They Wear Skirts Because ... They're Bitches

Weak pantie-wearing nonce-cases, the Scotchlanders, have shown their true colours (yellow) by sucking up to mad bomber bastard Abdelbaset Ali al-Megrahi and freeing him on 'compassionate' grounds. The spineless lily-livered bastarding shirt-lifters decided to let him go because he had some arse disease. By doing so, the noofters up North pissed on the remains of the victims, and hence forth deserve to be loathed by all decent people on the face of planet.

Now, whilst Libya laughs in the faces of those who lost relatives in the Lockerbie bombing, the skirt-wearing Jocks have lined up alongside them to deliver an extra kick to the bollocks.

Whilst I would wholeheartedly support military action against the Scotchlanders (and the Welsh and the French for good measure), I do see that such a move is unlikely, especially as our troops are fighting the scum that the Scotchlanders want to set free. I then thought about some sort of boycott of Scotchland goods. Mind you, all they offer the world are men's skirts (no thanks), piss-water juice (fuck right off), shortbread (I've enough gravel, thank you) and ginger hair (you fucking deserve it, you cowards).

No, apart from the lovely Lorraine Kelly, Scotchland has nothing that we want. Mind you, we do have something they don't have - backbones!

Katona Gets Her Arse Out Of Iceland

Ex-Atomic Kitten walrus Kerry Katona, more famed for her transition from sexy siren to fat blob, has been sacked from her role as the advertising 'face' of piss-poor frozen food peddler, Iceland. Apparently, the oversized one had been gobbling up Class A drugs, according to scandle-mongers and all-round shit-stirrers, The News of the World. (Mind you, they do print titty pictures, so God Bless them).

Now, let me tell you this; I've eaten Iceland food, under protest, and it tasted like fucking cardboard wankstain. It was bland and pappy crap that, quite frankly, was probably the most offensive shit I've ever put into my mouth, and I've put some shit in my mouth over the years.

If catastrophic Kerry's drug taking is more offensive than Iceland's fayre, then I'm fucked if I can even start to imagine how depraved she has been. That Iceland can criticise someone for filling their body with bad chemicals is a bit like Jack the Ripper criticising a baber for nicking his neck during shaving.

Prawn circle? Fuck right off, you two-faced cunts.

That said, she is a porker, and no mistake!

Super Sexy Squeaky's Out!

It's funny how sometimes things come out of the past and suddenly spring a whole bunch of memories! Whilst looking at SB's blog today, I saw news that Mansonette Squeaky Fromme has been released. Now, when it comes to mad bitches, Squeaky was a cute one. Yes indeed, flashing off a bit of leg with her holster strapped on, who could fault a boy for going at himself like a dog with ticks!

Back in the day, I dreamed of living in a shed with her, doing the odd serial killing, and generally getting into a lot of stuff that involved her getting naked.

Okay, so we know she's a mad bitch, we know she's been getting her crack licked by some butch pitbull bitch in the pen, and we know she's now older, uglier and probably slightly dull company at an evening soiree, what with her compulsion to slop out, smoke ultra-thin rollies and suck fluff in the showers, but I can't help feeling I'd like to take her home and keep her in a cage.

After all, she's so cute!

Les Paul and Lesbian Porn

I like lesbians. I especially like lesbians when they are doing the sex thing to each other. Who doesn't? I was reminded of lesbians doing the sex thing to each other when I heard the news that Les Paul had died. Now, if you think that the connection is the inevitable "Les" joke, you'd be wrong. Let me explain.

Many many years ago, I helped out a fellow human being, and as a result he owed me a chunk of cash. Then I made a discovery about said person, which changed my attitude about him dramatically (he had abused his sister). I demanded my money, and when he didn't pay, I demanded it again, more strongly. I obviously didn't demand it with menaces, as such a move would be illegal. No, I simply asked for it in a loud voice.

It seemed that he genuinely didn't have any money, but offered me his guitar instead. I took it, although I didn't want it. After all, I figured it would be some piece of shit. I took it because I didn't like him, and I figured anything was better than nothing.

When I got it home, I nearly shat when I opened the case. That was how I became the owner of a fucking gorgeous Sunburst Les Paul. I played it a bit, but it spent most of the time leaning against a chair. Moira, the lesbian upstairs from me, used to pop in, but she couldn't play guitar. One day she asked if she could borrow it, just for a couple of days. It was odd as she didn't play, but I agreed, because I liked Moira.

True to her word, she returned it a couple of days later. She also said that she had a surprise for me, and I'd receive it in a couple of weeks. I forgot all about it until the postman delivered me a pornographic magazine. Inside were many photographs of naked ladies, including a number of photos and a badly written story about a lesbian rock star who seduces an innocent straight groupie into the joys of sapphic love. The model playing the lesbian pop star was Moira, and the guitar she was posing with was my Les Paul. In one shot, she was rubbing her flange on its neck. I liked that.

As I have already said, this was many years ago. When I heard Les Paul had died, my first thought was of Moira's twat. Never mind Les, you didn't die in vain!

Boxing Bitches - Common Sense Prevails

Now, if you are not a sports-minded person, this news story might have passed you by, but the good news is that just today, Womens' boxing has been accepted as an Olympic sport. Whilst many do-gooders campaigned against it, stating that the public did not want to see women standing toe-to-toe and belting seven shades of shit out of each other, the IOC disagreed, and decided what we really need in a time of recession is just that, bitches beating on each other!

In life, we are all so quick to stamp upon the hopes and dreams of others, and are more than willing to put down those that shoulder public responsibility. In this case, let's stand and salute the mighty brains at the IOC, and thank them for their common sense.

Bring on the boxing bitches - that is all I have to say!

Stick Your E-Ticket Up Your Arse!

Traveling! Some think it's great, but I bet the fuckers don't have to do it for their work! Now, many years ago, traveling was simple. You went to a travel agent, you bought a ticket, booked a hotel, and pissed off home. A few days later, Postie pushed an envelope through your letterbox containing a plane ticket (a thin paper booklet around 6 x 3 inches with the tickets on separate pages) and a confirmation of your hotel booking. For that, we paid them a few pounds - money well spent.

Today, it's fucking dreadful. First, you have to go on-line and spend a few hours filtering through numerous fucking web-sites to find the only one that isn't going to tear you a new arsehole. Then you have to book the fucking shit yourself. Okay, it's not hard, but if you're drunk, you are likely to fly out of one airport and return to a different one. Yes, I've done that a few times, and then spent a small fortune trying to get to my fucking car.

However, then - for ecological reasons - we have the fucking e-ticket. Now, I'm all for saving a few trees, but the e-ticket is a con. The airlines and hotels don't print them, the fucking customer does. In most cases, the cunts don't want the actual e-ticket, but on the one occasion you don't print it, you'll be fucked! The cost for this - nothing, but then they want a fucking credit card fee, which costs more than the fucking paper ticket ever did.

So, having just returned from a trip, I spent an hour this morning shredding all my unused e-ticket vouchers. Then I spent another hour printing out a fucking ream of paper for my next trip. It's not work, it's a holiday, but it feels like work. I need 17 separate items of fucking paperwork, and each one is designed to not fit onto a single sheet.

E-tickets? Stick them up your arse!

Phone Sex (Sort Of)

So, I'm sitting letting my dinner digest, sipping on a nice glass of Barolo, and the fucking phone rings. Despite knowing that I shouldn't, I answer it (an unusual act, I usually ignore it) because Mrs SC is away and I figure she's checking I'm not dead yet. It's not Mrs SC, and I'm not dead. It is, however, some salesbod trying to sell me some shit via an unsolicited call. What's more, he doesn't have the best command of the English language. I think to myself, fuck it, there's nothing on the TV.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Mister Santa Cruz?"

"Who's that?"

"Is that Mister Santa Cruz?"

"Why? Who are you?"

"I can't discuss that with you unless you confirm you are Mister Santa Cruz."

"Why?"

"Data Protection." * This is a piss-poor ruse to get you to identify yourself!

"Well, if I say I am Mister Santa Cruz, what does that prove?"

"It confirms who you are."

"No it doesn't."

"Yes it does."

"Well, I'm afraid Mister Santa Cruz is dead."

"Oh, I see. Are you the homeowner?"

"Who's the homeowner?"

"Are you?"

"Give me a name and I'll tell you if he's the homeowner."

"What do you mean?"

"Tell me the name of the homeowner."

"Why?"

"Data protection!"
"Oh, I see. Are you the homeowner?"
"Which home?"
"This one."

"Which one?"

"I have a special offer if you are the homeowner."

"What is it?"

"Are you the homeowner?"

"Tell me what the offer is, and I'll tell you if I'm the homeowner."

"I can't tell you unless you confirm if you own the property."

"Which property?"
"Your property."

"I do own property, that I can confirm."
"What is the address?"

"It's the address that Mister Santa Cruz used to have."

"Are you Mister Santa Cruz?"

"No, he's still dead."

"So who are you?"

Now, if you're fucking confused, imagine how he felt. I still don't know what he was selling. I managed to keep him at it for 19 minutes before he hung up on me. My all-time record is 59 minutes. That bastard hung up just before I made the hour. I now have taken to recording the calls. It's fantastic what you can do if you put your mind to it. I had one bloke trying to sell me a phone barking like a dog.

Just remember folks; telesales people are for life, not just for Christmas.

Fuck them!

The Face of Jesus in my Soup

Now, many of you will have - at some point in your pitiful lives - laughed at those who wear their faith like a badge. Personally, I love it when they get all riled up because I laughed at them, and at the peak of their offense I remind them that they'll forgive me. Funnily enough, they often don't, which is just like spitting on baby Jesus in the cow shed.

Anyhow, the other day I was about to enjoy a bowl of soup, when I saw the creator of the Universe looking back at me. Now, in the old days, several Bishops would have turned up, along with a crowd of devotees, and my house would have been converted into a shrine before I could say "Fuck off, you Christian twats", or something like that.

Now, I do think we live in a Godless age, but as my aged Mother often tells me, it seems Godless because my soul is corrupt. So, I decided to believe, and convert to Jesus of the Tomato Soup's club. The next thing was to evangelise. Luckily, the soup manufacturer (I admit I didn't make it myself) had put a telephone number on the side of the carton, telling me to contact them if I had any queries. I did.

"Hello, it's about your tomato soup."

"Yes?"

"It has something in it."

"Are you sure it didn't fall in when you were preparing it?"

The point to note here is that the woman didn't know what was in it; she didn't care. All she wanted to do was shift the blame.

"No, I certainly didn't put it there."

"What exactly is it?"

"The face of Jesus."

Click ... Brrrrr

I redialed.

"Hello, I was just talking to someone else and we got cut off. I found something in my tomato soup."

"Was it a piece of tomato?"

"No, it wasn't, and it didn't fall in while I was heating up the soup, before you ask."

"What did you find?"

"The face of Jesus."

"Pardon?"

"The face of Jesus is in my soup. The creator of the world is looking up at me from the bowl."

(After a brief pause) "Really?"

"Yes, really."

Click ... Brrrrr

For a moment I thought about taking the bowl to the local church, but instead I stuck the spoon it, gave it a stir, and ate it. We do indeed live in Godless times.

There's a Padded Cell Free in LA, If Anyone Needs One...

So, Jacko's dead, eh? Heart attack, or was he 'disposed' of by those standing to benefit from his estate? Maybe there were a few more kids lined up, their parents out for revenge on the eve of his comeback tour. Maybe the idea of losing the lot made them slip him the back capsule? Who knows?

Maybe he was spirited away by aliens, a lookalike body left behind to confuse and confound. The doctors, knowing not to bite the hand that feeds, quickly signed off the death. Now Jacko is being held hostage by some three-headed green being from the planet Pissflaps.

Maybe this is the biggest publicity stunt in history. maybe on the third day he'll rise again, like some other showman did a few thousand years ago. Maybe we are standing on the brink of the Church of Jacko, where all the ladies hand over their children to Neverregions 'carers', and no one has a normal nose.

One thing is certain; the conspiracy theorists will already be hard at work, and this fucking charade will run and run, a bit like when Fatty Elvis shuffled off to the shitter with a burger in his hand. I couldn't even watch Iranian protestors getting beaten by Republican Guard this morning as the BBC dedicated an hour or two to Uri Geller talking about his friendship with Michael Jackson.

Yes indeed, a human has died and it's all very sad. However, while the vultures pick over the bones (aparently Madonna issued a press statement to say she can't stop crying - bet she's got her eye on his children, though), no one has asked the real question; what the fuck happened to that monkey?

Sexy Food? Probably Not!

For those few feeble-minded idiots that actually bother to read this toss, they might have noticed a slow down in my posting rate recently. Apart from having to do some work, I also spent some time with an old friend who has recently been released ... I mean who has recently returned to the country following a short sabbatical.

Now, like myself, Mr Cabanas has a love of fine food, and sometimes when we get together in the kitchen, we realise that we are denying so many people a glimpse into what real food should be. The only "Bargain Bucket" in our kitchen is the black plastic one we piss into when we're too drunk to find the stairs.

Now we have decided that it's about time we taught the world to cook in a right and proper fashion. Where corners can be cut, we'll cut them. Where there's a quick way, we'll take it. If we can fool those eating our food, we will! If there's an option to add alcohol, we're already there. And pornography? Yes, we have that too! You could become a kitchen god or goddess without any effort!

Don't fuck about; have a look at NOSH JOB today!

Setanta Sucks Arse

Today is probably the day that Setanta, the Irish broadcaster, goes into administration. Now, whilst no one likes to see people put out of work (although a fair few of the so-called "customer facing" staff will be getting what they deserve), the reality is that the Setanta operation sucks arse, and was always doomed to fail.

I won't waste valuable drinking time explaining why they suck arse; if you want to know more, just Google "Setanta suck arse scam fucking robbing cunts shit signal poor selection crap customer service load of fucking tinkers bollocks to you all money grabbing wankers" or something similar, and you'll stumble across their fan base.

I had a short spell as a Setanta customer. I voted with my feet when the first two football matches I tried to watch were unwatchable because it was raining in Mongolia. The signal was so poor that even if someone mentioned rain, the satellite link was lost. It sucked arse, so I stopped my Direct Debit. They then contacted me to say I had to give 30 days notice, and I should set up a Standing Order for one single final payment. I told them to fuck off. A Standing Order basically is giving them a blank cheque. They replied that I was in breach of my contract, so I told them I'd happily see them in court, because I was a lawyer. I never heard from the scabby fuckers again.

Problems with poor quality transmissions, shabby customer service and questionable practices when people cancel subscriptions are very well documented. One classic trick is that the address for written notice of cancellations is not in the contract. Many viewers have sent cancellations to the address in the contract, only to be told a second address must be used when they query payments taken by the company after the contract has been terminated. The ones I feel very sorry for are those who set up accounts via credit card payments. 

Basically, Setanta was a one trick pony, and that trick was taking the piss out of customers. Talking to others reveals that one shit telephone call equates to getting off lightly. The company will disappear from our screens, and might I add it's not a minute too soon. Now, if we can see BA collapse, BT go to the wall and Zurich Insurance fall over, it will be a good day for customer service.

Reggae Reggae Shit

If you've never heard the name Levi Roots, then you're a very lucky person. Levi is a reggae singer, and despite reggae being one of the dullest sounds in town, we won't hold that small fact against him. However, Mister Roots has another string to his bow.

A few years ago he appeared on a television show called Dragon's Den. Now, if you've never heard of it, you very very lucky. In a nutshell, it is a show where five very rich people view presentations by wanna-be entrepreneurs. They then either ridicule the person's idea, ridicule the person, or attempt to buy into the idea by seizing control of the company for a paltry sum.

So, in walks the aforementioned Mister Roots. He sings a song about rubbing sauce on a horse (or something like that), and then announces he makes a food product called Reggae Reggae Sauce. It's a jerk seasoning sauce which he makes and sells at Notting Hill Carnival. He also calmly informs the Dragons that he has an order for 60 billion gallons of the sauce, which he currently makes in his kitchen. That's why he needs the investment.

They check through the order, which he brought with him, and discover he's shit at maths. The order is actually for two jars of the stuff, or some such amount. Obviously, all the Dragons bale, bar one who invests.

Fast forward to today, a few years later. Nearly every supermarket in the UK stocks the aforementioned sauce. White people buy a bottle and immediately talk in a Jim Davidson not funny black voice. Fat men wear fake dreadlocks and burn chicken on BBQs, splash Reggae Reggae Sauce all over it, and then talk about it being "Typically Tropical".

Now, I do like a bit of jerk chicken, and make my own sauce. I was somewhat surprised when Mrs SC returned home with a bottle of Levi Roots' jungle juice, but I gave it a go anyway.

Now, here's some advice for all you white folks with a bottle of Reggae Reggae Sauce at the back of your cupboard that you haven't got around to using yet. Go fetch it now, and chuck the fucker out of the window. It's fucking rank. The only use I found for it was to stop cats shitting in my garden.

I'm a realist; I don't believe this is Mister Roots' own recipe. I think some sauce jockey has 'tweaked' it to make it more appealing to mass market tastes. However, I can't believe he's stood by and let it happen.

Reggae Reggae Sauce? Shove it up your arse!

Nuclear Power? Yes Please!

So, the earth is facing an energy crisis, and we're all supposed to spend what few pennies we have left after the taxman has raped us putting up our own windmills, solar panels and other shit systems to try and create enough energy to power a really dim light bulb for about ten seconds. For me, that's a worthwhile way of wasting a few thousand pounds (that's about a million dollars, for those from over the pond).

Now, forgive me if I dip into the past here, but I seem to remember when our tax money went into the research and development of nuclear power. That's right; we've already found a solution and paid for it. Let's get using it. It's low cost because all the R&D has already been done, it's clean, effective and accessible immediately. We'd create a host of jobs building new power stations, and the only downside is that we'd see a few camps spring up manned by unwashed hippy twats with no consideration for the bigger picture.

So, what's holding us back? Well, every time someone mentions the obvious, a Pinko appears mouthing the word 'Chernobyl'. For fuck's sake, that was one incident, and it was down to dodgy Polish builders shipped in to the Ukraine to do the job on the cheap.

Planes crash regularly, but we don't stop flying. People died in the Moorgate Tube Disaster but we don't ban underground railways. Millions died in WW2 but we don't ban right wing thickos or left win Pinkos. Canvey Island and Buncefield didn't make us stop using gas and petrol.

Let's not be cry-babies! Fuck the hippies, hit the switch and turn on to a nuclear future.

Shoot the Bitch

So, 72 year old Kathryn Winkfein is driving home from the shops in Austin, Texas, and the police pull her battered pick-up truck over for speeding. Was she speeding? Of course she was! Did she accept it with good grace, collect her ticket and get on her way? Of course she didn't. Why? Because she's a mentalist, that's why.

Firstly, the great grandmother (I'm not sure why the reports all include the fact that both she and her kin are into breeding) refuses to accept the ticket. Then she tries to push her 4 foot high wrinkled body passed that of a fat fuck of a cop.

He pushes her away, probably because she smells of piss.

She screams like a fucking banshee.

He points at his Taser stun-gun.

Now, you would presume that even the dumbest of dumb hicks might give up at this point, but no, Wankfiend dares him to shoot her with it. She jeers and screams and dares the fat fuck to shoot her. So he does. As she drops to the fall screaming, you can't help but feel that justice has been done.

It's a shame the fat fucker didn't have a shotgun.

Having a Wank

Now, we've all has a wank at some time or other. Some of you will have had one today, or maybe you've had two today. Maybe you don't wank on Mondays, having gone at yourself like a dog with ticks over the weekend. The point here is that wanking is a pretty common trait amongst humans (and monkeys).

David Carradine, best known for his role as Grasshopper in Kung Fu, didn't wank. Obviously, David Carradine did wank (quite a lot), but Grasshopper - being a paragon of self discipline - didn't wank.

David Carradine was found dead a few days ago, in the closet of his hotel room. He had removed the cord used to close the curtains, and had tied one end around his neck, looped it through the hanging rail, and tied the other end to his testicles. He was attempting auto-erotic asphyxiation whilst jollying himself off. He died as a result of that wank.

Like Michael Hutchence, David Carradine died alone, having a wank. When the news was released, we all sniggered at his dirty last few moments on earth.

However, my point is this. Why die alone in a closet of a hotel room trying to wank yourself silly, when that hotel is located in Bangkok? For fuck's sake, he could have got anyone to toss him off, and still had enough spare change for a curry and few cold beers.

As the wise old master used to say: "When in Thailand, get someone else to knock the top off it!"

Still Life

The other day, I was approached by an elderly gentleman selling water purifiers. The purifier, he explained, had numerous benefits, and was an essential part of modern life. It was as simple to use as a kettle, it was freestanding, and albeit a fairly bulky item, it was portable. Best of all, it cost a mere £200. Naturally, I told him to fuck off.

He didn't. Instead, he explained how the purifier worked. He added that I could also use the purifier to 'process' essential oils. He talked about 'processing' essential oils, 'processing' water, and even 'processing' biofuels. Now, I'm no scientist, but I thought the best was of processing biofuels was via distillation. I suggested this, and he agreed. He hadn't added that the process the purifier used was distillation.

Essentially, the purified water was distilled water, which would remove impurities. The old was right. Also, by distilling water with lavender flowers, I could indeed create a rich and deeply scented oil. As the man left with my £200, he reminded me to read the declaration enclosed in the box. He added if I felt I could not comply with the declaration, I should return the purifier and he'd give me a full refund.

Now, having read the declaration, I found I could comply with it. However, I also figured that many people out there need some advice when it comes to water purifiers. Here's my guide.

1: When you buy the water purifier, don't spend five days adding potato skins, sugar yeast and water to a five gallon container.

2: After five days, don't place 4 litres of the resultant fluid in the purifier.

3: If you do accidentally complete stages 1 and 2, both of which are perfectly legal, don't switch the purifier on, or you will be breaking the law.

You see, some people might find the idea of making 50 proof alcochol at around 50 pence a bottle funny, but it's not. Play the game, and spend £12 on a bottle, allowing the Government to take 90 per cent tax.

Instead, drink purified water and sniff lavender oil. It's well worth the investment.

War; What Is It Good For?

Say it again! Okay, let's face facts. The UK is in recession, we have rising unemployment, industry is grinding to a halt and all politicans are thieving cunts. What do we a need? A bloody good war, that's what. So, who do we fight?

First off, we need a country that can't respond with long range tactical nuclear weapons, so that rules out Russia. Yes, I know other countries claim to have the capability, but only one has the cash to ensure that they are properly maintained, so forget the rest of the sabre-rattlers.

Next, the country should have resources that we can plunder. That rules out Scotchland, Wales and the USA.

Next, the locals should be well known as a bunch of lily-livered cowards that couldn't put up a fight if they were all alone. Obviously, that rules out any of the South Americans.

We also need a country that doesn't have many ex-pats living as UK residents, because we don't want terror on the streets. That rules out the Middle East and Africa.

Also, we want to enjoy noodles through the war, so that eliminates Asia.

Let's face it folks, we all know who we need to fight. The snail-eating poncey Jean-Paul dance-master 'j'taime' fops across the channel.

Let's make Britain Great again.

Let's have a war with the French!

MAY 2009: PLAYMEAT OF THE MONTH

This month, it looked as if the title of Playmeat of the Month was only going one way, to Susan Boyle. The woman has the voice of an angel, the body of a fat lad, and the face of a haemorrhoid-ridden pig's arse. Then she went mental, blew it, cracked up, fucked up and lost the final of Britain's Got Freaks.

Her fragile mental state was only eclipsed by Scottish First Minister Alex Salmond, who declared, "In my eyes and in Scotland's eyes, she's a winner". That's good coming from the representative of a country that's never won fuck all worth talking about. So she won ... by losing. Right, and remind me again, that's not a skirt you blokes wear, is it?

Back to the point. Next up on the shortlist was Jordan with her over-inflated funbags. Now Peter has wiped up and fucked off, there's a spare furrow that needs a good ploughing. (Sorry, I've been watching reruns of Heartbeat). Mind you, the idea of looking up from her valley of hidden pleasures to see Harvey grinning back at you is enough to dampen any chap's ardor.

For a moment, just a fleeting moment, I considered the face of Burmese democracy, Aung San Suu Kyi, but let's face it; she's fucked herself! For a few moments, I thought I was going to have to delve into the sack of elusive dreams, but no! Thankfully, along came a brace of vixens to lighten up a pretty dark month!

Tory MP Julie Kirkbride and Labour MP Margaret Moran have both decided to call it day after their expenses claims were put under scrutiny in the British Press. Now, as individuals, the two ladies might not seem like worthy winners, but together, in a pit filled with cold custard, wearing nothing but the skimpiest of bikinis, you have what we call a Carnival of Flesh! Let's face it, they both need new careers, so why not something serving the public good?

Let's face, if they did end up wrestling, Alex Salmond could declare them both winners, and for once, the ugly skirt-wearing retard would be right!

Playmeat Americano (For Sarcastic Bastard)

I recently received the following comment from Sarcastic Bastard, whose blog I read. She made the following comment.

Vincent, I adore you, but sometimes you talk about things way over my dumb American noggin. Perhaps you should implement a fifth-grade level American version of your posts with caption-style notes for the intellectually challenged. I do believe watching too much reality TV has rotted my brains. Also, Americans, like Methodists (SB is both--double handicapped!), have the attention spans of fruit flies. Could you make the entries simpler and a little shorter, too? Many thanks.

Cheerio. Good day. Hip hip. All that. Best regards, SB

It was too nice of a request for me to ignore, so for all the Americans, the Methodists, and especially for the American Methodists, here's Playmeat Americano. The titles link to the full versions, just in case you're German and want to know what time the train is coming. (SB, that's a joke about how the murdering fuckers acted during the War).

Note: SB is getting divorced. If you are an American with a very large penis, can wipe your arse (that's ass to you, but you're wrong, Mr Yankee Doodle) clean enough to not leave skidmarks on her new bed sheets, and have lots of money, please email her for dirty sex. Her email is on her blog. By the way, she's just a touch mental!

A Hero for Our Times

In China, a man hit by the failure of his company decided to kill himself. He climbed up a bridge and threatened to jump. This caused a big traffic jam. A passing retired Army man offered to try and talk him down, but the police said he couldn't. The retired man then sneaked past the police and pretended to befriend the man who was threatening to jump. He made the man shake his hand, and then pushed him off the bridge. It turned out that the old man was angry at the traffic jam.

A 'bedwetter' is someone who cries because they're broke.

China is a place where everyone has a bicycle, and funny eyes (unless you are Chinese, in which case the eyes are just right).

Vincent likes the old man.

Beattie Got It Wrong

Alec Beatiie of Devolving stated in his blog that Nick Griffin was an evil man. I pointed out that at the end of the BNP election broadcast on television (a big box that holds another version of the world), there was a more evil man than Griffin.

There is a voiceover part at the end of the broadcast, and you can hear the speaker pause and slurp spittle. I pretended that it was facist cunt Griffin's semen.

Vincent doesn't like semen in the mouth.

An Open Letter to Willie Walsh

British Airways are a bunch of cunts.

Vincent doesn't like British Airways.

Put The Cat Food Back, You Bitch

Old people get arrested for shoplifting, even if they 'forget' to pay for something. Supermarkets say it's their policy to always prosecute, even if the elderly person has lost their marbles.

Politican's fiddle their expenses, but don't get arrested. Recently, one stated he 'forgot' he had paid off his mortgage. Another 'forgot' he didn't have a mortgage. If the UK had the same policy as supermarkets, the cheating bastards should be arrested.

Vincent hates supermarkets, but likes the fat girl at Checkout 3 because she does bum stuff for a bottle of cider.

Vely Tight Pissfraps

A sex theme park in China has been closed down.

Vincent is unhappy.

A Hero for Our Times

If I had a fucking crown, I put it in a bag, get in my car, drive it to China, head south and upon arriving in Guangdong province, I would search out a real living hero and place the bejewelled item on his head; the noble head of a man who is undoubtedly the greatest living human being on earth. He is greater than any other sack of flesh sucking in air. Indeed, he is probably greater than many sacks of flesh that once sucked in air but don't anymore (I'm looking at you, Ghandi, you bald twat). Yes, I am referring to the one and only Lai Jiansheng!

The 66 year old retired army man doesn't fuck about. He knows how to deal with modern life's bedwetters. He just goes in, does the fucking job, and pisses off home on his bicycle for a portion of dog with special flied lice. Top man!

When bedwetting stress-merchant Chen Fuchao realised his construction business had failed and he was in debt, he climbed to the top of a bridge and threatened to throw himself off. The police arrived, and tried to get him to come down.

Police: Come down, you sirry cunt.

Fuchao: Cannot. I am poor and am wollied about foocha.

Police: Come down now, or you go to plison, you prank.

Fuchao: I am too wollied to come down.

Now, this utter fucking charade carried on somewhat, and the traffic that had been stopped from crossing the bridge caused a major snarl up. People were left high and dry in the Guangdong province. Now, I have been to the Guangdong province, and to be honest chucking yourself to your death might be a bit of a wheeze there, but traffic delays are one thing the Chinese hate. And Americans, obviously. Traffic and Americans ... and the Vietnamese, naturally. And pasta.

Cometh the hour, cometh the man.

Lai Jiansheng approached the police and, having put his shopping bags down, offered to go and talk the bedwetter down.

I suppose it went like this.

Lai Jiansheng: Herro. You want me to tawk the bedwetter down?

Police: Piss off home, and take your shopping too, you plickhead.

Lai Jiansheng: Fuck you then.

However, Lai Jiansheng is a man of action. Did he just get on his bike? Did he fuck as like. He used his Chinese inscrutability and evaded the police, slipped through the cordon and scaled the bridge. Once up there he approached Chen Fuchao, sat next to him and they talked.

Lai Jiansheng: What are you doing. The fucking tlaffic is borrocksed.

Chen Fuchao: I am wollied about financial lisks. I am leady to jump.

Lai Jiansheng: Don't be a platt. Come home with me and I give you money.

Chen Fuchao: Okay, thank you my fliend.

Lai Jiansheng: It's a deal. Shake?

Lai Jiansheng offered his hand to seal the deal. Chen Fuchao accepted it. At this point, our hero, Lai Jiansheng, took control and chucked the bedwetting bastard off the bridge!

His reason? The man's "selfish activity" had caused five hours of gridlock.

Lai Jiansheng, I fucking salute you.

Beattie Got It Wrong

Now, in life, there are times when you sit back and observe, times when you ignore wrongdoing, and times when you speak out and say, 'No, you Tartan ponce, you went and done it all wrong'. That's what I'm saying, today, to Mr Alec Beattie of Clydebank. Now, normally Mr Beattie makes me chuckle, so much so that his blog has a link on these pages. However, the other evening, having been to the other end of a vodka bottle, I figured I'd check out his blog.

Actually, that's untrue. I wanted to watch the Rook sketch by the Two Ronnies, and after seeing that and looking at some dwarf porn, I checked out his blog. What I saw was a post entitled Spot The Evil Bastard, where the challenge was to pick an evil bastard from Mother Theresa, Bob Geldof, Martin Luther King, Claire Grogan, Jesus and Nick Griffin.

Now, we all know that Mother Theresa was a scamster running a lottery swindle, Bob Geldof is a self-serving smug twat, and Martin Luther King apparently went to more schools in the US than anyone ever born of human kind. The lovely Claire Grogan wouldn't let me finger her box, so she's obviously mentally unstable, and Jesus was a lying communist parasite who was invented solely to repress the masses and make them get up early on Sundays. That leaves Nick Griffin, who apparently is the devil incarnate says Beattie (aged 97).

Now, this blog entry reminded me that I had forgotten to watch the BNP's televised election broadcast, so I departed the blog and visited YouTube. This is when I realised that my esteemed but haggis-gobbling colleague (no, I don't know him, it's like a creative ruse to give this yarn some legs) was utterly wrong. Griffin is odious, maybe a snake oil vendor, probably fetid with canker sores on his arse, but evil?

Then I discovered the face (well, voice) of true evil.

Think on this. Griffin pointed out he wasn't racist, but that he wanted to defend us from pig politicians. He pointed out that by dying in wars, the British had earned that right. He reminded us that we were all in this together, the English (hurrah), the Scottish (eh?), the Welsh (no, no no) and the Irish (how the fuck did those ginger-haired craicmeisters get in there?). We (it's that fucking 'we' again) were against the pigs.

He reminded us that our country used to be a good place, a safe and clean place, a place where trains ran on time and doctors cured cancer and ladies had tight chuffs. Then the immigrants came.

Okay, I liked that vision of Britain, although I cannot see that the immigrants destroyed it. I thought it was self-serving British politicians and their tendency to suck-off the EEC that screwed it up, but old Nick seemed so enthusiastic, and then they played some music and showed a battlefield, and the music got louder and I thought that maybe he meant to say, 'fuck the EEC' instead of being a racist fuckwit, so I let it go.

Then he got passionate, the music peaked, and I thought that maybe, just maybe...

Then the broadcast ended, and as the voice-over man reminded us to vote for freedom and the BNP, I heard the dirty cunt sucking spit. I was stunned. I replayed the clip, and listened more intently. It was there again. trust me, try it out yourself. At one point the dirty fucker pauses and you can clearly hear the horrible dirty Nazi bastard sucking the piss-stench saliva out of his dirty fucking arrogant facist mouth.

Now, that's evil.

So, Mr Beattie, when the crown of pure evil is placed upon a head, it must be placed on the head of the BNP voice-over man rather than Griffin. After all, it could have been Griffin's jizz!

An Open Letter to Willie Walsh

Dear Willie Walsh,

I was reading this morning about the losses experienced by British Airways, and was interested in your comment - in your role as BA Chief Executive - that you saw "no signs of recovery anywhere", and your claim that much of the blame for the losses could be laid at the door of the economic climate.

Okay, your stance might take a few people in, but I think you and I know something a little different, don't we?

Let's face it, BA is a fucking travesty, a badly run arrogant business in a time when customers are considering very carefully where to spend their money. A company that is untrustworthy, incompetent, ignorant, unbending in its delusions that it is 'special' and blatantly under-performing is never going to succeed when it charges a premium over other airlines for a service that is, quite frankly, as pleasant as month-old flange gunge.

I have long since given up trying to book any flights with BA. There are so many hidden extras it's harder than dealing with a Nigerian money laundering scam. When you do finally get a ticket, it means fuck all, because the last five times I used British Airways, you tried to bump me from an over-booked flight. The level of over-booking from BA is legendary. I once watched while two of your bitches (and I use the word advisedly) bullied a Chinese girl (who spoke little English) into accepting a few fucking Euros to give up her seat on a flight to Hong Kong. Despite her tears and pleading to be put on the flight, your staff told her she had NO option. That's a customer, and you're telling them they have no choice but to accept they can't have a fucking seat they paid for. That, my old Son, is fucking nothing short of robbery.

Your staff are fucking arrogant, and any enquiry is dismissed because their attitude is BA first, customers last. It's typical behaviour across the board. Your company has become a beacon for piss-poor bad service, dishonesty and utter ignorance when dealing with customer service issues.

Now, maybe ... and you'll no doubt disagree ... if BA looked after its customers, more people might fly with you. However, until those responsible (and I'm looking at you Willie, I really am) accept that they're incompetent and resign, and someone with a fucking clue about customer service takes over, I feel that your company might be somewhat shafted up the behind.

Sort it out, Wille!

Yours sincerely,

Vincent Santa Cruz

Put the Cat Food Back, You Bitch!

What do we know about the elderly, apart from the fact that they drive very slowly, they faff around when at the front of very long queues, they smell of piss and they're up for a gang bang at the merest sniff of a Werther's Original? Well, we know that they're a bunch of fucking thieves ... or are they? Now, my old Nan is dead and rotten by now, but her idea of a 'buy one, get one free' was to put one bottle of gin in her trolley and another in her coat pocket. She was a thieving bitch, no mistake about that, but all too often the elderly are accused merely because their memory is on the wane.

It's not uncommon for elderly tossers to be arrested for shoplifting because they forget to pay for a tin of cat food or a packet of biscuits. They're old, and they've paid taxes all their lives. Would it hurt to let it go once in a while? Certainly not, say the supermarkets, who have a policy of always prosecuting. The Police agree, as does the Crown Prosecution Service (CPS). Many Magistrates agree too.

As an aside, I was recently charged the incorrect price for an item in Morrisons. When I pointed it out, they wanted me to fill in a form with my details to process my 'refund'. I refused, explaining that it wasn't a refund, but was the return of money illegally taken from me. The spotty till-jockey called the manager. He explained it was a mistake and offered me the money back without giving my details. I asked what would happen if my old Nan had 'mistakenly' taken a tin of cat food without paying? He didn't know she was long dead, so said it was the store's policy to prosecute. I asked what would happen if she offered to give the cat food back? He reiterated that it was store policy to always prosecute. I informed him that was my policy too, and I took out a private prosecution against the supermarket for theft. Mind you, that's another story.

So, what we see here is that the British police and CPS will use taxpayers' money to prosecute little old ladies with bad memories. That, surely, sets a precedent, does it not? Now, let's look at the case of Member of Parliament Elliot Morely, who claimed expenses to cover a mortgage on a second home. He 'forgot' that he had already paid it off. Now, I might be in the minority, but if I'd paid off the biggest debt in my life, I'd fucking know about it. Elliot, aged 56, apparently forgot. Then there's Bill Wiggin, who 'mistakenly' claimed for a mortgage that didn't exist. Bill, aged 42, apparently 'forgot' whether he had a mortgage on his second home.

There are countless other cases currently sloshing around the British Government. They all 'forget'. Many say it was an innocent mistake. Many have offered to pay the money back. Bollocks to them; the UK should always prosecute! It's our fucking policy!

Let's face it; if we can put the elderly through the justice system for forgetting to pay for a tin of cat food, then these parasites need to be prosecuted. After all, a 'mistake' is still a 'mistake', whether it be an OAP or an MP; yes or no?

Let's have an amnesty for theiving scumbag pensioners and nail these politicans' arses to the fucking floor. They claim it's all 'mistakes' and 'forgetfulness'; I think it's all bullshit, and they've been caught drinking from the toilet bowl of disgrace. Let's slam the lids on their very indecent and ugly pumpkin-sized heads!

The circle of life is evident; lock up the poncing MPs and feed them on the cat food that the pensioners' have stolen. Suck it up, you fucking freeloaders.

Vely Tight Pissfraps

Now, we might consider the Chinese to be a short-arsed race of inscrutible bicycle riders with a taste for dog/cat/human babies, but apart from their funny eyes, they're actually a lot like you and me. Indeed, they're a fuck of a lot like you if you happen to be a Chinaman (or a Chinawoman - apparently, I should say that, because women have feeling too)!

There are a million statistics about how many Chinese there are on earth, but I can't be arsed to Goggle it, so if you really want to know, go look it up yourself. However, for my purposes, it is sufficient to say that there are a lot of them; quite a lot of them.

Now, you might wonder why there are so many Chinese, and the answer is that they fuck a lot. That's it, in a nutshell. I suppose when all you have to look forward to between bouts of marching and listening to propaganda is a bowl and rice and bicycle salesmen banging down the door, having a fuck must be ranked as a fairly high pastime. I'm not Chinese, but I can see the attraction in spending every spare hour up to the bristles in one of their lovely female kind.

It is therefore of little surprise that China has built the world's first sex theme park. Now, you might argue that Pussy Angel in Bangkok gives it a good go, and Phnom Penh's Sharkey's Bar comes close, but this is a fully fledged sex theme park with giant snatches you can get inside and big rubber cocks that you can ride around on and the Clitoris Rollercoaster. It also has some naked dancers, a dozen sucking booths and plenty of bearded ladies seeking back-door action. Just for good measure, you can also get advice on family planning and safe sex.

If, like me, this news has you reaching for your passport, calm down for a moment. You can't visit it. Why? Because having built it, the Government has ordered it to be bulldozed. The silly communist cunts say that: 'the owners were interested only in profiting from sensationalism'.

Yeah, and the point is what exactly? Love Land, for that was it's intended name, was actually going to be an educational experience. Instead, the Chinese will continue to multiply, often with their siblings, as they fumble through the sex maze that is teenage angst under the Red Flag.

On a more serious note, I do hope the Chinese authorities think again. There are serious issues in China with teenage pregnancy, STDs and ignorance about sexual matter. Plus, I for one would happily pay the equivalent of 17 pence to see a Chinese lass take on a donkey in a sombrero! 

Ja, Ja, Wunderbar! The BNP and Me Get Jiggy

Many years ago, when the National Front were the headlining act in British Facism, I was on the underground (for our overseas chums, that's a train that goes underground in London, not a bunch of French twats trying to dispel the stigma of shitting bricks when they saw a Mercedes), and opposite me sat a skinhead. He wore a t-shirt that bore the slogan 'Ain't no black in the Union Jack'. As I rose to get off at Camden Town, so did he. We stood at the door together, waiting for the train to stop.

I nodded at his t-shirt and said, 'Nice shirt'.

He grunted.

I then added, 'Shame it's factually incorrect.'

He looked puzzled until I clarified things. 'Unless you actually forget the black bits ... in the Union Jack, that is'.

As I walked away I was amazed that he simply stood silently, mouth open, with a look on his face that was reminiscent of a puppy caught pooping on the rug. He was confused, and I often laughed thinking about how long it might have taken for him to realise the truth.

The thing that reminded me of this was the amount of shit post I received the other day, including a number of flyers for the forthcoming Local and EU elections. Again, for those from overseas and the stupid amongst us, let me explain. In the UK we have a general election that votes for the Government. They lie, steal our votes and then blow all our money on home furnishings, before blaming previous Governments for the mess. In Local elections, the councillors lie, steal our votes and then blow all our money on a leisure centre with the swimming pool fitted upside down, before blaming previous councils for not writing 'This Way Up' at the top of the plans. In the EU elections, they lie, steal our votes, and then give all our money to a man named Heinrick.

To cut a long story short, amongst the junk mail was a flyer from the BNP. This intrigued me, because nowhere did it state 'We are a bunch of ignorant fuckwits'. Indeed, it actually painted a fairly innocuous picture of their racist homophobic facist cunthookery.

It bore the image of a Spitfire (for Americans, it's the plane that won WW2 before you lot strolled in and claimed a hollow and unsubstantiated victory), and stated that the party was about putting British people first. They obviously missed the trick of excluding the Scots, Welsh and Northern Irish; perhaps if they were a different colour, eh? They also point out that 'it's not racist to oppose mass immigration and political correctness - it's common sense'.

There was a picture of a racist-fuck doctor and a racist-fuck old couple, all thinking racist thoughts, with quotes that explained that they weren't racist (or black, Asian or Jewish). Apparently, the leaflet concludes, we (who the fuck are 'we', are they including me in their shit-heap?) have earned the right. How have we earned it? Simple; Trafalgar, the Somme, Dunkirk, D-Day, the Falklands. There you go, suck on that, Johnny Immigrant!

I then discovered that the BNP would be canvassing in the High Street, so I took a walk to see what they were selling. It had to be good; I expected Panzer tanks, leather uniforms, death's heads and swastikas; it was going to be a rally and a half. Sadly, I couldn't find the rally; it was obviously blocked from my view by the two fat cunts in BNP t-shirts (I'm sure one had curry stains on it, that tikka red and tumeric yellow) and a snide fucker in the Pringle jumper.

Now, the Nazis might have been bad neighbours, but they had style. This lot looked like the scum left over when you torch a sub-standard housing estate. I asked about the curry stain. It was denied. I asked whether he liked a good Indian, especially when it left his arse tingling. He ignored me.

So I approached the Pringle man.

'Excuse me, are you racists?'

'No, we simply support the rights of the British people.'

'Even black ones?'

'We're not a racist party; we're about common sense.'

'So you're not racist ... more funambulist?'

He nodded, and then I saw it; that puppy shitting on the rug look I'd seen all those years ago.

BNP - go to fuck, you tight rope walking cunts!