“Press Conference”

God shuffled his feet.

“I have failed in my duties, do with me what you will and let my years of torment end, its time for a new lord and saviour, one of human ilk”

The deity stood ashamed, the reporter dead on the mark with her first question.

What was the question? I’m not sure, i arrived after it was spoken.

But that’s not important now.

Who do we choose as his replacement?

It was decided the best way for the world to choose a new lord and saviour would be by telephone vote with a live T.V results show (hosted by and and Dec). This would not only ensure the fairness of the vote (anyone was free to vote for anyone on earth) but it also made sure that those pesky third world countries didn’t have their say, after all, a starving mind cant be held responsible for such a decision.

I would vote for the man who delivers my post occasionally as he is never late, is smart in appearance and i like the cut of his jib.

To cut a long story short the votes were counted and god was announced the winner. This led to his eventual double murder suicide and we are now watched over by ant, dec and god.

Thank the lords.

On a separate note, the man who i voted for (who i now know to be called Ryan Gunshow) turned out to be a rapist. We would have had egg on our face if wed voted him in wouldnt we.

He came second and everything.

Speight was third.

Still Alive

Ill always remember David.

David was a man, some would say a human male, but im not that cold.

A man of average build, brown hair, short back and sides, milk, no sugar. Size 10 shoes, 32 inch waist, 5′8; a man of inconsequent proportions, never catching an eye, never raising an eyebrow, always the bridesmaid never the bride.

I remember the first time I met David like it was yesterday. Incidentally it was. He said something to me about the colour of another mans skin in relation to his wage packet.

His most remarkable trait was his penchant for “off the cuff” ties; a cod, a piano, a noose.

Why David took his life we will never know, but im sure if he were here now he would ask “what life was their to take?”

For lack of an idea today and through the desire to post i just posted this start to a script im writing.

Proper things again tomorrow.

“Hi, Mr. Swayze? Yeah, Hi. This Is Karma Calling.”

It begins…

I’m dreading his death.

Dreading it.

The printed press will be full of pictures of him hauling that shrill wasp bodied Jennifer Grey through the air and the screen media will be doing all of that, but with sound and full motion.

The streets will be lined with the bodies of crying women, some with a belly of aspirin, some just crying. Borderline Hollywood personas will be lining up to deliver heartrending soliloquies about the small town boy made good in the city. I’ll try and buy a paper but as I’m reaching out to hand over the money the shopkeeper will grasp me by the wrist and say, ‘Terrible news about Patrick Swayze’s Pancreas – WHAT DO YOU THINK?’.

They’ll probably cash in on the grief and re-release Ghost, forcing tired comparisons to Swayze’s own real-life death, and forcing my hand with more letters to Whoopi Goldberg.

Man, I don’t even know where she fucking lives anymore, it’s gonna be total hassle.

Hollywood has a way of romanticizing death.

When Ted Danson died, it emerged that he’d spent much of his post-Cheers life in Sudan, helping to build roads and oil refineries for China and China Jnr, Google.

It was a quirky sentiment, but really?

When Ben Affleck blew his face off in his apartment last year everyone gathered in Hollywood boulevard to talk fondly about the legacy of a man whose films included Pearl Harbour, Daredevil, GIGLI (!) and Armageddon. Let me run that by you again:

Pearl Harbour

Daredevil

GIGLI (!)

Armageddon

It doesn’t matter that Armageddon starred Steve Buscemi, Steve should’ve known better.

Hollywood gives birth to you, raises you, rapes you, poisons you, and at the moment of your death; stuffs you, still breathing, into a big glass capsule in the sky.

So remember - when he dies, and he will die, it’s not the passing of a God. Think of it as more air for newborn babies to grasp at – you don’t want them to struggle, do you?

(The only slightly bitter about life) Philip Larkin said,

“Man hands on misery to man“.

And how!

“The Burma Review”

Ok, so as i’m sure you know a massive cyclone hit the country of Burma on Saturday and so far the death count is in excess of 22,000. This is a terrible tragedy and one again mother nature has dicked us over.

This is the biggest news story of the week. It is. It Just is.

In this blog i will explore the front pages of the websites of the major newspapers in this country and see how the biggest disaster in years is being reported.

Today’s Top Headlines:

The Telegraph:

Cyclone Nargis death toll could hit 63,000

Good work telegraph, accurate and compassionate.

The Guardian:

Man killed in shoot-out with police

Oh dear.

The Cyclone is mentioned in one line of text stating:

Cyclone Nargis strikes Burma

Headlines that were bigger than the cyclone on the guardians front page:

Government to upgrade cannabis

That’s pretty annoying news. That’s it.

Keegan: Premier League is boring

Boring twat says something boring about something boring.

Music star Doherty released from jail

Pasty twat leaves jail.

Poor show Guardian. One guy gets shot in London? Football opinions? Junkie leaves prison?

More than 22,000 people have just been killed you fucking morons! i expected more from you.

The Daily Mail:

TomKat and the Beckhams turn on some old-fashioned glamour - but was it TOO old for Posh?

Clearly the biggest news at the moment is the Daily Mail if a newspaper for fucking cretins.

The Burma situation gets one line at least:
Burma cyclone: 10,000 wiped out in just ONE town as it is feared death toll will top 60,000

And the stories literally above it:

Radio presenter James Whale sacked - after urging listeners to vote for Boris Johnson

Radio presenter I’ve never heard of gets sacked from local station.

Howzat! Mr Loophole gets Freddy Flint-off a speeding charge

Some cricketer gets caught going fast in a car.

This is a really poor show from the daily mail but i never expected better from the racist, bias arseholes that read and write this devils shit rag.

The Daily Star:

SICK DAD MADE VICE GIRLS PLAY DEAD

Still running with out old friend Fritzl. Not too bad because this is a pretty fucked up story but still not equal to 22,000 lives.

Burma gets:

Nothing.

There isn’t a mention on the front page of the website for the largest natural disaster in years. Not one sentence.

Fuck the daily star. If you buy it you are not only a whore to this bullshit “celebrity killer” text they have created but a stain on my earth and worthless to the highest degree,

But here’s the real gold, with no mention of this massive emergency on the front page you would assume all of the other stories would have to be pretty top flight, right? Wrong.

Here are the stories deemed more important by the daily star with some rough translations for anyone who doesn’t know the people involved.

Angry Ian Wright wants Gary Lineker on TV’s Gladiators so he can watch him get “pummelled” by the show’s beefy stars.

Good yet idiotic ex footballer annoyed at crisp selling former footballer.

AMERICAN pop babe Ashlee Simpson has vowed not to follow in the footsteps of celeb casualties like Britney Spears and Lindsay Lohan.

Some pop star has said she wont end up like the other pop stars she is already like.

Dannii Minogue has revved up her feelings for “amazing” F1 ace Lewis Hamilton.

Sister of famous singer fancies very rich man who’s good in fast cars.

News?

Cunts.

The Mirror:

Exclusive video! Tourist Dies In Police Custody.

Although not be found in the “top stories” section, there is a video and a story about the cyclone a little further down the page. So not terrible but they still consider;

Mirror.co.uk top ten: Great British biscuits to beat the Oreo Invasion

more newsworthy.

Worst thing about that is as disgusting as i found the idea of that having a better spot than the burma disaster i still wanted to read it. Take that American biscuits.

The Sun:

22,000 killed by Burma cyclone

Not top story but much better than i thought they would do.

So in conclusion, most British newspapers are run by cretinous hunchbacks who when it comes to choosing what is news and what isn’t favour celebrity over emergency and national over international. we can can no longer let them defend themselves by claiming its to do with what will sell because the news isn’t about what will sell its about what’s important and what’s going on in the world.

Draw your own conclusions but as far as im concerned almost every major uk newspaper is completely fucked.

“Hypnogog”

They call it Hypnagogia.

A doctor would describe Hypnagogia as “vivid dreamlike auditory, visual, or tactile sensations, which are often accompanied by sleep paralysis.”

But I’m not that cold.

Basically what that means is several times a week I get stuck between being asleep and awake. Sometimes for minutes. sometimes for hours, once for nearly a day.

The best way I can think of to describe it is that I’m fully conscious just as you are now but my subconscious is still in charge of what I see and what I hear. Which is where things can get fucked up.

Two years ago I was trying to get to sleep in my house in Cornwall when a man walked through the door of my bedroom and pinned me to my bed with an axe at my throat. This was the first time in my life I actually thought I was going to die.

When the axe hit my throat the lack of blood , pain or passing made me quickly realise that I was alone.

I don’t even have a door.

When I describe this to most people I think they assume im lying or exaggerating, but I have genuinely woken up fearing for my life on more than one occasion.

The ones who do believe me sympathise and say things like “that must be terrible” but it isn’t, it can be fantastic.

Sure when it first started happening (my mother assures me that this was when I stopped sharing a room with my brother) it was terrifying but now it’s getting to a stage where 9 times out of ten I am aware that I am in a hypnogogic state whether it’s through the sheer unlikeness of the situation or a lack of physical being when I approach the vision.

The one time out of ten that slips the net is where the situation is either believable or mundane. Two weeks ago I had been chatting to a house mate In my front room for half an hour before I realized that he was in another country and I was alone.

But the great part comes through an increased chance of being able to control my sleeping dreams. Most of my dreams because of this are episodic like a TV show, they just carry on night after night.

So there we have it, sometimes when I’m asleep I’m awake and sometimes when I’m awake I’m asleep. You get used to it.

Well…. Sort of.

“Missing: Pretty, White Female”

I propose a test, a folly, a pop quiz if you will. And you will.

Name all the missing children you can. Infact, all the children that have been murdered too. Even kids that have survived terrible ordeals.

Pick one of these kids at random in your head. Here comes the magic.

You’re thinking of a white….. female…..

Or Damiola Taylor.

Every year over 70,000 kids go missing in the Uk alone and yet thanks to MWWS (Missing White Women Syndrome) we will only ever hear about a small handfull of them. The ones we do hear about are, 90% of the time; white, attractive women from the middle classes.

I can’t go a day without hearing about Madeleine McCann, and it makes me sick. Since Madeleine McCanns’ disappearance, approx 77,000 children have gone missing and i couldn’t name more than 2.

The blame lies two ways.

The media orgy that is Madeleine McCann and her parents ( Who are still suspects by the way, dont forget that people. For all we know they have her in a backpack in an attic).

And the public, the people; you lot. Admittedly not all of you. But alot of you. People in this country like nothing more than pretending they care about important things. For example - so many people moan about recycling and supported Live Earth, etc, but still have more than one car and run electric heaters when it gets a bit cold.

Are we going to get to a stage where fame seeking paedophiles hold auditions for their victims?

Headline reads: “Abductor returns attractive young girl after hearing Liverpudlian accent”

The media defends itself by saying it’s what the public want and the public defend themselves by saying its  what the media is giving them, but when all’s said and done, it really just comes down to core demographics. It’s cool having a racist commerical media, but one that’s biased as well?

Check out this documentary for the sort of stuff i’m on about:

http://current.com/pods/culture/PD06908

So back to missing kids, either tell me about all of them or tell me about none of them. Actually, there’s about 190 a day so don’t do that.

Fuck it, give them their own free newspaper with all their little faces in.

Actually; would that be like an Argos catalogue for paedophiles?

Tomorrow We Will Run Faster

I found Waldo.

He said he’d been running for as long as he could remember. When I asked him about his childhood he flinched. I’d obviously hit a nerve. Waldo said he didn’t know why he ran, just that he had to.

————————————————————————————–

Michael Richards was an interesting one.

I turned up early for our interview and was surprised to find Richards talking to the Reverend Jesse Jackson. He was telling him how awesome he thought Michael Jordan had been in the movie, Space Jam, and any sequels that there may have been. After Jackson left, Richards’ face crawled to an aching spite and he told me that to gain his trust I had to hate black people more than he did. When I failed in this, Richards said he couldn’t help me. As he made ready to ride off with his horse into an unfolding horizon, he trapped my eye in his studied Rain Man gaze and softly, sang,

‘Blue sunset, blue sunset,

Sets long in the hue of you.

Blue sunset, blue sunset,

Shines on in the hearts of a few”

When I asked him what that meant, he threw back his head and laughed. I could see wires among his hair. An unsettling chill caught about my neck. He rode off, wrapped in that laugh and I stood there watching, rooted to the spot, ‘till he was no more than a speck of sand.

————————————————————————————–

Time was indifferent.

On the one hand, Time appeared ready to open up, but on the other, I sensed a detached ambiguity towards me. She sat, with her translator, an alarm clock, on my studio sofa. I wondered about their relationship. It was written that Time knew everything. When I asked her how that felt, she just nodded. I looked to the translator who omitted a series of measured ticks. I tried to make some sense of it but understood little.

Time wore a nightgown the size of the sky. I got the feeling she was waiting for something.

————————————————————————————–

Aids coughed into a napkin.

Aids felt more comfortable talking manifest in the form of a dog with rabies. Wearing a muzzle (not seen in the picture) I found a very honest and open syndrome, sometimes sad but always hopeful. My main query was with Aids as an extension of comedy. I put it to Aids that it was no longer funny, that the market had become inflated and bland, that it was just a shitty punch line now. To my surprise, Aids agreed. He told me about his work in the 80’s, spreading fear among a gay scene that wouldn’t stop partying. “The Golden Years”, he called them. He’d been grateful for the recognition after years of being overlooked in the West for his work in Africa and other developing countries but now it was like he’d become a victim of his own success.

Aids and I spoke on the balcony of his East Village apartment. We were sat in deck chairs with a direct view into the aerobics class of an adjacent building. Aids said spandex was still a stupidly gay material; I sipped from the coffee we were sharing.

I asked him of the new kids on the block. Bone-marrow cancer had potential, he said, but it’d have to be ready to deal with the fallout of the fame that would come with it, if and when. We watched the people working out a little while longer and then I left, coughing and sneezing into a napkin.

————————————————————————————–

The children of Nairobi were on an exchange trip…

So I can’t pretend they were representative of the entire child population of Nairobi. It was raining. We were at a holocaust museum. The kids were laughing as they walked between exhibits. It struck me as strange. I asked their teacher, Umbeye, if they knew about the horrors of the holocaust or suffered limited English and were instead joking about other things. He said that they were fluent English speakers but that they found the holocaust funny. I pressed Umbeye to expand on this and he pointed, smiling, towards an elevator. “Clean up, funny-time”, he said, still smiling. Could he have meant showers? We walked around like this for the whole afternoon, the kids laughing, with Umbeye and me talking together. We took a lunch break in the museum canteen sometime after three. As we were getting up to leave, Umbeye said something, and the kids started screaming with laughter. I don’t speak Swahili so the joke was lost on me.

When our time was up and we were saying our goodbye’s I decided to tackle Umbeye and the children on the object of their amusement. I drew out an allusion to the limited coverage of the Kenyan civil war in Western media and asked if they found the holocaust funny in a kind of comparative way.

“No”, said a pretty girl with her hair in bunches, “that’d be satire. And bad satire at that. For us, for the whole of Kenya, and particularly Nairobi, the holocaust is just, you know, really, really funny”.

I left with their laughter ringing in my ears.

The last I saw of them they were rolling about in giggling fits at the feet of a memorial inscribed with the names of holocaust victims.

Boris “The Rhino” Johnson

Now, i dont know much about this particular area of politics but floppy haired bumblefuck Boris Johnson is now the mayor of london.

Lets see how he tackles…..

Woah there, i almost wrote a pun inadvertently.

Anyway im too hungover to write anything decent today, ill do something tomorrow.

Whilst your here, enjoy this amazing video.

Never talk to this man because apparently “something going to go wrong” and your gonna end up through a window being stabbed in the liver with your own knife or a chair.

Cautionary Tales of F.

“Oh, it’s adorable, just like a doll’s house. I like it here.”

They found some people in a cellar – did you hear? Of course you fucking heard; everyone did. The press are scrambling over themselves trying to piece together the past, feeding the wires with everything from horror and self-pity to pro-active hysteria.

They’ve really gone to town on the seven children, trying as often as they can to end each and every sentence with the words, ‘and her seven children’. And, you know, it’s true – there were seven children. Just like I have seven fingers and two thumbs (don’t ask about the eighth finger. FORGET IT.). Just like I wake up with that nightmare every Sunday morning.

This whole process of repetition, asides from being called repetition (which is, by the way, a perfectly reasonable thing to call it) is really just a Deep throat of the Facts. Deepthroating the Facts is journalese on a grand scale. It’s Christian morality as filtered through the ass of a security guard with too many tv screens to watch. In short -it’s totally gay. And by ‘gay’ I mean ‘unbelieavably insensitive to humanity at large’ and by ‘unbelievably insensitive to humanity at large’, I really mean ‘forget I said gay’.

Cool, so you forgot I said gay.

Can’t do that anymore.

There’s nothing wrong with having seven children, just as provided you’re willing to understand why society turns its back on you, there’s nothing wrong with having seven fingers. But, you know, there’s something really wrong when those seven children somehow become the pornographic fantasy of an unloved, sycophantic machine.

I expect this grim autopsy from the tabloid media. I expect it. Hell, I want it from them; I wouldn’t know how to feel otherwise. The difference here is that the autopsy is being performed openly by everyone. The BBC, The Independent, My own mother. Ok, so that’s not ‘everyone’ and only shows to highlight the small world I inhabit but the point remains the same: everyone wants a piece of this story ’and her seven children’. So are we surrogate parents now? Hardly, we’re something worse. We’re the things proliferating with each emergent detail around the edges of fact; not giving a fuck if we’re seen.

There’s an allegory in all of this.

If you’re not dead inside, you’ll remember that the Queen, blinded by her own vanity and upset at her step-daughter’s objectively greater beauty hires a Huntsman to first lure Snow White into the forest and then to dispose of her, bringing back her heart as proof of this deed. The problem is, the Huntsman’s a total Christian fag and he pusses out at the last minute, dropping to his knees and crying out to the Queen for redemption. He bids Snow White to run off far, far into the woods where she cannot be found. She duly obliges.

So Snow White meets some dwarves. Blah-blah. The queen then disguises herself as an old hag and sells a poisoned apple to Snow White who HAPPY TO PAY TOP DOLLAR FOR A PRETTY SHIT LOOKING APPLE bites into and dies/falls into a deep coma. She’s eventually brought back to life/out of the deep coma by the kiss of a handsome prince. Why the prince had to be handsome is never fully explained.

I don’t know what happed to Snow White thereafter either, but can we really blame the Prince if he didn’t want to spend his life with a vegetable?

So where am I going with this?

“Oh, it’s adorable, just like a doll’s house. I like it here.”

That’s where.

Now that we have our fairytale everyone’s going to press.

I’m not sure whether to be aroused or ashamed. The reality is somewhere in between.

Snow White has had her seven children and now she’s been lured out of her coma.

She might have left the cellar but who says it’s any better on the surface?

SIDENOTE: THIS AUTHOR, THAT’S WHO.

Stupid Things That Stupid People Say #1

#1 - “Everyone’s opinion is equal”

This is possibly the most annoying sentence on Gods green earth, apart from

“Hi, my name is Kerry Katona”.

Everyone’s opinion is equal?

EVERYONE’S.OPINION.IS.EQUAL?!

No. No Kerry Katona, you’re wrong. And you’re a waste of space.

If everyones opinion was equal there would be no such thing as science, there would be no religion and there would be no educational system. There would be would be no rich and no poor, there would be no heroes, there would be no martyrs.

If, for example, i need to know something about quantum physics i will ask a scientist who has knowledge in that field, but under your system Kerry, it would be just as useful to ask Jade Goody or the tramp that shits by the biffa bins near the arts centre in Plymouth city centre.

Now, Kerry, if i wanted to know about being an horrendeous stain on the face of humanity, im sure you could offer me a wealth of knowledge and i know you have several years experience in the field of dropping baby people out of your sodden undercarriage.

I was going to make a valid and eloquent post about this but i have that twat in my head now, i hope you know what i meant.

Fuck you, Kerry Katona.

*Update

Whilst trying to find out where Katona is from so i could throw some regional stereotypes her way i found out that she is a fucking terrible mother. So i cant even ask her about the one thing i thought she might know about. She smokes, drinks and does drugs, all while pregnant. I hope her flid-babies get taken away and are brought up by someone who dosnt look like a door.

Here’s a video that angered me after only 15 seconds. See if you can beat that time and then post your record below.

“Man stabbed queueing for midnight launch of ultra-violent video game Grand Theft Auto IV”

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/pages/live/articles/news/news.html?in_article_id=562729&in_page_id=1770

In lighter news a man was stabbed repeatedly while queuing to buy GTA:IV in Croydon: London.

The Daily Mail obviously went with the “man gets stabbed purchasing violent videogame by people who play violent videogames”, throwing flagrant disregard to the fact that essentially all that really happened was a man was out late in Croydon unarmed. Croydon has one of the highest knife crime rates in the whole of Europe, this unlucky bastard would have been stabbed if he was buying any other game.

ANY.

Have you seen Croydon after 11?

But the icing on the grammatical cake for me was this comment, left by ‘Anne’ from ‘London’:

“It was only a matter of time before the ‘latest version’ of this so called ‘game’ prompted yet another senseless attack. ‘How long’ must we be forced to put up with this ‘filth’ before the government finally ’see the light’ and ‘ban’ these things?

- Anne, London”

1# - Randomly placing inverted commas into a piece of text does not make you seem any more intelligent, you ridiculous, shrieking woman.

2#- If we were to take this orgy of tiny floating black erections seriously you have essentially made your own comment redundant.

e.g - ‘latest version’ What are you trying to say? it is the lastest version. Are you suggesting theyve re-released GTA 1? is that what your trying to say Anne? IS IT ANNE? Fuck you anne. I Fucking hate you anne. Thats right, you dont even get a capital letter anymore because you raped grammar. Fuck it, you’re not even getting vowels anymore - g fck yrslf nn!

3# - Ban this filth? I could go on for pages about this, but im going to summarise;

You cock.

Sometimes the stick you poke into your eye turns up cancer of the pancreas

Self-diagnosis is no fun.

Today I found out that I am a paedophile.

Sat in a toilet cubicle making hands with meat over the image of a girl I’d been “led to believe was much older” I noticed somewhere on the page, a reference to her age:

15.

14 when my infatuation had begun, maybe younger. I finished what I had to do (cutting out in the middle serves no purpose) and left the hospital.

My God - Fifteen years old. Three years ‘till she’s legal, by which time I’ll be a twenty-four year old man with nothing to offer this barren planet but a string of molestation charges and failed prison relationships that never worked out.

As a kid (8, 9) I liked older women - 12 years, 13 years, that’s what I was after.

Maturity.

Girls who wore make up and could just about squeeze into 15 certificate rated movies.

So it’s just a case of my taste not changing, right?

Right, I’m the same guy I ever was.

Problem is, certain people won’t see it that way. History is littered with the bones of people who paid the price for their unwavering loyalty to one age bracket.

My choice seems simple; either give in to society’s demands and become a law abiding non-paedophile or carry on down this tearful road of stolen innocence and DOOM.

How the hell was I to know she was BORN IN 1992? Girls are starting to look older and older, to the point where everyone becomes a paedophile of thought at some point in their lives. Hear that? EVERYONE. Let me show you what I mean.

Ask Sir Trevor how old he thought the ‘piece of paper’ he was violently tearing at in the picture was and he’d probably say “that’s a silly question”. The reality is that it’s a 14year old girl still developing both emotionally and physically. She’s not ready to rush into a relationship and if she was, she’d want it to be on her terms, to push when she wanted to push, and to pull when she wanted to pull. It also begs the question: Why was one of the Knights of the Kingdom tearing at a girl like she was a piece of vile, blue meat, with his bare hands? Why has this never been investigated?

Verdict? Sir Trevor Macdonald is a paedophile who won’t ever take ‘no’ for an answer.

Chris Tarrant – Sure, Chris Tarrant might tell you these are adults he’s pictured with but the truth is a little closer to home. And by ‘home’ i mean, ‘a group of kids dressed as adults, and the real Lenny Henry’. For further proof, look at the breasts of the ‘woman’, - what child could expect to suck from the taps of those mammary glands and still expect to see another day?

Chris Tarrant likes to dangle his cheques and then, at the last minute, pull them away to comic effect but is that going to work on a bunch of kids? Actually…

Verdict – Chris Tarrant is a financial-incentive based paedophile and Lenny Henry needs to realise he’s just a pawn in Tarrant’s vile game.

Now you see?

Look, I’m not trying to be a dick about this, really I’m not. I’m facing up to the monster that lives inside me. Fifteen years old. I am a paedophile. Until I can prove that Billy Ray Cyrus has been meddling with Time in his basement, those are just simply the facts.

Where next? First there will be the breaking of the news to my family. I can’t go on living this lie. They have every right to disown me. But to disown a man with my ‘condition? That’s probably the worst thing to do.. Wandering the streets without a home and quite unable tell the age of girls, I could easily become another Sir Trevor Macdonald. No, what I need is treatment at the hands of women my own age, so that I can learn to distinguish the key differences between girls holding crayons and girls not holding crayons.

Chances are, you have or are about to offend a child’s honour with your thoughts. The choice is yours – roll around in the tight flesh of fresh meat or admit you need help.

Fifteen? 4 REELZ?

‘Fraid so.

If this isn’t the end, it sure feels like it.

“Boys sentenced over Goth murder”

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/lancashire/7291985.stm

Ok, so here’s one of the news stories that’s inspired me to start this blog;

Essentially what happened was two “goths” were walking through a park having a lovely time on some sort of date when they entered “polite conversation” with a couple of scallywag chav types. (political correctness and the benefit of the doubt would have me refer to them in this manner for now because there are apparently some lovely ones out there).

The conversation ended and two minutes later these same rapscallions decided that polite conversation wasn’t quite enough and thought it might be a fun activity to kick and punch every ounce of life out of two complete strangers that look different.

They beat them so badly that the girl died of massive internal injuries and the boy is now afriad to leave his house and was also severely injured.

The wee cheeky tykes.

The victims:

The Attackers:

This shit is fucked for so many reasons;

Reason #1

Were going start off basic here, with your standard fucked up chav mentality that its OK to have FIVE guys attack ONE guy and ONE girl.

Reason #2

LOOK AT THEM. Seriously, LOOK AT THEM. They were always gonna do something wrong weren’t they? Look at their soulless eyes and slack jawed expressions.

Aha! i hear some of you say;

“isn’t that prejudice in the same way as they were prejudice against the goths?”.

Aha! I say. Fuck you! i also say.

Its nothing like the same. I have never in my life had any trouble from a goth (well once but that’s because i wouldn’t call him by his ridiculous nickname so my bad) But every day of my life here in the little city of Plymouth i see these people shouting, jeering, fighting and fucking in the streets like animals, and his place is tiny! I cant imagine the hoard’s of true fucks that lie out there in the bigger cities.

Reason #3

Why?

Maybe its because I’ve never felt the warm blood of another on my fists or felt the screams of an innocent person almost burst my R&B loving eardrum that i cant even begin to contemplate punching a complete stranger for no reason.

*Update

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/lancashire/7370637.stm

Legal system did OK for once but i prefer my eye for an eye system (to be documented in a future blog, watch this space).