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!

Oh, You Silly Moo!

Ever seen someone with marginally less intelligence than a carrot? You know the type; furiously pushing a door marked PULL in letters as big as their pumpkin-sized head? Your first instinct is to offer assistance, but as they slip into a deep pool of utter stupidity, you decide to sit back and watch the show. Fuck them, if they spent a second applying some thought to the situation, they'd see the solution for themselves. In the end, you want them to never see the solution; it's a just reward for their fucking stupidity.

So, who am I am talking about today? Aung San Suu Kyi, that's who! Now, I do appreciate that alongside Tibet, Burma has become a must-have cause in the toolbox of the common or garden Pinko activist. I've been there more than a few times, and have long since given up arguing the toss with people who rely solely on one-sided reporting and political rhetoric to understand what is a very complex country.

That said, there is little no doubt that Aung San Suu Kyi is a bit of a dolt. Here's the rub. She was elected as the country's leader, as head of the NLD. The military Government refused to accept the situation, and she was then jailed. Apart from a few spells of freedom, she spent the majority of the years since 1990 either in jail or under house arrest. Okay, it's not good, but back in 1990 Burma was off the map. Today, they realise their future lies in tourism. It does. It's a fantastic country and is exceedingly easy to travel in, legally or illegally (it's your choice).

So, with a Burmese Government wanting to appear slightly more friendly to the West, the next step following the PR travesty that was the monk protests (by the by, the monks are NOT all peaceful and caring people; they have an agenda) was an election. Scheduled for 2010, the powers that be were making plans to involve the international community. It was to be their 'coming out' ball!

You must remember that Burma has an extremely complex history, and each side tells only it's own story. It is also probably more afraid of the outside world than the outside world is afraid of it. Against this backdrop, Aung San Suu Kyi was due to be released on May 27 2009. That was it, job done. She'd be out, the run up to the elections would allow the true face of Burma emerge, and the elections heralded a return to democracy and a run on tourism never before experienced in Asia. It was ideal; the pro-democracy forces got their day, and military got to bow out by allowing the people their say. Faces would be saved, and profit would be the new messiah. What could go wrong?

A fucking stupid American, that's what. John Yettaw decided to pop in to see Aung San Suu Kyi. Now, anyone who understands Burma realises that this is an act more frowned upon than fucking the first-born of a high ranking Government official up the back passage on National TV during the Lottery. Fuck me, she'll be out in a few weeks, have some patience!

John Yettaw gained entry by making home made flippers (why didn't he just buy some; they do have shops in Rangoon) and swimming across a lake to reach her home. Why he performed such a display of twatishness is anyone's guess. Being an American, he probably thought that Burma was a bit like Disneyland, and he'd be rewarded with a cup of green tea and an 'I Beat the Junta' t-shirt. Right now, he's wearing a 'Bum Me Senseless' t-shirt in Insein jail.

Anyhow, John-boy arrives unannounced (allegedly) and Aung San Suu Kyi tells him to fuck off. He stands there in his speedos and home made flippers, and whines: 'I've got cramp, can I stay the night and rest?'

She agrees, and they spend the night together. Did he get some Humpty Dumpty? We don't know. Did he blow his load up her nose. We don't know. Did he finger her snorkel. I've told you twice, and now for the last time, we don't fucking know. Then the sun rises, and idiot John gets caught trying to swim back. For what? It's not like she's a looker or anything.

Now Aung San Suu Kyi is on trial for breaking her house arrest conditions. She's blown it. She'll be jailed for the elections, and all bets are off with regard to the international involvement. Paranoia is running deep in the Burmese Government, and John Yettaw is as thick as a pile of pig shit. That said, Aung San Suu Kyi knew the risk, and blew it all for a moment with a bloke who would rather make his own flippers than buy a pair.

For me, that makes her infinitely dumber.

Pretty Girls, Hairy Dogs and Cannibalism

When I was younger, I wanted to work for the Forestry Commission. I could think of nothing better than being off on my own in the middle of nowhere. Of course, I'd occasionally appear from the woods to win the heavyweight boxing title, to ride the winner in the Grand National, and to drive a train a few days each year. Other kids dreamed of being rock stars, actors or spacemen. Maybe my first choice of occupation was a little unusual, but the other parts of the dream were – and still are – common fare.

However, there was one dream that many small boys (and a few small girls, mostly those that went on to become lesbians) held dear back then, which does not feature so heavily in the modern age; to be an explorer. Okay, it doesn't help that most of the earth's surface has already been trampled on by previous generations, but the real issue, the real problem, is that the essence of exploring has been destroyed by an over-pampered breed of phonies. That's right; modern explorers are crap!

Back in the good old days of exploring, three men with old fashioned nicknames - Skipper, Ginger and Bender - would decide to walk to the North Pole whilst carrying anvils. They would set off with an extra jumper, wooly socks and a packet of oatmeal ... and never been seen again. Then another three would go, followed by another trio, and so it would go on until eventually three would get there and get back to tell the tale. They were heroes, as were all the others that died trying.

These men would spend months achieving their goal, predominantly because by day four, the huskies would have been their lovers, and by day six their lovers became their lunch. After that, they'd eat their own feet, or whatever bits of their bodies fell off. A good day at the office involved finding the frozen bodies of those that went before. It was like discovering an abandoned freezer filled with meat.

By day ten they'd hit Bender on the head with an ice pick and decide to say he fell into a ravine. Soon Skipper and Ginger would be watching each other out of the corners of their eyes. Who would make the first move? These men were such heroes that if Ginger knew he was weaker than Skipper, he'd spend the next few days rubbing his body with salt and pepper to give Skipper a head-start when it came to cooking time.

Explorers went where no man (or lesbian) had been before, and very few of them returned to tell the tale. When they did return, they were acclaimed as heroes, they were rewarded handsomely, and all the pretty girls wanted them to stick their penises up their growlers. The explorers that survived were even more sought after by the fairer sex than dentists. However, most explorers died slow and horrible deaths, alone and unsupported. Their loved ones gazed into the mist of uncertainty, hoping, waiting, wondering whether or not to cash in the life policy.

So we move to today. Explorers have web cams, motorised skidoos, suits designed in laboratories, vitamin supplements, mobile phones, satellite tracking devices and back-up helicopters. The weather turns bad, and they get airlifted out, at the fucking tax-payers expense. Then, having fucked up at their job, they write a book and go on breakfast television and get paid to open supermarkets. They end up marrying some airhead weather girl and complaining that they don't get enough recognition for being failures.

Ponces, all of them. Smug piss-poor lazy poncing bastards. Modern day explorers; fuck yourselves!

Hit Me, Baby, One More Time

There's a television advert here in the UK, which British people will immediately recognise if I say it's the one with the "hit me at 40 miles per hour" girl. For those without access to UK television, or without eyes (presuming that your lack of eyes means you can't watch TV but have a friend intelligent enough to read this to you), let me explain.

The advert starts with the image of a small girl laying at the base of a tree. She's pale, almost white with blue-tinged lips and a smudge of blood on her face. She's unmoving, seemingly dead. No, she's not a Goth, so what gives? Well, a ghostly voice (for fuck's sake, calm down; it's not a ghost, it's a voice-over) whinges "Hit me at 40 miles per hour, and there's an 80 per cent chance I'll die. Hit me at 30 miles per hour, and there's an 80 per cent chance I'll live."

Now, here's the rub! Does this advert target people driving above the speed limit? No! Does this advert target people driving whilst under the influence? No! Does this advert target people driving while masturbating, using the phone or playing pool? No! Does this advert target people driving badly, illegally or like a fucking mentalist? No! It's just there to remind all us law-abiding drivers (who get fucked up the backside with ever increasing taxes that pay for drop-in centres for the lazy and ineffectual rather than fixing the shitty roads) that we might like to take the blame for some seriously rotten parenting.

Here's a clue (I'm talking to the dead-looking girl now); show care when crossing the fucking road, and guess what? That's right, you'll fucking live to tell the tale! Of course, the wannabe Goth isn't to blame, but her fucking parents sure are!

Basically, law-abiding motorists are being guilt-tripped because some parents neither care enough nor are intelligent enough to teach their children to cross the road. They won'twaste their valuable Bingo/gin drinking/dope taking time to introduce and implement the basic discipline that keeps their children alive. When their child gets run down because they've dashed into the road, and these excuses for parents need to accept how they've failed, they simply look for someone else to blame for their shortcomings.

Now, I'm not talking about situations where circumstances conspire to create a dangerous but unavoidable situation, or where the driver is drunk or mad or so stupid as to drive dangerously. This advert targets the everyday driver who is driving normally. Guess what; we're not to blame. It's the parents who need to be educated.

I have friends who teach their children to respect danger. The kids aren't afraid of it. They respect it. They don't seem to get run over. My kids don't get run over. My neighbours' kids don't get run over. That's because they've been taught. It means that the parents couldn't sit in front of the TV all night, or just get fucked off their faces and hope for the best. The parents put in the effort to teach the children.

Here's a fucking thought (I'm talking to the piss-poor parents out there now, the ones who whinge when their kids get run over and the driver isn't to blame), maybe - just maybe - if you got off your arses and taught your children respect, discipline and common sense, then maybe you wouldn't be watching them go into the ground in a box. That's YOUR fault, not the drivers who try and dodge your offspring as they hurtle into the on-coming traffic.

Such parents should suck up their bile and face the facts, but more importantly, the adverts should target parents who send their kids out to play in the streets while they lie on the sofa watching TV and sucking down a few drinks. Guess what people; you failed your kids, and you should be fucking strung up for it.

Separated By A Common Language

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Don't Undersell Your Dreams

When it comes to advertising, all too often we see claims that simply can't be substantiated. A revolution in washing-up liquid? Really? Does it wear a sombrero and have a fuck-off handle-bar moustache? Does it set the people free and fight oppression? Does it take to the hills and wait its time, until pouncing on the imperialists and lifting the yoke of tyranny? Does it fuck; it's just got some new-fangled unpronounceable herb added to it that doesn't make your plates cleaner. It's no more a revolution than Gary Glitter is a good choice of baby-sitter.

That said, some manufacturers undersell their developments. One such case is Andrex, the manufacturer of fine toilet tissue. I should know, because I treat my arse to it on a regular basis. Once I diversified into Kitten Soft, but quite frankly, it was garbage.

Anyway, back to Andrex. For many years, their symbol has been a labrador puppy, although apart from the obvious schoolboy joke, I still fail to see why. Their latest thing is to have the shape of a puppy (it looks a bit like a seated baby elephant with no trunk, but they tell us it's a puppy) embossed on the paper. How do they sell this? Simple; they write "Puppies on a roll" on the bag.

Marketing genius? Not at all; they've massively underrated this important development in toilet tissue design. What the "Puppies on a roll" slogan fails to mention is that by embossing the design, there are no inks or chemicals being rubbed up your crack. Also, embossing involves the Puppy shape being compressed onto the tissue. Because of the loose fibrous construction of tissue, this actually increases the tensile strength. In other words, you are far less likely to get a finger-nail of shit because there's little chance of your digit going through the paper and up your poop-tube.

Finally, and this bit is fucking genius, the embossing causes differing textures in the paper, as well as a bevelled edge effect on the surface. This allows it to get a good purchase on your shit, preventing you from spreading fecal matter up your lower back area if you overshoot due to excessive sludginess.

When you read "Puppies on a roll", simply think "A cleaner hole, an end to stink-finger and the total elimination of an embarrassing stripe of shit on your lower back".

As summer approaches, this is vital for the ladies who like to dress in low-cut hipster trousers and cropped tops. While we all enjoy a flash of midriff, looking back to see a smear of shit up the spine can be off-putting.

Andrex, we salute you!

Keep the Red Fag Flying High

Now, just in case one of our cousins from across the pond is reading this; no, the title isn't a typo, and no, it's not about homosexuality. It's about cigarettes. I do appreciate the difference in the meaning of the term 'fag', but I can assure readers that this post isn't about bum love. That's not to say I have anything against bum love or homosexuals. Indeed no, they can futter each other as often as they wish. Homo bum love isn't something I go in for. I've never tried it, and alas even if I desired to sample its delights, it's too late for me. A lifetime of consuming too much beer and stilton cheese has left me with an arse like a blood orange. It's in fucking tatters, and I'm afraid that even the most depraved gayer would think twice before entering.

Anyhow, the state of my arse aside, I want to talk about cigarettes. Not smoking, no sir; you're all big enough and ugly enough to decide if you want to smoke or not. However, in certain parts of the world, the cigarette is currency. It can be used to smooth over transactions, as an alternative for a tip, or even to get a pretty girl to go a little further. The cigarette is an accepted form of payment, and never is this more evident than when dealing with small bribes, or sweeteners as we like to call them.

Now, when you end up in a Cambodian jail for smashing up a gogo bar while high on bleach, don't think a packet of gaspers will get you out and back on the road to the Heart of Darkness. However, they might get you a plate of food that's free of rat shit. If you run down a small child in Saigon while driving drunk, don't expect to get off free for a few smokes. However, a $10 minor traffic violation fixed penalty might become a $5 one if you spark up with the police.

The real trick is to know which smokes take you further up the tree, and like a black Amex card gets you the tightest whore, Marlboro open more doors for the man handing out the fags. This is certainly true of Viet Nam, Laos, Cambodia, Burma, China, Egypt, Morocco and all of South America. However, the place where Marlboro speaks loudest has to be Russia.

Many years ago, before the country had embraced Glasnost, I travelled to Russia to write an article on how the people felt about the change in Governmental stance towards Capitalism. I was told I had no chance of getting a visa if I was honest, so posing as a tourist I went through what was then a very painful process to get the paperwork sorted. A friend of a friend recommended a 'Mister Fixit' in Moscow. I was all set.

A letter from my Russian contact (email but was a future dream back then) advised me that there were restrictions on traveling. I could travel to the outer limits of Moscow during the day, but had to stay in the central part of the city after dark. I was also advised to bring chewing gum and cigarettes. There was no mention of brand, but as a Marlboro smoker, I didn't realise how well equipped I was.

My Mister Fixit was called Vlad, a 60 year old Anglophile. I was 22. He was a man mountain, his six foot six inch frame dwarfing my 5 foot 10 inches. He looked as if he had chewed his way out of salt mine, and I looked like I'd never done a day's work in my life. He always wore a black suit that looked as if it was made out of lino, and carried a briefcase. I wore jeans and a jumper. His English was very good; he had learned it from films and records, and subsequently had a fine line in catchphrases. "See you later, alligator" was one of his favourites.

We spent a few days in Moscow, visiting people and drinking vodka. We drank a lot of vodka, morning, noon and night. We drank too much vodka. I like a drink, but after a few days I feared I'd die. I didn't! One night while drunk I found out what was in his briefcase. It was an old English-Russian dictionary. That was it, nothing else.

By the end of the night we had a new catchphrase. When we met anyone I would say "Twins", and he'd roar "Separated at birth!" The next morning I wanted a lie-in, but he said we had an adventure to go on. I hoped he'd read the wrong word in his dictionary.

The Volga we set off in leaked exhaust fumes into the vehicle, so despite the cold we had to drive with the windows partly open. Vlad introduced me to our driver and an ex Red Army colonel called Anatoli who seemingly had come along for the ride. We left Moscow and headed through the suburbs and into the countryside. We passed several unmanned checkpoints, and despite breaching the conditions of my visa, no one seemed bothered.

We drove for hours. We smoked a lot too. I noticed that my cigarettes were in demand, very much in demand. As I finished one pack, I went to crush the box, but Anatoli stopped me. He wanted the pack, and gave me his metal cigarette case in exchange for it. As Vlad was the only English speaker I explained that Anatoli could have the empty box, I didn't care. Vlad inisited I would upset him if I refused the case. The transaction was done, and Anatoli put his Russian fags into the Marlboro box. He thought he was Johnny Big Bollocks!

We went to look at some tanks in a snowy field. They were nice. Then we set off into the woods and arriving at a frozen lake, we met a few friends of theirs who were fishing through holes in the ice. They prepared a fish stew while we kept warm with a bottle of chilli pepper vodka.

The day turned to evening, and eventually we set off back towards Moscow. The driver was well oiled, as were we all, but before we left one of the hosts had an animated conversation with Vlad. Later he told me his friend was worried that I had no papers. Apparently, the check points were likely to be manned after dark.

After an hour we came upon the first checkpoint. The lights were on, but the guards were inside huddled around a fire. We drove through. The vodka stopped me from worrying. The next few checkpoints were empty, and then we came upon a manned one that was stopping cars. The mood inside the Volga changed. We crept up to the barrier. The guard peering into the vehicle, and then waved us through. Although the mood lightened, it was still strained. We were about an hour from Moscow.

We were nearly back when it happened. The checkpoint seemed unmanned and the traffic flowed through freely. When the guard appeared, he seemed disinterested and the cars just filed through. Then he moved; he didn't look up, he just thrust out an arm and our driver pulled over to the side of the road. 

The driver listened intently to the guard, then went through the glove box and handed over a fistful of grubby documents. The guard went off to the blockhouse and disappeared inside. No one in the car spoke. It seemed like hours, but a few minutes later he returned and handed the papers back. Was that it? Then he walked around to he passenger side. Anatoli chatted with him and handed over his papers. It seemed amicable; maybe his Red Army past was worth something. 

When the second guard knocked on the rear window with his rifle barrel, I nearly shat myself. I hadn't seem him approaching. He didn't look friendly. Through the open gap in the window he snapped something in Russian. I replied: "Do you speak English?"

His outburst told me he didn't. I looked at Vlad, who calmly said: "Give him cigarette."

I reached in my pocket and pulled out a pack of Marlboro. It was unopened, the cellophane glistening in the torch light. As I offered it towards the window gap, a gloved hand snatched it away. I heard Vlad whisper urgently: "No, no!"

What had I done? Were we all about to shipped off to some far-flung Gulag? Had I dragged these fine Russian men down with me, due to my stupidity? I was sure I had heard Vlad right, but I'd obviously done something wrong. Then it dawned on me; the guard was gone, and the car was moving. We were on our way, into the darkness and heading for Moscow.

I looked at Vlad. He was shaking his head as if I was a complete and utter numpty. He was disillusioned; I was supposed to be smarter than a kipper, but I had fucked up. He looked ashamed of me, and then he said: "No, just one cigarette."

The power of Marlboro is such that just one fag can set you free; who cares if they fucking kill you?

Guess Who's Not Coming to Dinner?

Now, I'm not the biggest fan of dinner parties; I tend to find them invariably stuffy and stilted affairs, rife with snobbery and just a little too stiff for my liking. Therefore, when I decided to head off for a few days over the Bank Holiday weekend, the last thing on my mind was sitting down with people I hardly knew and being force-fed poorly prepared food. It was with a very heavy heart, about as heavy as a fucking anvil actually, that I agreed to have a quick drink with some old friends of Mrs SC who lived in the area we were visiting.

As inevitable as old people pissing themselves, the drink turned into an invite to dinner. Before I could point out that I'd rather saw off my legs and waddle over broken glass and fiery coals on my still bleeding stumps, the other half agreed and I was royally shafted.

Now, as I sat at the table with the crowd of strangers, I understood the desperation deep within the typical Tourettes sufferer. All I could think was "Don't call them cunts, don't call them cunts", as they talked about lawn fertiliser and swine flu and the need for more sanitation workers on the European mainland.

Then, as if by magic, the subject came up of who would be the worst person to have at a Dinner party.

"You lot, you bunch of cunts!" screamed my brain, but I managed to stiffle the words. The first suggestion, made by a man – with a face like an old pork pie – whose name and occupation escaped me (due to me not listening), was the unannounced vegetarian. This was further qualified by his ugly wife, who spluttered "Or a vegetarian who lectures you."

As the conversation grew, I switched off. In my mind I had travelled back in time, to the day I met Penny, a photographer with the body of a model. Now, I must say that it's unlike me to go for traditionally 'beautiful' women. I seem to be drawn towards real women, sometimes quirky-looking women. Other men might call them dogs, boilers or freaks, but I like to think of them as ladies with character. Now, the only thing about Penny was she was knocking on over six feet tall. Apart from that, she was what most men would call perfect.

She bought me a drink and we talked bollocks for a while. Then she told me she was a vegan. I nodded sagely and told her I was a vegan too. What a coincidence. We could be vegans together. We agreed to meet later. She went to buy some shoes, and I went to library and brushed up on being a vegan.

The sex was unbelievable. It was raw, passionate, animalistic. It was utterly fantastic. I could go without meat for the sex, I decided. She lived in South London and I lived in North London. She had a job, and I was writing, so I could pretty much fit around anything. I spent most of my nights at her flat. About 8 o'clock in the morning saw her dash off to work. I'd get up a few hours later, head for the train, picking up a burger on the way, go home, write, have a light lunch of steak or chicken, then I'd write for a bit more, clean my teeth and head back to South London. We'd fuck like animals, eat some tofu and bulgar, go to the pub, get pissed, go back to her flat, fuck like maniacs, sleep, wake up, fuck again and she'd go off to work.

I should have seen the ending coming when I started to get up and leave when she went to work. I'd chat to her until her bus came, then I'd be off to the station and into the café next door for double sausage, double bacon, black pudding, egg, chips and toast. 

On the fateful night I headed to her flat. We fucked like animals, ate some tofu and bulgar, went to the pub and got pissed. As we walked back she clung to arm, telling me how horny she was. I just nodded. We walked past the late-night crowd at the kebab shop. The smell of charred greasy fatty meat was unbelievable. We turned the corner and passed a burger van. Never had pulped crap fried in old oil smelled so good. Even a discarded box of Kentucky Fried Chicken bones smelled good. When we got in I looked in the fridge. There was some tofu and some fucking bulgar. I went into the bathroom and urinated. When I came out, Penny was lying on the bed, a chunk of pure sex wrapped in fine black lingerie.

"I've, umm, got to go. I've got an early start."

She looked shocked, upset, confused. I walked out into the night air, my erect penis chastising me for walking away from some utterly fantastic sex. My stomach, however, cheered me on. It was a Thursday. On Fridays we didn't see each other. I went out with my friends and after the pub we played cards, usually all night. I did try to ring her at her work, but she was out on a colleagues birthday lunch. I didn't ring back.

On the Saturday morning, a few of the lads were sat in my kitchen while I made bacon and sausage sandwiches. Jim from down the road nipped out to buy some cigarettes. There was a knock on the front window. I went to let him in, still munching on my sandwich, and opened the door. There stood Penny. She didn't speak. There was a tear in her eye. Was it because I had lied to her, or was it for the mortal soul of the pig I was eating?

I never found out. She walked away, taking with her the most fantastic sex I'd ever had. Was it worth it? Well, I look at it this way; you can fake good sex, but you can't fake a fucking good sausage.

Case closed.

Duck and Cover

Today, I am in a slight state of shock. Yes, I am aware that there is a recession, and I am aware that money is tight for most people, but I hadn't quite realised how bad things are for some folks. I have a friend in the music industry; he travels a lot and subsequently we don't get to meet up all that often. Then the other day he rang me and invited Mrs SC and I around for a spot of dinner. I accepted, because anything that keeps Mrs SC out of the kitchen has to be a godsend.

So, we sat down around the table and broke bread. He told us that the label he works for was winding down several divisions, and numerous contracts with some fairly big names won't be renewed when they end. He uncorked some wine, and we chatted on about the state of the economy and the general pessimistic mood of the nation, and before long it was time for the first course.

He walked in and placed the plates in front of us. I was slightly taken aback, and asked: "What the fuck is this?"

"Foie Gras" he replied.

I was outraged, shocked and - if the truth be told - angry too. It was a moral issue; eat it or stand up for my deeply held beliefs. I could either swallow it down and save a friendship, or I could confront him with the barbarity of what he had placed before me. Fuck it, I thought, I've plenty of other friends, so I let rip.

"Foie Gras? What's the meaning of this monstrosity? How do you expect me to stoop so low as to place this vile item in my mouth. Such a move would not only justify, but would endorse the manufacture of it."

"What's up?" he enquired. "Is it raw?"

"No," I screamed, "it's fucking foie gras ... de canard!"

"It's entier."

"That's no excuse. We are your guests, but you're treating us like ... tramps! It's like making us eat dog shit. I demand foie gras d'oie!"

He shrugged and said those words that shocked me so much. "There's a recession, you know!"

Then it dawned on me. Across the globe, in council estates and trailer parks and slum dwellings, the workers are having to switch to foie gras de canard, probably only being able to afford foie gras d'oie at weekends. Imagine the horror of the children; their childhoods will be marred by the slightly coarser texture and bitterer taste of second rate foie gras. Whatever next? Some of the might even have to settle for parfait during the week, only having foie gras de cannard entier on a Friday and Saturday, with foie gras d'oie reserved for a Sunday night. 

I'd weep for this tragedy, if I gave a shit.