Ditto Blake Fielder. Well done for marrying the best British voice of a generation and ballsing up her life so spectacularly. Everybody I know who has had the misfortune to cross paths with you has said you’re an utter cunt. For once, I’m happy to bow to public opinion. Have you considered a suicide pact with Docherty?
People who stop to talk to their friends right in the middle of narrow, busy pavements. Next time, try doing it in the middle of the narrow, busy road and stay the hell out of my way.
“Friends” - the insipid bloody US “comedy” show, not one’s drinking mates. Anybody with a grain of personality and honour would rather have bamboo splinters driven under their fingernails than endure an episode of this drivel. Even if your girlfriend is going to sulk if she doesn’t get to watch it. With the exception, that is, of the episode where uber-twat Ross keeps getting punched in the face. If that’s what the entire thing was about, I would be more charitable about it.
Cold, oily poppadoms in cheap Indian restaurants. You have ovens, no? To heat things? Personally, I don’t savour the taste of congealing grease with my Cobra. Same thing goes for the fish in knackered chippies which was plainly cooked about five hours earlier. How much cash are you saving by only frying once a day, you cheap bastards?
You have no idea. Welcome to my world. Thank fuck Missus Ming seems to find my constant grouching and arm-waving amusing or I’d be moaning about that too.
Brit Art wankers, cluttering up galleries with piles of crap which have cost us all a fortune and which, so I’ve been repeatedly told by an art-lecturer acquaintance, the rest of us can’t possibly appreciate without having put in rigorous study in order to understand all the clever references to other piles of crap in other galleries. If I want to untangle references and play mind games I’ll do the Guardian crossword or have a conversation with one of my more mental female relatives. If I want to punch someone I’ll punch a modern artist.
...but he’ll have to wait for his turn behind the utter turds decided, in their wisdom, to make the inside of new London buses a shatteringly dull yet car-crash attention grabbing combination of dark blue-grey and bright yellow, presumably in order to make the journey even more bloody unbearable. They are, presumably, in league with the turds who carefully engineered many of the same buses to vibrate at exactly the correct frequency to give all passengers a splitting headache and the desire to spew in their shopping bags. And, oh the bleedin’ irony, we’re paying through the nose for it with no alternative because Gordon Brown’s pisspoor PFI fuck up has given you the ability to milk us dry while giving us the finger. You are all, to quote the great Bill Hicks, suckers of Satan’s cock.
Loose paving slabs which swivel in wet weather and shoot a jet of cold, dirty water up your trouser leg. What is the purpose of this? Am I missing something?
The sort of bar-persons who call themselves “mixologists” - enough of a shit-headed neologism to be really, really, aggravating by itself - and who have no fecking clue how to mix any of your twenty or so favourite classics they force you to run through with increasing listlessness before they admit they only know how to make the six on their crappy little menu. These are, inevitably, the sort of fat-tongued runts who attempt to pick up girls and boys at parties by saying, “I’m a cocktail barman. Yeah, I guess it is pretty cool. You should drop by some time and I’ll sort you out with some free drinks.” Be warned, unless you are turned on by the thought of getting pissed on some vile concoction created solely for the purpose of clearing out all the ancient crap from behind the bar then being inexpertly penetrated by the same barman/amateur rapist in the cellar after closing time, Just Say No. Preferably getting in a few punches to the side of the head to underline your point.
