle the main groups that annoy me on MySpace.

Emcees/Rappers/Hip Hop Crews/Producers

How many more shitty emcees are going to try and add me to MySpace? Fuck off you untalented bastards. When did unoriginality become acceptable? What crossed your minds, you fucking waste of space? You’re fucking shit, stop sitting around all day making predictable beats and writing recycled rhymes that we’ve heard a million times before. If you’re so fucking ‘Street’ get off the internet you little cunt, go out on the street, live what you claim. Go out and get stabbed! One less cunt. Or go out and stab some other shitty emcee, fuck it, come and stab me, death would be a sweet release from the world occupied by people like you. Or how about learning a trade? Because you’re spending all your fucking time locked in your mother’s basement trying to make it big, you could be out getting a job, you fucking tool. And what is it with these fucking producers? Trying to sell something they made in five minutes on Fruity Loops for over £100! Get fucking real you pricks. The best music in the world is made because it needs to be made, not because you need the latest pair of Nike Air Max. Make music because you love it, not to make money. If you really want to get somewhere in the music business you have to give shit out for free first, build a buzz the right way or go and fucking hang yourself. And stop posting pictures of plastic girls holding up a piece of paper with your name on, you may think its good that a slightly decent looking sket thinks you’re good, but what do girls really know about Hip Hop? Not fucking much in my experience.

Emos

Next is all the fucking emos on MySpace. The thing about emos is they claim that no-one understands how they feel, shut the fuck up please. PLEASE! Fuck you and your problems, nobody has an easy life, everyone has troubles, there’s nothing different about the shit that happens to you. You’re life is not original in anyway, shape or form. And also please stop using mass produced music to put forward how you feel, you see its mass produced because everyone else feels the same, you dumb fuck. Go kill yourself, I mean you keep telling everyone you’re going to do it, so go ahead. Stop getting my hopes up for no reason.

Plastic Girls

Next up is the fucking plastic girls, uploading half naked photos of themselves. You sad little girls. You’re begging for attention. If MySpace was a nightclub, you’d be in the corner with a sign around your neck that read; “Free Blow Jobs”. I don’t know what it is that makes you so needy, did Daddy touch you? Maybe it is has something to do with the fact you’re really ugly. Photoshop can work wonders! Look, if you’re lucky you’ll end up in some dodgy basement somewhere making cheap porno films, but you need to make money somehow to feed you three bastard children and your crack habit, that stuff isn’t cheap. But it’ll all be fine because in your mind you’ll still be a star. So what you have to swallow cum to put food on the table, who cares?

Facebook

Now when Facebook first came around it was great, much better than MySpace. It was a place for friends. But eventually it became over-saturated with people wanting to be my friend. Now I have no problem with adding people that are my friends but what is with these fucking losers that I used to go to school with? We’re not friends you fuck. We weren’t at school, we’re not now. I hope you die when you push out your next bastard child, or I hope you catch AIDs when you fuck you 15 year old female cousin. You’re all from Sutton, you’re all shit, go and shoot up and OD, please. And what is with all those fucking applications? Fuck off with that shit, it’s fucking annoying! Every single time I log on someone I hate is trying to make me join their group. “Join my group ‘Help Save the Planet!!!1’ please.” No motherfucker, how is my joining your group going to save the planet? Please explain that to me. And what is it with all these idiots I went to school with? Stop posting pictures of your ugly, disfigured bastard children. Nobody cares about the flock of fatherless little shits you keep pushing out. One last thing, if you keep ‘poking’ me, I’m going to come to your house and poke you in the throat with an AIDs infected syringe.

Bebo

Now when it comes to Bebo I’m not too up to date with it, because I’m not actually a member for one major reason. That reason is when I pick up the newspaper and read about the latest teenager getting stabbed to death, there’s always a picture of the victim that has been taken from their Bebo page. From this fact I have concluded that you are more likely to get stabbed to death if you’re on Bebo. That is why I avoid this social network website. I’m also been lead to believe that most of the members of Bebo are young teens, and I have nothing in common with the youth of today; happy slapping, self harming, getting each other pregnant… Not really my scene.

TV ... Licence to Kill

Welcome reader, I will once again provide you with handy information for you to consume and help you lead a much better life. “But Ben, you’ve taught me some much already, what else could you possibly educate me on?” is probably what most of you are now thinking. But I have something to say to you; I’m an intellectual, a genius, there is much more I can teach you. This week I’m going to help you all out with that annoyance that all of us lazy bastards encounter; having a TV licence.

To start with I’d like to talk about having a TV licence, basically if you have a TV you need one. And if you don’t get one TV licence people take you to court and make you pay a large amount of money. The money you pay for your TV licence mainly goes to the BBC, yet we have no say on what they spend it on. Personally I’m cynical about paying because of one person; Jeremy Clarkson. I’d hate to think that any money that was once mine has been used to line his already overflowing pockets, because he’s a cunt. The current going rate for a TV licence is £139.50 (or £47 for a black and white TV), which is more than an ounce! Now which you I rather spend my money on?

I’ve chosen this topic because I currently have no TV licence and I’ve had to devise a plan for not getting caught and ending up in court to pay to stupid fine. It’s hard living a normal life with no TV licence, especially if you get smoke enough cannabis you get paranoid of anyone knocking on your front door. Only last week someone knocked on my door and I hit the floor faster than the last 6 year old girl I beat up with a crowbar. Luckily for me and my housemates it wasn’t the TV licence people or ‘bastards’, as I call them. The bastards have been sending us letters warning us that they are coming around the area where I live soon. This has scared one of my housemates; Leon, he his determined that we get a licence soon, while my other housemate; Kate*, is not so worried about the whole situation, but she’s a Scouser, she’s used to feeling guilty for stealing something. Kate feels that seeing as she stole the TV from Currys, she shouldn’t have to pay for the licence. To be fair it was quite amazing to see a tiny girl run threw the city carrying a huge plasma TV while fighting with security guards, that’s something you can only learn in Liverpool. I personally am divided on the situation, on one point I’m tired of avoiding people at the front door but I don’t want to pay my money on something I’m getting for free. So at the minute we’re sticking with no TV licence and not answering the front door to anyone, which is causing us quite a problem because the children that are trick or treating think we’re avoiding them so they keep egging our house.

Seeing as it’s only a matter of time before we’re caught out I’ve put together a plan and a bunch of reasons for not paying for the licence.

Firstly I read that people over 75 years old don’t have to buy a TV licence, so I’m going to find myself a girlfriend that’s around the age of 80. I will get here to move into my house so when the ‘bastards’ finally turn up, we’ll get off free. Plus this kills two birds with one stone. A work friend of mine suggested that I get with an older woman, because “they will teach me a lot.” I’m sure she will, knitting has always been an interest of mine.

Reasons for not paying:

“Sorry sir/madam, I haven’t even passed the theory test, so I can’t apply for a licence yet!”

“Yes we have a TV, but we don’t watch it. It’s modern art. Our living room looks like a typical living room because it’s IRONIC! It’s not a living room, its art. The TV is just like part of a picture.”

“We don’t have a TV, I don’t know what you’re fucking talking about mate! I promised myself I would never do anything wrong after I got out of jail for murdering a Jehovah Witness on my door step. You can come in to my house and check if you really fucking want, but I’m currently hosting my daily sacrifice a goat to Satan ritual, so it’s not the BEST time for me, it’s your choice.”

“Yes we have a TV, but we don’t actually watch it. We take some LSD and just pretend it is switched on.”

“That’s not a TV, it a digital photo frame … what has sound … and the images are all of the same thing … slightly changed … er ...”

So beloved reader, put these suggestions into action and tell me how it all goes please.

*Kate you wanted a mention, you got one!

Shit Joke #1

At a young age me and two of my friends; Tom and Dave, said we would all try to put our shitty town on the map. Tom tried to become a movie star but failed miserably. Dave tried to become a rock star but he also failed miserably. I became a cartographer.

Women Troubles

I’m a man and like all (heterosexual) men I have trouble with females, and just lately I’ve had real trouble. It turns out that women are becoming immune to Rhohipnol. Of course I’m joking. There was once a rumour going around that I used date rape drugs on girls. But I had to defend my reputation and put an end to these damaging rumours. I had NEVER taken a single one of those girls on a date! Ever! And in no way do I condone drugging or rape, at all. But I do understand that ugly guys need an edge. Rhohipnol is like Lucozade for the unattractive and desperate.

Another problem with women is they want all these things; a man who cares for them, a man that has a sense of humour and they always top it off with these immortal words; “I don’t care what he looks like!” Which is complete bullshit. Stop lying to us ladies. I have many wonderful friends, not the best looking lads that ever walked the Earth but extremely nice guys. They never get any ladies. Me on the other hand, I’m a complete cunt, I have no sense of humour and I beat off women with a baseball bat (but that’s a hobby of mine). But I’m good looking; I’m one of the lucky ones.

What also annoys me about women is that years ago they were fighting for their right to vote, but when it comes to making decisions in the household they completely have no understanding of how democracy works. Because a woman’s word is final. A marriage/relationship is basically a dictatorship. No matter what anyone else thinks, it’s wrong.

Light up a Cigarette

My breakfast for the last four years has always been the same thing; a cup of tea (with milk and two sugars) and a cigarette. Yes, a cigarette, I don’t eat it of course, that would be silly. I smoke it. Of course a cup of tea is good to open up your lungs in the morning, but who wants that? I close them right back up with a smoke.

Nowadays smokers are some of the most persecuted people in Britain. Yes, I really said that people! I’m talking about the smoking ban. We’ve been living with it for a while now but that still doesn’t mean I’ve accepted it. I thought this was a democracy I was living in. But clearly nobody asked me about how I felt on the issue. This unwanted ban has leaded me to not being able to enjoy a nice cold pint and a smooth smoke in my local pub for a long time. Instead I have to go outside and smoke in the cold. Not so long ago I was in a pub and I accidentally sparked up one of my Mayfair Superkings (the brand of kings… on a budget) and I was ejected from that establishment. It’s charming; I get thrown out for inadvertently lighting up a completely legal drug while my friends are in the toilet cubicles snorting lines of cocaine, which last time I checked was an illegal drug.

And why do we still have the health warnings on packets of cigarettes? We know they’re bad for us, let up people!

“Smoking seriously harms you and others around you”
So what…? Fuck the people that are around me. I’m antisocial; I prefer to be on my own. I don’t want people around me.

“Smokers die younger”
No shit! Smokers know that smoking kills us. Why do you think we do it? It’s slow suicide! I’m too pussy to go jump off a bridge or hang myself, I’ll take cancer thanks. Plus how long have people been working on a cure to cancer? I’m sure they discover it in the next few days, it’s been long enough. And what’s wrong with dieing young anyway? People that die young are always remembered more than people that died old.

“Smoke contains benzene, nitrosamines, formaldehyde and hydrogen cyanide”
That sure is an interesting fact there. I never knew that. And I still don’t know what the fuck any of those things are, or what they do to me. But I’m guessing it’s not something good.

“Smoking kills”
Plain and simple! Yes it does. But it makes me look cool, and I’ll trade looking cool for dieing.

“Fajciari zomieraju mladsi”
Foreign cigarettes! They feature those annoying warning labels but you have no fucking idea what they say, it sure does make smoking a more pleasurable experience.

At the end of the day I know the risks of smoking but I know the risks of unprotected sex with prostitutes and I’m still doing that. But I’m not scared of cancer. I’ve survived mad cow disease, SARS, bird flu and a load of other media scares, I’m not saying cancer is a media scare, I’m just saying I’m tough.

I'm going to be a Dad ...

It’s time to let the world know that I’m going to be a father. Yes, after years of believing I was firing blanks it turns out I’m not, or maybe I am and my girlfriend is being a whore. I just wanted to write this Blog to explain a few things because I’m sick of repeating myself and answering the same questions. So here I go …

“Were you trying for a baby?”
No we weren’t trying to get pregnant, but we were having unprotected sex.

“Why weren’t you using protection?”
It feels better without a condom.

“What about the pill?”
We’re always taking pills, just not that ‘pill’.

“Were you surprised that she got pregnant?”
Of course I was. I didn’t even know twelve year olds could get pregnant.

“Are you sure you’re the dad?”
No.

“How has your mum the news?”
I’m not telling her, she had a stroke last year. I don’t want to kill her … just yet!

“How did her family take the news?”
I have no idea. I only bought the mail-order-bride, not the mail-order-bride and family. I didn’t have that much money. I’m sure if they survived the tsunami or haven’t been murdered by their oppressive government, they’ll be happy about it.

But I’m looking forward to being a dad. I think years of being neglected by my own father have made being a father look easy for me. For me a father is someone that never sees his kids, never pays anything towards his kids and never buys any birthday/Christmas present. That’s basically what I do now, so I don’t think it will affect my life at all.

Of course it took us a while to discover she was even pregnant. It’s hard to notice you’ve missed a period when you’ve never had one. At first I just thought my future baby mother was just getting a little fat. And as for morning sickness, it’s a lot like a hangover, so it’s easy to confuse the two. Because we’re a young couple, well she’s a young girl and I still think I’m sixteen so we still enjoy drinking every night and the weekly drug binges. Of course drinking and taking drugs when you’re pregnant is probably not good for the child, but it’s a bastard child being born into a loveless relationship of a drug addict and a school girl, this child is bound to have problems and end up on crack anyway. If it’s born addicted it just saves itself a few week of sobriety.

I need to tell you I believe in smacking children, not because I think it’s the best way to punish children, but because my partner has hit puberty now, she’s getting bigger and strong and starting to fight back. And I can’t afford a punch bag. So hitting the baby will be the only form of getting rid of my stress.

How to Deal with getting dumped.

Most people get dumped at some part in their shitty lives, it’s a sad truth. But don’t worry because I’m here to help you deal with the rejection and the eventual realisation that nobody loves you. And I bet you are thinking; “Why should I take advice form this fool?” Because I’m one of the beautiful people, I have experience with being rejected; I’ve had my cancerous heart broken before so I have experience with this. I’m more experienced than any journalist that writes in the problem pages of the tabloids (Fuck Deidre from The Sun, that bitch never responded to my letters – so I had to help myself!). So here it is, the Ben Broughton guide to getting dumped:

1) Get back with your partner.
I’m joking of course, this won’t happen. She’s already moved on, got a restraining order and her new man can kick the shit out of you. So forget it.

2) Drink.
It’s so unoriginal but it’s the first thing to do. Drink motherfucker, drink! Keep drinking until the hangover pain is worse than the pain of being heartbroken.

3) Drugs.
Much like drink, bet better. Heroin is probably the best bet. Smackheads are never heartbroken, so become one and never worry about getting dumped again, although becoming a smackhead will probably put an end to the rest of your life.

4) Self Harming.
It’s not just for Emo’s anymore! Any loser can never hurt themselves. So do it, cut yourself a bit, it takes your mind off being unloved.

5) Suicide.
It’s a bit strong, but it certainly puts an end to that heartache. But do think about your reputation after you’ve done it. Killing yourself over getting dumped it’s a bit strong, and at the same time, who’ll turn up to your funeral, you’re not exactly Mr Popular.

6) Become Gay.
Face facts, women hate you and you’re never going to get another one so you may as well turn gay. There’s nothing wrong with being homosexual, so give it a try.

7) Revenge.
This is the good one guys! You’ve been made to look like a fool, you’ve had your heart torn out of your chest and then the girl you loved has walked all over it. Now you can inflict pain on her, like she did to you. Follow these simple techniques:

• Post those naked photos of your ex on Facebook/MySpace/Bebo/The Misadventures of Ben Broughton Blog*

• Upload those naughty oral sex videos from your phone online too.

• Kidnap then kill her pet. Cut off its limb and post them to her.

• Tell everyone she gave you crabs.

• Make some phone sex cards featuring her mobile phone number and leave them in public telephone boxes.

• Tell her new boyfriend/girlfriend (in case you turned her gay) that you’re still sleeping with her, which will ruin her new relationship.

• Hack her email or online social network profiles and change the information and send hateful messages to her best friends.

* Just get in contact with me if you have any photos you would like me to share. I’m happy to upload them for you, I’d do anything to help a fellow bitter ex got retribution.

The Most Wasted I Have Got #2

I’ve already told you one story of me getting extremely wasted, so if you liked that story you may also like this one, if you didn’t like that story you probably won’t like this one either, so go put the kettle on and get a sense of humour!

This second story takes place in Derby. Derby is the lucky city I now live in, and while many Nottingham Forest fans might not want to live behind enemy lines, I’m not like most people; in fact my psychologist even suggested I’m one of a kind and need special attention. Anyway, “what does this have to do with your story?” is probably what you’re thinking. Well reader, I need to set the scene and get my word count up.

The plan for the night was go to my local pub with my acquaintances for some cheap pints of larger then to return to my flat for some illegal substances, while discussing the state of the economy and society, just like every Monday night. But little did I know that this Monday night would be a lot different to the ones that came before it. The night started as it should have done, we had a few beers at my flat and headed to the pub. We had a few beers and chatted the night away. With it being a Monday I’d had a busy drug-filled weekend and found that I still had two pills on me. So I thought I better get rid of these little things. The best way to get rid of pills is to take them. You could always sell them but that’s bad, because people that sell Class A drugs are very bad people and should be in jail because they are bad. You could just flush them, but I paid good money for these pills, I’m not going to flush them, that is just a waste of money. So I took one and continued to drink.

Of course after a while I started to feel a lot better. By now I’d had quite a few pints and was defiantly in an intoxicated state. Everything at this point was fine, until Graham left the table to get a drink. This is when things start to come apart. A girl came to our table and asked for the free stool, but I told her that Graham was sat there and she responded; “OK, calm down!” At this point it would be funny to shout; “I AM CALM!!” in a joking-sort-of-way. A few minutes later my phone rang so I went outside to answer the call and talk. After the phone call I went to walk back into the pub but was met by a big bouncer who told me I was not allowed back into the pub. I asked him why and he told me that I had been screaming at a regular customer saying that I had a bomb! This was a load of bullshit. This bitch that got me into trouble was not even a regular, I was a regular to the pub, and so were the people I came with. We went to that pub every-fucking-week! The bouncer wouldn’t even let me in the pub to give Graham his coat back; I was wearing it because it was really cold. This caused me another problem; I was in the beer garden which is situated at the back of the pub. I had to leave threw the back gate, which was new to me. I hadn’t been in Derby that long and wasn’t sure where I was going. So I just walked into the nearest pub, which didn’t look like a pub from the outside. I ordered a pint and took out my phone to text Rob seeing if he could explain to the bouncer what really happened, what I’d really said and if I could return to the pub. Rob informed me that they wouldn’t let me back in the pub, so I decided to stay put in this new pub. I’d already started talking to some of the chaps at the bar anyway.

After a while I decided to nip to the toilet and take the last pill I had on my possession then I returned the bar. After chatting to a few of the guys drinking there I noticed that they were all gay, maybe this should have made me realise that I was in fact in a gay pub. But I didn’t take that fact in until Rob sent me a text that read; “Dude, you’re in a gay pub. GET OUT NOW!” But I was too far gone. I couldn’t leave this pub in my state. I needed a little time to get my head together, so I stayed. And I’ve got to say I had a great time with those bowel bangers. They were some of the nicest guys I have ever met. Let me just state, that I was not leading them on, it was clear from the moment I walked in that pub that I was straight, seeing as none of the guys picked me up on their gay-dars (which are radars for homosexuality). So I had a few more drinks and then left the pub. I cannot remember walking home or how I got home, but once back in my flat I met up with my flatmates and started smoking weed.

As I mentioned before the plan was to talk about social and economical issues just like every Monday night. But I was currently finding it hard to speak. After a few spliffs I was gone. But then the fire alarm went off, more than likely caused by us, but we never did find out. So the whole of my block had to go outside, bear in mind that this was about 2.30am, once outside I was taking on the chin. Being well-known as a stoner does tend to mean people blame you for such things as fire alarms, and as I lay on the cold concrete floor rolling around I was finding it hard to defend myself. After the fire alarm we all poured back inside, but not for long. A few minutes later the fire alarm went off again causing more problems for me, because walking was becoming very difficult at this state and holding back the vomit was equally as hard. Once again as I lay on the floor I began to think maybe I should call it a night. The fire alarm was stopped again and I returned to Frenchie’s room to pick up my beer, I remember leaving his room and not being able to walk, so I crawled to my room on my hands and knees. I climbed into my bed and fought with my clothes as I pathetically attempted to remove them. And eventually I fell asleep.

The moral of this story is you should never shout at strangers in a pub because they might be moody bitches that will get you thrown out, never take drugs without your friends being with you and go to gay pubs because homosexuals will buy you drinks.

Hello & Random Pondering

Allow me to re-introduce myself ... My name is Ben! OK, nobody can quite pull that line of apart from Jay-Z himself, but I thought I'd give it ago. I'm sure the millions of you people that read my blog have been asking yourself; "Has Ben finally ODed? because he hasn't posted anything in a while." Well please stop worrying and sending my mother flowers and cards saying "Sorry For You Loss", because I'm fine.

The reason for my lack of blogging is simple, I'm lazy and busy, which is quite oxymoronic. But fear not people, because I've cut back my time at work, I'm avoiding my friends and family, I'm not doing my Uni work and I've given up sleep just so I can blog more.

Since I've been away (by away I mean not-blogging), not much has happened to me really and I'm almost at a loss of something to blog about off the top of my head, but as soon as my lazy-ass housemate (yes, you Leon - I know you'll read this eventually) sorts out the internet at our house I'll be online all the time. Of course I could have sorted the internet out but I was too busy ignoring my housemates. Anyway, I even have a follower now (shout out to Neyull), that's one step closer to world domination!

Anyway, I'm going to leave you with a few subjects I've been pondering lately:

- The new RSPCA advert (click here to see) is asking for urgent money to pay for it's biggest rescue ever after new laws have been bought in that lets them save an animal before it gets hurt or something along those lines. If they are desperate for money that means they must be short on staff and food so the animals aren't getting the correct treatment. Does this mean that the RSPCA will end up taking themselves to court for cruelty to animals?

- Sarah Palin ... what is with this bitch? Jornalists love her. This bitch is a oxymoron* a creationist that kills 'Gods' animals, a pro-lifer that supports the death penalty, talks about family-values when her teenage daughter is about to have a bastard baby. "What's the difference between a pitbull and a hockey mom? ..... Lipstick" That joke sucks! Plus it's not true. There's loads of things that make them different. It anything lipstick is one thing they have in common, hockey mom's have lipstick, ever seen a horny pitbull's cock?? I rest my case!

- Is G-Star the uniform of cunts? Honestly, I'm yet to meet a cool person that wears G-Star. I know it's meant to be one of the coolest clothes brands out now for males, but nobody cool is wearing it. Maybe it's just Derby people that wear G-Star that aren't cool. The missus told me to buy some G-Star clothes, but I'm waiting for a penis to develop on my forehead, and for the price to come down, which ever happens first (but I'm willing to bet I'll have grown a cock and vagina on my forehead before you can pick up some G-Star jeans for around £25).


- Thanx for your time people, Ben


*I know I used the term oxymoronic twice in this post. I've always known what this word means, honest. I haven't just learned it. It's just a bit strange that I've finally used it ... TWICE.

My New Neighbour

"Neighbours. everybody needs good neighbours" ... go the lyrics to the semi-popular TV Soap. Yes we all need good neighbours, but we don't always get good neighbours.

Now being such a nice bloke as I am, I've never really not got on with my neighbours in the past, but I know already that I'm going to clash with my new neighbour.

Let me first share what I know about this character. He's an almost-deaf coffin dodger, who loves his garden. And his garden is very nice, I will give him that. If Alan Titchmarsh saw this garden he would probably shoot a load in his Y-fronts. There are two problems that arise because of my neighbour's beautiful garden:

- We share a small fence so we can see each others gardens, and because I'm living in a student house and my garden is basic. But next to his it looks shit. It's like standing your pretty girlfriend next to Lucy Pinder, not so pretty anymore is she?

- Secondly, and more imortantly is my new neighbour has done everything he can to his garden so he is slowly invading my garden! There was a tree at the bottom of my garden, NOT ANYMOE! He cut it down while I wasn't in. I was given a list of items that are inside and outside the house by the estate agents, items such as beds, fridge, washing machine and so on. It's so the estate agent knows what was there and what should be left when I move out. Of course the tree wasn't on the list because it's a fucking tree! No landlord has ever expected his tenants to cut down a tree. Me and my housemates are going to get into some serious shit for this. And there's nothing we can do. We can't plant a new tree, apperently they take years to grow! And I'm sure the estate agents/landlord not believe the sweet old man next door did it.

I'm quite sure when Hitler's first steps to invading Poland was by cutting down their trees! I remember it from History class at school. So I'm ready for a full on war here.

"I'm not racist but ... I am!"

Ever heard someone say; "I'm not racist but..."? I'm sure you have, maybe you've even said it before (I'm joking of course, I'm sure you're not a racist). Well, I AM RACIST! Yes I said it. So what the fuck you going to do about it? I'm tired of living this lie, I'm coming out of the closet (racism closet that is, not the homosexual closet - need a few more years in here first), I fucking hate WHITE PEOPLE!!

They think they're so cool. I know it's not nice to judge a whole race based on a few people of that race that you've encountered. But I've been living with white people since the day I was born and I'm fucking sick of it. This isn't just a snap decision, this hate has been growing for time. Let's look at the facts:

The father that was never there for me = WHITE
The mother that never bought me a Mega Drive = WHITE
The teachers that gave me my mis-education = WHITE
The bullies at school = WHITE
The boss at work that gives me shit = WHITE
The girls that never licked my balls = WHITE
The friends that always smoked my weed = WHITE

And it's not just in my life, it's all over the world that crackers are fucking up. Hitler was white, look at all the shit that he did! Tony Blair's white, he's fucked up this country, and Gordon Brown (who is also white, despite is last name) has fucked us up more. George Bush, every-comedians favourite punchline has fucked up the entire world and he is white. If tomorrow there was a newspaper headline that read; "Robert Mugabe not even black, turns out it was just a tan", I wouldn't be shocked in the slightest.

Even Michael Jackson was making great music and not touching children before he turned white.

I know what people are thinking, how can I hate white people when I'm white? Well the fact of the matter is I hate myself for being white! Even if I have mix-raced kids I'll still hate them slightly because they're dad's a white bastard!

Mr Whiskers Must Die ...

Now, I'm an animal lover, not in a sick twisted bestiality way. But I've always had pets growing up as a child. But when it comes down to it, dogs are better than cats, for many reasons. Dogs are loyal, trusting and can attack anyone breaking into your house, unlike cats. I don't hate cats, but I do hate Mr Whiskers. Let me explain who Mr Whiskers is, and how my hate was built up against him and how I tried to kill him.

I was introduced to Mr Whiskers through my girlfriend; Lisa. Mr Whiskers was Lisa's cat; she got him from her gran after she sadly passed away after a freak stair lift accident. The chair flew up the stairs at 100 mph and Lisa's poor gran was ejected out the seat, out the window, into a motorway and hit by a lorry. Of course Lisa was really upset by this and when her mum said they were going to have to put the cat down as nobody wanted it, Lisa soon rescued it.

At first everything was fine. When I went around to Lisa's I would pet and feed Mr Whiskers all the time. But as time went on, the more Lisa's love grew for Mr Whiskers the more his hate grew for me. Maybe he saw me as a threat to him. I know it is hard to tell if an animal hates you or not, but Mr Whiskers has done plenty of things to lead me into thinking he hates me. Such as taking a shit in my new trainers, which he did on purpose, he has a litter tray, which he does not even use because he is trained to shit outside. Of course I didn't smell his shit, I discovered when I was about to nip to the shops for a few beers. I slipped my bare foot into my trainer and heard the squelch, the cat crap was pushed threw every tiny hole in my trainer. This caused me to throw up all over my other (cat-shitless) trainer. I washed the trainers but I could still smell the cat crap, so I got rid of those trainers, even though I loved them very much. I viewed this trainer’s incident as a one off accident, until the Mr Whiskers began what I believed to be an all out war between me and him, with Lisa being caught in the cross-fire.

Mr Whiskers would start to randomly attack me. Usually when me and Lisa were being intimate. Once he jumped on my back with claws out, causing me to elbow Lisa in the face and breaking her nose. Of course she viewed this as my fault. This is just one example. Mr Whiskers also mastered a skill of running between my legs when I ran downstairs leading me to fall over my own feet and fall to the bottom of the stairs.

Mr Whiskers would also try to out do me, as we both raced to Lisa's heart. I would buy her gifts such as flowers or chocolates, which she often thought was done out of guilt for something I had done wrong, which was never the case. So my gifts were often seen as some sort of attempt to get on her good side. Lisa would usually turn her nose up at what I had bought, but when Mr Whiskers killed mice and birds and brought them to her she thought that was cute. I tried to make peace with Mr Whiskers, I treated him great, but he continued to attack me. So I decided to fight back!

I hatched a plan to kill Mr Whiskers. Now I'm not a violent person, far from it. So instead of stomping on his head, I decided to poison him. Plus it would be hard to explain to Lisa why her cat's brain was all over my trainers. My plan was simple, put four grams of MDMA in Mr Whiskers' food, which would surely cause him to OD. Now many drug users may see this as a waste of good MDMA, but this was the best plan I could come up with. So one day I put out Mr Whiskers food and mashed up the MDMA. Along came Mr Whiskers to eat his food. A small while later, Mr Whiskers gets a bit 'crazy'. He begins to run threw the house making noise like he was dieing; I began to question what I had done. Lisa was starting to worry, especially when Mr Whiskers was climbing the wall, literally like a spider, then he crawled across the ceiling like the baby on Trainspotting! As I looked at him above me, he dropped, landing on my face, claws out. I let off I massive scream as he clung on and began to bite my forehead. Lisa panicked and in a bid to help me she picked up a fire poker and swung it at Mr Whiskers. But just before she struck him, he jumped off leading me to take the brunt of the fire poker. As I collapsed to the floor holding more head in my hands as the blood poured out my face, Mr Whiskers darted out his cat-flap. I went to hospital to get a few stitches. And we did not see Mr Whiskers for the rest of the week.

So imagine my shock when I found Mr Whiskers back in the kitchen on Monday morning. I thought he had ended up dead from the MDMA, but no, that did not kill him. And I was starting to feel bad for what I'd done, that all ended when I saw him again. I should have taken care of him then, instead I yelled upstairs to Lisa to tell her he was back. So was so excited. I thought I'd forget about killing Mr Whiskers, until he started to attack me again, worse than before. He knew it was me behind his 'crazy episode’; he wanted to make my life hell. So it was back on!

I spent all my free time thinking of ways to kill this cat. I'm not ashamed to admit that it turned into an obsession. But it had to look like an accident. That was the most important thing; I did not want to lose Lisa because I killed her cat. I mean, I was doing this so we could get back to how it used to be, before her gran died and this demonic feline made its way into our great relationship. I started to look at Mr Whiskers actions to see what I could capalise on.

My second plan was to lock the cat in the washing machine and drown him. Mr Whiskers had a habit of sleeping in small spaces such as wardrobes, draws and the dryer, so it made sense to kill him this way. I'd do Lisa a favour by washing some of her clothes while she was at work, this was a great plan. I was doing her a favour, but had accidentally killed her pet. So once Lisa had set off to work I put a few clothes in the washing machine, then I took a towel and jumped on Mr Whiskers while he slept. As I wrapped the towel around him he began to try and fight out. With a little luck I kept him wrapped in the towel and I stuffed him into the washing machine and quickly closed the door and turned it on. Inside the washing machine, he escaped from the towel to see me threw the glass in the door just as the water started to fine the machine. It was hilarious to see him trying to escape the water, but for him there was no where for him to run. As the washing machine went around I could see his limp body twirling around and around. I didn't watch all the time, I watched for about five minutes then turned on the TV.

I waited for Lisa to return from work so she could discover Mr Whiskers in the washing machine. And she did, she walked in the kitchen and saw the washing was finished, she thanked me for doing it and opened the door and began to pull the clothes out. Then I heard her say, "Oh my God..." that was it, she'd discovered him, "... are you alright?" Then I heard a meow. That sound sent a shiver down my spine. She reached in the washing machine and pulled out Mr Whiskers, although he was soaking wet he was still alive. "Ben, it looks like Mr Whiskers was sleeping in the washing machine when you put the clothes in. We'll have to make sure he's not in it in the future. That sure was lucky!" And it was, lucky for that fucking cat. Lisa didn't think I'd done this on purpose, she'd see it how I'd planned it. She'd seen I was doing her a favour and Mr Whiskers had climbed in the machine and accidentally been washed, it all went great, apart from the cat not dieing.

After that I went back to the drawing board, to see what else I could do. It didn't take me too long to come up with my next plan. Mr Whiskers loved to play with the window blinds in Lisa's front room, usually he play with the bit of string used to open and shut the blinds. This little string what soon become the end of Mr Whiskers. My plan was simple; wrap the string around the cat's neck and hang him, Saddam style, if you can kill an evil dictator that way, you can kill a domestic feline that way. So one night as we headed off to bed, I made an excuse to go back downstairs. I heard Lisa climb into bed and I went into the front room while Mr Whiskers slept on the window ledge, lucky for me, unlucky for him. I took the blinds cord and tied it around he neck, not waking him, then I pushed him off the ledge causing him to fall the string tighten. As I walked out the room, leaving him tangled up, I could hear his weak breath. I went upstairs and slept like a baby. Until I was woke by Lisa, telling me that Mr Whiskers had had another accident, getting caught in the cord of the blinds in the living room. But he was fine! She'd discovered and rescued him.

Of course, after three failed attempts I was starting to doubt my cat killing abilities. And I started to look at any objects around Lisa's house that could be used to kill Mr Whiskers. My fourth plan was a spare of the moment thing. Lisa's large auntie had come to visit. Lisa's aunt has a inflatable doughnut to sit on because she has piles. So I saw my chance. Lisa welcomed her auntie into the house and they went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea, while they did this I lay a blanket over a napping Mr Whiskers and put the inflatable doughnut on top of that. When Lisa and her aunt came into the room, cups of tea in hand they took their seats. And Lisa's aunt did not feel a thing. We chatted for about an hour then Lisa's auntie had to make her way home. As she stood up and pick up her inflatable doughnut she noticed a lump under the blanket. As she lifted the blanket she saw the lifeless body of Mr Whiskers. "What have I done?" she shrieked, "me a massive favour" I thought. She bent over and went to pick up the cat, until Mr Whiskers shot up and bit her hand. Lisa and her auntie exchanged some banter, but I was too busy fuming to take in what they had said. The cat had survived a 15 stone woman sitting on him; it was going to take a lot more than this to kill him.

I went back the basic stuff, what animal hates cats; dogs. This was barely a plan. It was just a desperate attempt to put a violent end to Mr Whiskers. By now Mr Whiskers was more cautious when sleeping or napping, due to the fact I'd been trying to kill him as he slept. So I changed my attack plans. Instead of being in Lisa's house this time, I was on her street, late at night waiting for Mr Whiskers. Around 2.00pm I saw him; I snuck upon him, grabbed him and quickly fixed elastic bands to his legs. Leaving the front two stuck together and the back two stuck together. I stuffed him into my backpack and walked to the other side of town. This plan was taking him out of his element (Lisa's house) and was much more violent than any plan before it. I went to my friend Dave's house; I wasn't going to enlist his help. I was going to enlist the help of his two Staffordshire terriers. I waited outside Dave's house and when nobody was around I opened my bag, grabbed and Mr Whiskers and threw him into Dave's back garden. I smiled as I heard the dogs bark. I zipped up my bag and made my way back to Lisa's house. But as I returned, who was on the doorstep ready to greet me; Mr Whiskers! I have no idea how he survived, got away or managed to find his way home before me.

To be honest, I was now getting really desperate and finding it hard to come up with ideas to kill Mr Whiskers. Another spare of the moment idea came about when more of Lisa's family came for a visit; Kyle (her younger brother) and Adam (her cousin). They came to Lisa's house because to do things they couldn't do at home like get drunk, smoke weed and shoot birds with their pellet guns. Of course they always invite me to do some shooting on Lisa's back garden, but in the past I turned them down because I'm not the type of person that kills innocent animals, but times have changed. So this time I joined them. Of course, Kyle, Adam and Lisa all thought I was a bad shot, but what they didn't know is I used have a pellet gun was I was young and stupid and I'm quite a good shot. The idea is simple; I'm such a 'bad shot' I accidentally shoot Mr Whiskers. This was a daring move to be honest. I'm about to shoot Mr Whiskers with Lisa watching, hoping she'll believe it was an accident. But I was done caring this cat needed taking care of, once and for all. So we shot at some birds for a while, I was missing them on purpose and Kyle liked to rub it in that I was a terrible shot. They were falling for it, hook, line and sinker. So when I saw Mr Whiskers walking along the wall at the bottom of garden I took my aim and shot, telling them to look at a pigeon flying passed. As the pigeon continued to fly off, they then noticed Mr Whiskers looking dizzy then falling off the wall. "Oh shit!" I shouted. We all run up to the cat, blood was seeping out of his head. To be fair to myself, it was a great shot. Adam dropped to his knees and began to give the cat mouth to mouth. After about two minutes Mr Whiskers came around. Lisa told Adam he was her hero. I was expecting a serious fight, but it never came, probably because her family was there. Once Adam and Kyle had left, I was waiting for the argument, but it never came. Lisa told me that I should never pick up a pellet gun again, due to the fact I'm useless with it.

I waited a few weeks before my next attempt; I didn't want Lisa getting suspicious. There's only so many 'accidents' a pet can have until the owner notices there's something going on. And I was lucky to have made it this far.

So after a couple of weeks had passed, I decided to expand on an early attempt. The washing machine idea was great, but the cat didn't die. So I thought I'd use the basis of that plan but step it up a gear. I've always had a fondness for microwaves. I'm lazy so microwave meals are a must for me. But now my favourite cooking appliance was going to become my murder weapon. For this plan I would place a meal in the microwave, get Mr Whiskers to follow the meal into the microwave, but I wouldn't be the one to 'pull the trigger' this time. I'm going to leave it to Lisa. So everything was set up, I called Lisa into the kitchen and I put the kettle on. I asked her to put the microwave on for me, which she did. So a few minutes passed and the microwave finished, Lisa opened the door, and found Mr Whiskers. Now we all know that any pet will die if you put it in a microwave, but not Mr Whiskers. It's unexplainable. I was not even shocked this time, although I was surprised he'd eaten my meal. Again Lisa told me to be more careful in the future.

By this time, Mr Whiskers was no longer attacking me, he had stopped along time ago, but I was still hell bent on killing him. Everything was going great with Lisa, and the cat wasn't coming between us anymore. There was no cat shit in my trainers. There was no reason to kill Mr Whiskers. I'm not sure why I was carrying on my plans.

My next plan wasn't a plan at all. Me and Lisa had spent the night in watching DVDs and drinking (heavily). When Lisa had passed out, I saw Mr Whiskers and went a bit crazy, I picked up the fire poker (the same one that Lisa hit me with) and began to beat the pussy. I crushed his skull, I broke everyone of his legs, and he was dead. I put him in a plastic bag and buried him in the back garden. Then I cleaned up the mess. I wasn't going to say anything to Lisa; I was just hoping she'd think he'd run away, who could blame him if he had done? I climbed into bed and went to sleep. And sure enough in the morning I woke up with Mr Whiskers sleeping at my feet.

Someone once told me cats have nine lives, I never used to believe it, until my experience with Mr Whiskers. MDMA, washing machine, being hanged, fat bitch, two dogs, pellet gun, microwave, beaten to death ... he'd come back from it all. How else can you explain it? I count that as eight lives he's lost. So there's one left, but I'm too tired of killing him. My final plan is simple; wait him out. He's an old cat. Mother Nature will take care of him soon enough. I'll live longer than him; he'll be dead before me. I will get to piss on his grave. So I'm in a constant cease-fire with him. I still hate the little bastard. He no longer hates me. I'm the type of person that holds a grudge. And trying to kill him was a good hobby.

Mr Whiskers must die, and one day he will. But not as a victim of mine.