Gordon Brown Should Die!

Let me just start out be saying I’m in no way plotting to kill the Prime Minister (yet, I’m waiting for Cameron to get in).

Gordon Brown was forced to wait in the wings for Tony Blair to retire for so long. He must have had sleepless nights for years. Just waiting and waiting and waiting. Then after following America to into a never ending war Blair finally stepped down and Brown stepped up. His time had finally come.

That was then, this is now.

Gordon Brown could quite possibly go down as the worst Prime Minister this country has ever had. The poor one-eyed bastard! It was a failure from the get go.

Without a doubt the odds have been stacked against him. Firstly I’ve seen carpets with more charisma than the guy and that’s not good for someone leading a country. Secondly, he got into power without being voted in, so it’s not like he was wanted in the first place. So he had to try and win us (the British public) over, but that never really happened.

Some much shit has gone down; floods, credit crunch, recession, MPs expenses, his own party plotting against him, most of his party abandoning him, losing the local elections ... Yes he can’t be blamed for much of it. But he’s in charge so he gets the blame.

Clearly things haven’t gone to plan for Gordon. But I have come up with a plan for the man. He must die. The only thing to save Brown now is death.

I’m not saying suicide. In no way I am hinting that the man should kill himself.

But what I’ve just recently learned is no matter what you’ve done (or what people think you’ve done) in the past, it will all be forgotten as soon as you die. I am of course talking about Michael Jackson.

Jacko, as some people (to lazy to type/say his full name) call him, is dead (thought I’d make that clear in case you’ve somehow not yet picked up a newspaper, watched TV, listened to the radio, logged on to the internet* or had any social interaction with another human over the last couple of days)! Now people and the Media are mourning this guy like he was the second coming of Christ.

A man famous for making music, but somehow managed to spend more time defending himself in court over charges of molesting children than he did in the studio recording albums. A man so against the norm that he ‘de-tanned’ from birth. For fuck sake the man dangled his child out of a hotel window (I bet you forgot about that one didn’t you?!).

Now, I was never a fan of Jackson, I understand that he made (what some would call) great albums. I know that you don’t get the title “King of Pop” by accident, just like you don’t get labelled a ‘paedophile’ over many years by accident. But I seem to feel that before he passed away he wasn’t really that popular. I know he still had his die hard fans, but amongst the general public, nobody really gave a flying fuck about the guy. When was the last time you were moon-walking to Billie Jean before he died? Yeah, I fucking thought so!

It reminds me slightly of Jade Goody. She was hated, she got ill and see was being labelled the “People’s Princess”! The Media is to blame of course, for pushing these ‘celebrities’ down our throats 24/7, but while I choke on the shit they feed, a large amount of people eat it up. This is the way it goes now; death is the best thing to happen in your career. Goody kept feeding the newspapers what they wanted for a fee. Jackson’s sales have gone through the roof. I’m willing to bet he’s made more money in the last five days than he has in the last five years.

This is what could happen to Brown. If he dropped dead right now, the newspapers and TV would mourn him. They’d be calling him “One of the Greatest PMs we ever had”. His death would create his legacy. All the rest of it would go out the window (like Jackson’s kid).

... either that or nobody would care.

*I understand that by reading this you have logged on to the internet, but maybe you have my Blog set as your homepage, so hypothetically speaking this would be the first time you read it!

Bald Barber Beef!

So after my hair got so long, that it started to curl out and make me look like an even bigger idiot than usual. I took it on myself to dig deep into my overdraft to pay someone trained as a barber to cut my bird’s nest of a hairdo.

As I waited in the barbers as the customers before me went ahead and got their hair cut. I sat reading through the previous day’s newspaper, by reading I mean looking at page 3. Once it was my time to sit in the barbers chair, I realised my barber was bald. Now this should have set off alarm bells in my head, why would a barber be bald? Surely a man that dedicates his income to cutting hair should have so pride in his own hair. But instead of this I sat there wondering how to explain what I wanted doing to my hair.

The matter is I just wanted it trimming at the front and plenty taking off the side and back, the same style as what I had ... but shorter. I attempted to explain this to the barber and he seemed to understand or at least that is what I thought.

But has he took his scissors and began to cut my hair, first trimming, then cutting and before I knew it I had no idea what had happening. This wasn’t what I asked for at all.

Not too mention the conversations that took place in the barber’s was extremely belittling. I had previously stated to the gentleman cutting my hair that I’m a University student that works part-time at a supermarket. As usual you have to banter with people cutting your hair, maybe this is the reason my hair turned out so bad, I lead such an interesting life that the barber was districted from his job by my fascinating life, or maybe he was just shit at his job. Then when a new customer entered the shop, and proceeded to have his hair cut by the other barber. They then entered a jolly conversation about how University is not needed nowadays. How delightful, a man that cuts hair and his customer (who, from what I could gather about him from his hectic day to day schedule was either a millionaire; that had no need to work, or unemployed. And he wasn’t dressed like a fucking millionaire) discussing how higher education is not needed! It really made me happy that I’m receiving higher education.

The unemployed/millionaire man’s barber then proceed to give his opinions on how to get a job. “Nowadays you have to start at the bottom and work your way up in a company, I mean people stacking shelves at Sainsbury’s aren’t going to make it anywhere ...” at this point he clearly reminded himself that I worked in a supermarket, and ended his statement with “... not that there’s anything wrong with working in Sainsbury’s.” Nice one mate, don’t offend one of the only two customers you have in your shop.

By the time my hair was cut, I was unimpressed, but I’m not one to cause a scene so I plastered on a fake smile. He then asked “Do you want anything in the back?” I’ve never been a fan of having shapes shaved into the back of my head. I have this massive fear that if I was to have shave shapes, lines or possibly a corporate logo into the back of my head I may be seen as a complete fucking moron by society. Of course this is because I look down on these people, I know some barbers are fantastic at doing it and it takes real skill. But it takes skill to enslave a population, I still look down on people that do that. And if I was ever delusional enough to have anything shaved into the back of my head, why on Earth would I want a barber that struggles to complete a dry trim successfully!?
So I paid the man his well-unearned money walked out of the barbershop and put my hat on.

So, I know have this problem with my hair, I hate it! I’m too cheap to go somewhere else and pay for someone else to cut it again, so it’s staying how it is. I went six months without a haircut before; I’m not having two haircuts in the space of six days! So I’ve decided to deflect attention from the hair on my head by not shaving my face.

I have attempted to grow a beard in the past and it’s never worked well. For some reason the hair grows more on my right-side than the left. Nobody knows why, it’s been baffling scientists longer than AIDs. The thing is because I’ve tried to grow a beard before I have a bunch of witty comeback stored up to fire out at people, I don’t have the same ammunition for defending my hair. But this seems to have backfired slightly, nobody is even commenting on the beard. Nobody is making wisecracks at my expense. And I’m actually quite offended, because currently the amount of facial hair I have on my face is more than ever (which you have to release is still not much by a normal man’s standard) and people aren’t even noticing it.

My beard is so pathetic that people are not willing to take the piss out of it. It’s similar to making fun of Gordon Brown, why do it anymore? He’s just so pathetic, you actually feel sorry for him. My beard is Gordon Brown! Pathetic!

The moral here is, in case you missed it; don’t trust a bald man to cut your hair. If they take no pride in their own hair, they not take pride in yours (and I heard they vote BNP*)!


*Actually I have no proof of this.

The Last Letter of a Hopeless Romantic

Love is problematic. The last sentence was an understatement. Love can lead to many things; marriage, a great life together, a family or it can lead to misery and you standing over the bathroom sink telling yourself; “it’s down the road, not across the street” while gripping a razor. That’s the thing about love, you never know where you’re going to end up, it’s a gamble. You could be happy or you could slip into depression.

For me I think it’s about time cupid traded in his little bow and arrows for a revolver. He should then take that afore mentioned revolver, place the barrel to his temple and squeeze the trigger. Causing a chain reaction, of the bullet leaving the gun and his brains exiting out the opposite side of his cute little head. This would be a terrific gesture to all the people out there that have been fucked over by his meddling ways.

It’s just that I’ve reached a point in which I believe love isn’t worth my time and especially not my effort anymore. It’s much like Class A drugs, an excellent high but then a come down so bad you have to start re-evaluating your life. Which is once again in pieces. Hooray for you!

Now I don’t want to go on, and on, and fucking on about this too long, because I fully understand that I’m coming across as a bitter motherfucker, but fuck it. I am bitter, is there a law against being bitter? If I want to stew in my own self-pity, feeling sorry for myself, I have the right. I pay my taxes. I can moan, mope around the house, wear the same clothes for days and drink in the morning, who is that affecting?

And I get tired of people telling me to “stop feeling sorry for myself”. Why? I can feel sorry for myself; I can feel whatever I want (apart from children – according to British laws).

So let me propose a toast to all of those people in love right now; “Congratulations on being in love, well done to you. But when it all goes pear-shaped, I’ll be here. Waiting for you. You can join my crusade of misery. But until then live it up; live it up to the maximum because before you know it you’re having suicidal thoughts again. Stalking the ones that used to love you, on online social networks. Calling their phones, just to hear them breathe, too scared to talk because you know you’ll be rejected again. And that’s the one rejection that’ll finally push you over the edge. Will you kill her? Her new man? Or yourself? Don’t be a fool, do all three. Go out like the bitter, heartless, unloved fuckwit that you really are!”

I’d love to stay and chat, but the bathroom’s finally free.

“It’s down the road, not across the street. It’s down the road, not across the street. It’s down the road, not across the street.....”

Shameless Promotion

As some people have pointed out to me recently; I’m grotesque, but also a fewer amount of people have pointed out that I’m not blogging as much as I usually do. This is for many reasons, one being my alcoholism, another being that I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown and the final being because I once again have writer’s block.

But fear not little minions, because I have a new little bastard baby for you to gawp at as I prepare to ingest a concoction of illegal drugs to help diminish my writer’s block.

My new bastard baby is The British Standard. A sort of spoof newspaper, in which I’ll twist certain true news stories into stupid stories. I’ll also try my hand at being satirical and when that fails I’ll simply create more bullshit stories.

Issue One is already completed and uploaded, clearly there are still a few items to sort out, but I’ll get there eventually. It’s quite poor; it was rushed because I wanted to get it out to get the ball rolling. So check it out, I hope you’ll enjoy.

The British Standard

Summer: BBQs & Beautiful Babes

It has reached that time of the year, the few weeks in which the shitty little island we inhabit gets warm, then a little warmer, then hot and eventually too hot for our pasty skin to take and we simply stop functioning. And the strangest thing happens; we begin to complain that it’s too hot for us. For many people summer is their favourite season. This is because they get to moan about how hot it is, instead of how cold it is, but just for good measure, there will be showers of rain ... that they can also moan about. But this is England, the population is held together by cups of tea and moaning, it’s simply what we do.

So, as the sun appears from behind the clouds and starts to beam down onto us and we get sunburn, let us enjoy this time of the year in the old fashioned way that we always have with beer and BBQs. I’m an avid fan of BBQs, and I’ve been thinking about them a lot recently (like you have a fucking life – don’t judge me!). The main matter to do with BBQs that I was mulling over is that they are often seen as an Australian past time; “Another shrimp on the Barbie?” ... or whatever that saying is. Firstly I’d like to point out that I’ve never seen anyone put a shrimp on a BBQ, is it even possible to cook shrimp in this way? Anyway, I’m not writing to discuss shrimps, I’m discussing BBQs being an Australian past time. I’m putting forward a point; BBQ is British! Through and through until the end! BBQs are just as British as cups of tea and moaning, yeah ... I said it.

Let us not forget that most of the Australian population is made up of British criminals exiled all those years ago, within them British citizens laid the need to BBQ. The thing is Australia sees plenty more sunshine than the UK, so they are able to BBQ as much as they want, whereas us Brits only get a short time every year to poison each other with undercooked burgers.

So what am I proposing? Simple ... a war with Australia over the rights to owning BBQs. For too long Australia has been linked with BBQs and it’s not right, or fair. The BBQ is British! It’s time the Government took notice, a war with Australia is bound to boost Gordon Brown’s popularity ... but at this moment in time anything short of releasing a sex tape of him and his wife will boost Brown’s popularity. This is a war we can all get behind; we’re fighting for our national heritage!

I know many of you are thinking we could possibly loose this war, seeing as it seems as if we have failed in Afghanistan and Iraq. But in those places we were fighting intelligent evil masterminds. What does Australia have? Kangaroos and surfers! Two easy targets; surfers aren’t a threat and as for kangaroos, I’d never attempt to get in a boxing ring with one, but this is war, simply bomb the weird looking freaks of nature.

On another note, it seems that with the sun comes beautiful girls. They are everywhere, I can’t walk to the shop without falling over a scantily clad girl that looks so good you simply want to throw yourself at her and hope for the best. Although the best so far as been a restraining order ... the worst being getting pepper-sprayed and having to appear in court next week on a charge of exposing myself in public (Not Guilty!).

I have come to the conclusion that beautiful girls are either solar-powered robots or they hibernate from September until June. To further this conclusion I’m attempting to kidnap two beautiful girls, for the study of science (of course) to see if either of my predictions is true. I’ll leave one to see if she hibernates and as for the other I will peel her skin off to see if she is a robot. Stay tuned for the results.

Wigganometry: An Introduction on how to be a Wigger

This short and simple course has been developed to help eager wigger-wannabes increase their knowledge of how to be a wigger. Seeing as this is simply an introduction, we’ll cover three aspects of being a wigger; dress, mind-state and terminology (for beginners). If this course is completed we can then move on to Advanced Wigganometry.

Firstly you need to look the part. It is important that you dress in clothes that are too big for you. If you want to be a real wigger, every piece of clothing you own must be at least three sizes bigger than you need them. So throw out anything you own that is ‘normal’ size. It is also worth noting that your jeans must hang below your boxer shorts. Brands of clothing to look out for are FUBU and Rocawear, or anything else rappers were wearing circa 1998.

After you look like a real wigger you need to get into the same mind-frame as one. This means listening to gangsta rap. Now gangsta rap is a big and varied genre of hip hop and dates back to before you were born. But seeing as you are attempting to be a wigger we are going to not look at the classic artists such as NWA, instead you are going to look (and listen) to artists such as 50 Cent, Cam’ron, Cassidy and any artists that are currently putting out gangsta rap. It is also important to hold Tupac Shakur (a/k/a 2Pac) up as a God to yourself. You should worship him as if he was the return of Jesus. Don’t ever question anything he has said and defend him until you get your ass beat. No matter if intelligent people are attacking him for doing ballet as a child you must remain true and keep saying “He kept it real!”

Terminology
There is some important terminology you must get used to. Here we have provided a few examples that you should incorporate into your everyday conversation.

My ‘hood.
This refers to your neighbourhood or street, where you live.
Example: “That shit isn’t fly in my ‘hood”

Bling.
This refers to any jewellery you have, no matter if it’s real or simply plastic, it’s still bling.
Example: “Yo my nigga, that bling is off da hook!”

Fo’ Shizzle.
This means “for sure”. Made popular by recording artist Snoop Doggy Dogg.
Example: Wigger #1 “You gunna by at the club tonight?”
Wigger #2 “Fo’ shizzle!”

Phat.
Pronounced like “fat”, but means quite the opposite. If something is phat, it is good.
Example: “My new kicks are phat!”


And that concludes the introduction to Wigganometry. Put everything you have learned into play and I’ll see you at the course for Advanced Wigganometry. Peace out, my Wiggers!