Category Archives: Uncategorized

Business attire

There’s one massive drawback from all this working from home: the death of a great gag.

Don’t deny you’ve cracked it yourself. “Can we have a meeting tomorrow to discuss it?” “I can’t, I’m working from home.” “Oh yeah, wink, working from home is it?”

“Wanking from home more like!”

Hahaha. Hahahahahahaha. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA that’s what you do is it?

But the thought that we’re all sitting around pounding at ourselves while the kids charge about in the background is one that leads to the dark web and a Thai jail, so these days there’s a chance people are actually working from home when they say they are, and maybe even enjoying it.

So no wonder there’s an army of arseholes marching to put a stop to it.

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The Kingdom of Finchley

Amazing fact: there’s no such place as Finchley.

There’s an East Finchley, a West Finchley, a North Finchley and a bit in the middle called Finchley Church End. There was a South Finchley once, but we don’t talk about that (dirty ‘Hampstead Garden Suburb’ splitters). But there’s no ‘Finchley’.

With all this time on my hands I’ve decided to create a country. It’ll include all the named areas of this wonderful segment of north London suburbia plus the parts of Mill Hill nobody wants and I, of course, will be king. Clearly if you’re going to make a country in 2021 you don’t bugger about with democracy and presidents and elections and all that – you install a family who will rule for centuries through the trusted mechanisms of serfdom, patronage and inexplicable, unearned loyalty.

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Far, far away

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, there was a bloke who’d never seen a Star Wars movie and was arguably better off for it on balance.

Until recently I would probably have said I love Star Wars. Yeah I’m one of those ancient bastards who just about remembers it coming out as a kid – the second one obviously, I’m not an OAP for Christ’s sake. As we know, the second one’s a lot better than the first and third. The fourth one’s childish drivel, five and six are forgettable. Seven is a remake of the first one for no discernible reason, eight was a glorified chase movie and nine brought little beyond blessed relief that we were finally done with it all.

So I’m really looking forward to 10, 11 and 12, as you can tell, because oh fucking sweet Christ they’ve only gone and announced another trilogy.

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Licking lamp posts

When I started writing these moaning missives many years ago, I made the early error of over-personalising them. It swiftly became as tiresome to me writing about the woes of my own life as it did for any poor bastard whose eyes alighted on them.

What do we want? Shit films and litter! When do we want it? About once every three weeks on average! So instead I fed the public’s insatiable desire for nonsense about nothing much and what a roaring success I’ve made of it. But something’s come up that I have to address, something that involves me pretty directly. And it involves you, because you’re all bloody well at it.

Please, for the love of the sweet suffering saints, stop asking me if I’ve had any news about the vaccine.

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A beach at Dieppe

I know I told you I had a yacht and a big cock, and it turns out it’s an inflatable canoe and three inches on a warm day, but picture the sunny uplands.

Think of the carbon emissions we’ll save circling around Teddington Lock not the Bay of Biscay. Given I also can’t get it up, there’s no threat of making babies that’ll blame solar panels for causing Covids 37 to 43 and feed Twirl wrappers to dolphins. The fact that you weren’t thinking of the climate crisis all along says more about your priorities than mine to be honest.

I can say absolutely anything I want, and when the truth doesn’t quite marry up don’t think for a moment I’ll act contrite. This is the Age of Fuckallaccountability.

You’ll know who springs to mind when we study this golden era of truth twisting. Last night our heroic leader told us that it’s best we start planning for the tariffs we’ll face if a dump we’ve innocently fired down a British khazi ends up rolling up a beach at Dieppe. Long gone are the spirited words: “There is no plan for no deal because we are going to get a great deal.” A great deal more fucking poor apparently.

The intricacies of the Brexit negotiations are of as much interest to me as they’ve lately been to Barbara Windsor. There may still be a deal, but even getting this close without one is a remarkable turnaround from trestle tables covered with cheap brie and prosecco amid the blue passport-waving 24-hour Morris dance of 2020s Britain we were promised.

But try as I might to put Brexit’s cast of charlatans from my mind, the fact that we’re completely inured to their scalding bullshit remains the one thing that can raise my hackles from their slumber. They say whatever the hell they want. We let them. And no-one ever has to be held to account for it, and apparently never will.

Examples seem so bountiful you could leave the house and bump into one quicker than a cough and an intensive care bed. Far quicker in fact, given these very same leaders have bullshitted us all into an imminent fresh round of tightened lockdowns. But come now, let’s stick with the non-stop beano of Brexit.

“British people will still be able to go and work in the EU; to live; to travel; to study; to buy homes and to settle down.” Johnson.

“Coming to a free trade agreement with the EU should be one of the easiest in human history.” Fox.

“Absolutely nobody is talking about threatening our place in the Single Market.” Hannan.

“We didn’t vote to leave without a deal.” Gove.

A blithering parade of imbeciles and no mistake, who half this country’s population put their faith in for reasons best known to the ghosts of the National Front. All hope has come to nought, it appears. So, at a time when everyone loves a good blaming, who do we blame for this? Perhaps the people who told us it would never happen, then proceeded to make it happen? Could we maybe force them to stand behind their quotes and actions?

No, because in the Age of Fuckallaccountability there’s zero chance of any of these people being held responsible for the forthcoming tailbacks, scarcity, hardship, unemployment, and probable strikes and riots. Dyson and the car factory bloke have already upped and fucked off abroad, Farage can go live in Germany with his German family and there’s nothing any of us can do about Mr Wetherspoon.

Those left in actual paying government jobs will stand in front of cameras to say that an ‘Australia-style arrangement’ is great news for us all. In case you’ve somehow fallen for this line, let me clarify: Australia has no deal with the EU. A recent Australian Prime Minister has said his country are doing everything they can to get a deal: “Australians would not regard our trade relationship with Europe as being a satisfactory one.”

An Australia-style arrangement is precisely, exactly and entirely the same as an Afghanistan-style agreement, yet none of the arseholes about to Taliban the economy will ever serve a day in the jail of public opinion, let alone Pentonville. Johnson in particular will be held up as defending British interests against uppity foreigners who simply don’t understand their place, nor ours as ‘global leaders’, of fuck all but injecting old dears.

You can only assume it’s the Trump effect, where the world’s been completely beaten down by his every word being utter nonsense. We don’t care if liars are punished, we just want them to go away, and we cheer from beneath the rubble when they do. I’m no fan of ‘Won’t somebody think of the children?’ but for Christ’s sake, what would any impressionable 12 year old think of this? Say what you like, do what you want, pay no penalty and stroll off chuckling. An entire generation of cake-and-eat-its. An entire generation of Jacob Rees Moggs, and presumably a generation after that of kids called Alberitious, Flatulencia and Getafix.

But since there seems no appetite for public inquiry, and no sacking or pillory even when there is one, I guess all we can do is embrace this period of saying what we want and meaning not a jot of it. If nobody can ever hold us accountable we can do as we please and have a merry old time doing so.

Wife catches you halfway up a barmaid? But for me, she could have really hurt herself falling from that height. Outed as still pissed on a Tuesday morning Zoom call? S’not booze, s’the pills for stress coz this job, no support, tough year, mental health and that innit. Broke the virus rules for your 60th birthday bash? Six months off on full pay.

Or maybe we all just deploy that catch-all excuse, the alibi that absolves us of every crime. Caught? Rumbled? Found out? Nicked?

Eye test mate.

Squeezing out a cannonball

I started writing nonsense on here to get things off my chest. 

I knew there were angry words inside that needed out, and getting drunk and yelling about the meaning of life outside schools just wasn’t cutting it any more. So I started venting on here, while trying to make my dear audience chuckle once or twice through insult, prospective injury and pathos.

What this house of cards relies on is a steady stream of things that wind me up. Previously I could expect one or two incidents a day to provoke simmering fury, from some brainless bastard dropping a crisp packet to the simple sight of a man wearing a hat indoors. I never thought they’d invent a way to stop me seeing other people and thus deprive me of the rage on which I’ve been powered since around 1997, but wait, here comes ‘Tier 2’.

Even in lockdown or whatever this is now, you might think that 2020 would be the ideal time to be a purveyor of grump – railing at Boris Mainwaring’s handling of the virus, the Farage Garage, the bewildering levels of increasingly bare-faced corruption. Our top-hatted masters are manufacturing so many ways to make us angry, writing a thousand words about it should be as straight-forward as a bowel movement at first light for anyone not a man over 40.

Truth is, there’s so much of it about I’ve forgotten how to give a fuck.

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Howling by seven

You’re having a great night. I say night: you started at 3pm and you’re well on your way to chattering buffoonery by about half six. But it was always planned to be a get-together where everyone fell over at least once and only the lucky made it home, so things are well on track.

You look around at your friends and think: they’re a great bunch, I’ve done well here. You get a bit misty-eyed for a minute, wondering where your life would be without this rogue’s gallery of berks, widening and wizening with you for as long as your elbows can still be raised.

Then one of them says “I’m going to have to eat something at some point” and the rest nod in agreement.

Wankers, the lot of them.

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A few Poirots

The wailing, oh Jesus the wailing. 

Something grim has happened to somebody in a nearby cell. She’s trying to broadcast its full misery, but the walls are too thick to render her harrowing “It’s spread to my aaaaarrrrrrse!” as anything clearer than the terminal howl of a bombed Palestinian.

Still it’s less annoying than the arsehole who seems to spend most of the day scraping chairs across the floor above, or whoever fills many hours with the sounds of glass being squeegeed, despite the fact the windows don’t open so I can’t push them out.

As you know I aim to provide a public service with the screeching bullshit I write. So here I’d like to tell you about my experience as an NHS inpatient, so you know what to expect when you eventually take your first tentative step on the road to the hospice. So far I’ve been incarcerated in HMP UCLH for 21 days with no imminent prospect of parole. You get less for, oh, something to do with Barnard Castle. What do you want from me, topical?

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Go home like Bukowski

I’ve read a hell of a lot of novels in my time. Every one, even the shit ones, demonstrates to me why I’ll never be able to write a novel myself. From ever-inventive meteorological waffle to hilarious one-liners that have me begging for a nurse with a sewing kit, it’s just not how my brain operates when faced with a blank page.

Some people can create a plot that’d leave Christopher Nolan dribbling with confusion and characters that live in the mind long after Oxfam have burned the book to make space for more Potter. These are talents I’ll never possess and I’m fine with that. As Bill Hicks would opine, I am a reader.

But I’ve started to realise what a conservative reader I’ve become, because of the number of books these days I hurl at the fireplace in disgust after a couple of chapters. And they’re all modern-ish books – not in their setting or era, but written recently, by people who should have been forced to stick to office jobs, or perhaps prostitution.

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