The Misadventures of Moz the Spoon Burner

Once upon a time in a little place called Lemo lived a man named Moz. Moz was a Spoon Burner. If Moz wasn’t burning spoons he was thinking about burning spoons or coming up with ways to burn spoons.

Me and my friends met Moz the Spoon Burner a few years ago and although he liked to burn spoons and he was twice our age we still spent time together.

This story involves Moz getting caught burning spoons. It was a usual evening at our secret headquarters (Graham’s Caravan), when there was a knock at the door. Graham opened it and discovered Moz. Graham invited Moz in and as he entered I noticed he was carrying his plastic bag of tricks. Moz went everywhere with his reliable plastic bag.

But today Moz was just making a quick visit to see us because he had a problem. ‘What was his problem?’ I hear you cry, well Moz had a major problem, but he wasn’t willing to admit it! His other problem; the one that he recognised and the reason for his appearance at the caravan, was that he needed a spoon to eat his yogurt. He dipped into his plastic bag, which always seemed to be bottomless to me, he carried everything he owned in that plastic bag, and pulled out his yogurt as if he was trying to prove something to us. Graham quickly filled Moz’s request for a spoon. But surprisingly Moz didn’t stay with us to enjoy his yogurt; he had to make his way. So he wondered into the evening with his plastic bag and newly acquired spoon.

Sometime passed and later on that evening Moz returned to regale us with his actions after he left the caravan. It turns out that Moz went to the local ASDA disabled toilets to devour his yogurt. Which is understandable, I don’t like people watching me eat so I often go to a public toilet with wheelchair accessibility to consume my snacks, I’m sure all of you have done the same in the past.

Apparently the staff at ASDA don’t like people consuming yogurts in their toilets and they entered while Moz was in there. And those yogurt eating hating bastards started to quiz Moz over his spoon. He went on to clearly explain to the ASDA staff that he had the spoon so he could eat his yogurt. Unfortunately for Moz and Graham’s cutlery collection, the people at ASDA didn’t believe Moz so they confiscated the spoon.

At this point Moz apologised to Graham for losing his spoon. But it don’t not all end badly, because those people at ASDA didn’t want Moz to go hungry so they gave him a plastic spoon, which he passed on to Graham.

So there we have it people, a Misadventure of Moz the Spoon Burner. I’m not sure if this story had a moral attached to it, it probably does, but that’s for you to discover for yourselves.

Milk, Two Sugars and a Lifetime of Addictions

Welcome back loyal followers. Firstly I’d like to apologise for the lack of Blogging in 2009. This is due to many reasons, the main one being my alcoholism; over the last few weeks if I haven’t been drinking I’ve been sleeping, so there hasn’t been much time to Blog. But do not panic, because I have returned. Recently, between my trips to and from the bar I have been contemplating what I should next discuss on my Blog and not too long ago I had a revelation about the amount of addiction in England and why it comes about, so here it is;

As we all know this once great country England has a major problem with addiction. There’s no point denying it, we all know it’s true. Our population is addicted to tobacco, alcohol, cannabis (yes, it’s not physically addictive but we all know it’s mentally addictive), coke, smack and all that other good stuff. But where does this addiction come from? Why do we seem predisposed to having at least one of these addictions? Well don’t fear because I have come to the conclusion. And many of my English brethren will not be happy with the explanation, because I’m placing the blame on one of countries most loved drinks; tea!

I am an avid tea drinker, which is one of the main reasons I’m taking aim at what I once called “the main cornerstone of British society” and also “the reason that Britain is Great”. I have met many non-English people in my time and none of them seem to understand the love us Brits have for tea. I try to explain it, but I’m unable to, usually I just go for the old; “get out of my country if you don’t like tea” argument.

I know what you’re thinking; “Tea isn’t addictive”. But you are wrong. I understand it’s unlikely that anyone has ever been out sucking dick or selling their body for a handful of PG Tips, but it’s still addictive. It’s just an acceptable and overlooked addiction. The thing about tea is the addiction starts as soon as you wake up, I’m sure most of you reading this start the day with a nice cup of tea to get you ready for the day, you may think it’s just the way to start the day but the fact is, you NEED that cup of tea, you just don’t know it, until now.

I have often raised this question to my friends; “If you had to go the rest of your life without one of these things; weed, pills, beer or tea, which would it be?” More often than not people say tea, but then I tell them to really think about it and then they with tract their first answer and reconsider.

Unlike other addictive substances, everyone that’s addicted to tea instantly becomes a dealer of tea. This doesn’t happen with any other drug on such a large scale. How often have you been at someone’s house and they offer you a cup of tea? Compared to the amount of times they’ve offered you a joint or a line of coke or a hit on their crackpipe.

The point I’m attempting to make is that tea becomes an addiction for us and it stays with us for our entire life. Drinking tea makes you susceptible to other addictions later in life. I’m a perfect example and so are most of my friends. In no way am I telling people to stop drinking tea, I’d never do that. I just want people to realise that making a brew is not much different than cooking up.

I Think I'm Turning Thai-anese!! (Trippin' on Thai)

About two months ago I was lucky enough to come across some Thai weed. I got a nice deal on if from a mail order bride that had come over to England to marry an old man. I ended up buying three ounces for only £200. My plan was to smoke an ounce and sell the other two ounces to make my money back and a nice profit. But I had to try it first, so this is the story that unfolded.

I picked up the weed on a Wednesday, but didn’t get around to smoking some until Friday night after a long shift at my day job. I had the house to myself as my friends were out drinking Government-taxed-drugs. So I sat on the nice leather sofa in our living room, put my feet up on the coffee table and beginning to skin up a joint while watching the idiot box. I lit up the first spliff and as the smoke filled up my lungs my eyes began to water, this was some good shit. I’ve smoked weed for a good six years now and in that time I’ve tried many strains but there was something different about this Thai weed that was different. ‘Was it just the strain?’ I thought to myself. No, I’ve had Thai weed before, once in the stoners’ homeland (Amsterdam), so that wasn’t it. Maybe it is because this was hidden in some prostitute’s snatch, who flew across the globe for over half the day, maybe this is some AIDs laced weed. But I highly doubt that weed can get an STI, but I’m no scientist. In the end I just decided that it was strong weed, plus it had been a few days since I’d had a smoke plus I’d just burned this spliff on my own.

As the time passed I was really buzzing off the high from the spliff. It was one of the best highs I’d ever had, my body was completely relaxed, I had the giggles and I was grinning so much that my cheeks hurt. So I chilled out for a while watching the TV, then I rolled another joint, blazed it and the high just got better. After a while the inevitable happened; I got the munchies. Now munchies is a problem for every stoner and this time it was a major problem, I was too stoned to cook and I knew for a fact that I had nothing in the fridge or cupboard. I did contemplate stealing some food off my housemates for a while, but I was in the mood for a takeaway. So I called the Chinese restaurant that is situated a few streets over, I knew they wouldn’t take too long. So I sat and waited for my order and rolled another joint and smoked it.

I’m not sure how long the takeaway took, but when I heard the knock at the door I slowly made my way to it and opened it up. The Chinese guy looked at me weirdly and asked; “Whereabouts you from?” This was quite annoying to me; I’d ordered food not a fucking conversation, but I thought I better be nice I give these people plenty of custom, the food’s always good and cheap I don’t want to come across as rude and have them spit in my food or possible cook and serve me a rat when I next ask for some Chicken Chow Mein. So I told him where I was born. He then responded with a remark about me being oriental. Then it dawned on me he was taking the piss because of my cannabis induced squinted eyes. I just passed him the money and took my takeaway.

I returned to my living room, which by now was smoke filled and had that potent cannabis smell, which was gradually creeping throughout the whole house. I love how the weed aroma drifts through the house and covers up the stench of the festering unwashed pots in the kitchen and the odour of solidified tissues coming from the bin in my bedroom. I sat in the in the living room engulfed by a cannabis cloud and inhaled my takeaway as if it was a bong hit.

Once my hunger was taken care of I decided to roll myself another joint. By this point, time seemed to be passing extremely fast or I was moving at an exceptionally slow speed. I started rolling this spliff at about 11.05pm but didn’t complete it until 11.50pm.There are only a few things I pride myself on and one of those ‘qualities’ I have is being able to roll a very decent joint in about five minutes, so this made no sense to me. Eventually, I brushed off this matter about how fast time was moving and I just sparked up.

As I inhaled a lung full and slowly exhaled via my nose my vision began to blur as I stared at the television. I took another hit and I could no longer make sense of what the presenter on TV was saying. I slipped backwards into the sofa into a more comfortable position. The last thing I remember is looking at the half smoked spliff and thinking to myself I’ll never be able to finish this on my own.

I woke up on the floor with two dark figures peering over me. It was my two housemates back from their night out. They were pissed and I couldn’t understand what they were saying, due to their slurs and me not being able to think straight. Leon helped me off the floor and sat me back on the sofa.

“What the fuck were you going on the floor, dude?” Leon asked. I didn’t know, I just look at him bemused and told him; “Pǒm yang mâi róo” (I don’t know yet). Leon and Kate looked at me as if I was talking in tongues. I understand why, because I had no idea about what had just out of my mouth. In my head I said “I don’t know yet”, but for some reason there was some miscommunication between my brain and my mouth.

I started to panic a little. A million things were running through my head at the time, but I kept having the same thought; this weed has given me brain damage. I took a few deep breathes and Leon asked; “Are you feeling alright, dude?” I stared at him with a facial expression that I thought surely explained I was not feeling too well. But sadly, Leon is not the sharpest knife in a Chav’s arsenal, especially after a skin full. So I attempted to answer him; “Mâi, pǒm róo sèuhk klêurn sâi!” (No, I feel nauseous!).

Now, I was really starting to panic because I couldn’t even speak coherently. I wanted to let Kate and Leon know that I was tripping out but they could understand what I was saying. I was unable to speak a word of English, only gibberish. Eventually after Kate and Leon came to the conclusion that I was not joking and there was a serious problem they decided to call someone that will help. I was hoping for a doctor but Leon decided not to call an ambulance seeing as it wasn’t an emergency, instead he was going to phone Chelsea, a girl we all know on a medical course at University. Chelsea’s smart, extremely smart in fact, last time we spoke she told me she was top of her class, but I was still pissed off that Leon didn’t class this as an emergency. He was clearly unbothered about my opinion as he ignored me shouting; “Hèet-gaan-chúk-chəən! Hèet-gaan-chúk-chəən!” (Emergency! Emergency!).

Luckily Chelsea answered the phone when Leon rang, which was good seeing as it was now 2.40am. Leon explained how he and Kate had discovered me sleeping on the floor. They chatted for a bit, I knew Chelsea was explaining something difficult to Leon because, unlike him, I can tell what people are thinking from a facial expression. Leon reached for a pen from the table and began rummaging around for something to write on, in the end he settled on a rizla. He jotted something down, thanked Chelsea and put the phone down.

He stood over me and began to study the rizla. “Retinocochleocerebral vasculopathy …” He muttered. ‘That’s it’ I thought! ‘Whatever I have is contagious. Leon’s talking in gibberish too, soon Kate will be infected and we’ll all die from this’. If I’d have remained calmer, I would have released that Leon hadn’t finished talking, “… or susac syndrome, as it is commonly known as. Chelsea said that you’ve probably fell over, bumped your head and when you came around you’ve started talking in foreign accent or foreign language. There are many other symptoms too.” I couldn’t believe it, one short phone call to Chelsea and all of a sudden Leon thinks he’s Gregory House. “She also said that you shouldn’t worry too much,” he continued, “just try and get some sleep and if you wake up the same in the morning she’ll come over and take you to the hospital”.

I felt slightly relieved; at least I’d had some almost professional over-the-phone advice. I decided sleep was the best idea so I went to bed. It was easy for me to fall asleep seeing as I was still high.

When I woke in the morning and my thoughts started to collect themselves together, as they always do the morning after a heavy smoking session, and I began to think back to last night and if it had actually happened. I put on my dressing gown and walked into the living room to be greeted by Kate. “Feeling any better then?” she asked. I hesitated before I answered, I wondered if I’d just speak gibberish again, “I’m fine … that was English! I make sense!! Yeah, I’m great thanks!” I was cured. I could speak English again; of course I still spoke it badly. But it was English.

This all happened about two months ago, and since then I have discovered what I was speaking wasn’t gibberish, but it was Thai, although some people still believe it was gibberish. I question Chelsea’s theory too. I personally believe the Thai weed played a major part in what happened to me. Personally, I think that there was something wrong with it; I think if I’d have kept smoking it eventually my ethnicity would have been permanently altered. I fully understand that this is scientifically impossible (unless you’re Michael Jackson), but there was something strange about that weed. Make of it what you will; I’m just presenting the evidence. As for the weed, I sold it off in small amounts to people I didn’t know. As of yet I haven’t heard anything back from people possibly having experiences from it as I did. I didn’t touch it again, or let any of my friends smoke it, much to the dismay of all my friends. I did think about getting back in contact with the lady I got it off, but I’d rather put this incident behind me.

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.