Friday, 9 September 2011

Breaking The Ice

We've all been there, day 1 of a new job/school/military training academy, and there's that awkward silence that descends whenever a group of people meet for the first time. I experienced this today.

Picture this: a group of assorted teenagers assembled in a rectangular fashion in a classroom, looking at each other wondering who to mate with. And me, of course, taller than everyone else sitting there thinking about the new breakfast cereal I'm going to create. I was bigger than everyone else for two reasons. One, I was on one of those chairs that spins and I'd been playing with the height lever. And two, I was a year older than the other students. This meant I didn't know anyone there and thus had ample time to create a branding identity for Cunt-O's my new cereal.

Now usually, if you leave a group of teenagers together, somebody will break the ice by saying 'fuck' or consuming alcohol. Yet our teacher decided that the only way we would be able to interact with each other would be through the use of ritual humiliation. Foregoing traditional breaking-of-the-proverbial-fucking-ice activities, she implemented one she had designed herself. It involved drawing round our heads and writing interesting facts about ourselves.

At the start of any of these activities, you have to make an important decision. And that is, do I really fucking draw round my head and write interesting facts about myself, or do I draw a big egg and write about how many legs I have? The latter approach is favoured by many as it requires a minimum amount of effort. However, I judged by the look of the class that they would all really go for this and thus, I did too.

And so, I sat there in the corner of the room, with my head pressed down upon the desk, and my right arm waving haphazardly around my forehead and general head area trying to break the ice. And that is the moment when I opened my eyes. Just for a second. And saw the entire class had drawn eggs and were looking at me like some kind of inbred. Bugger, misjudged the class.

Thursday, 1 September 2011

Local News Update

My town is full of crazy fuckers. Since I reside in a 'commuter town' all the normal people get on the train to London at 8am. Thus, anybody remaining in the town at 9am is either a student, or mentally unstable. Some would argue these two attributes aren't dissimilar.

A real variety of weirdos litter the streets. Sometimes literally. There's the constantly drunk lady who wears a pink cap and shorts in any weather. At least she's consistent. Then there's Graham. He used to have a high flying job in the city, now he shouts at women in charity shops and pulls things out of the bins. Living the dream retirement. We also have a relatively new addition to our streets, and that's lawsuit woman. Everytime the lights go red at the zebra crossing in the centre of town she throws herself onto a stopped car. She's incredibly regular, like a perverted cuckoo clock in many ways. But yes, she throws herself onto stopped cars at the traffic lights and claims she's been hit. When passers-by tell her that actually she caused more damage to the car, she wets herself.

Local police have had to step up patrols because of an increase in people bumming each other in public spaces. No I'm not joking, there is an actual news story about this. Turns out that so many men have been visiting the toilets in the park that it's become a safety hazard. I presume there's so many people bumming each other they're blocking the road.

Now then, if you were a council planning officer, what do you think would fit best in a relatively middle class commuter town: A strip club, or a 99p store? I suggested the former, obviously. Mostly because it would be a great place to do my homework on the way back from college. Unfortunately, the council has granted planning permission for a 99p store. A shop where every single item costs exactly ninety nine pence. I'm looking forward to popping in on a daily basis to buy a plastic basket and asking how much it costs. Tee hee.

Wednesday, 31 August 2011

A Truly Amazing Bathroom

You may think I'm so amazing that I never have to do normal people things like breath or go to the bathroom. Funnily enough, you'd be wrong in thinking that. So today, whilst breathing, I went to somebody else's bathroom. Wow wee. See what I did there?

This room confused/amazed me. At first I thought the homemade cookies I had eaten were laced with MDMA or some shit like that. There were dolphins on the toilet and the floor was sparkling. I quickly established that it was a novelty toilet seat. Although the floor still amazed me. Whilst marvelling at the fact I appeared to be standing on a large flat Christmas decoration, I happened to glance upwards. That is when I saw it.

To call it a shower is truly unjust, this was more than a shower. If God himself returned from work completely worn out he would use this to wash away his god-sweat. I shall attempt to convey the amazingness of this shower with words, although I fear you will only fully understand me through expressive dance. There were no sides. There was no floor. It was, in essence, part of the room. There was a drain in the glitter floor, and a knee-height glass partition round it. That was it. How cool is that? You could put a chair in this shower. You could jump into this shower in a fit of crazy hygiene. You could even eat your breakfast in this shower. You could be in the shower with one leg whilst standing in front of the sink with another. Come on, tell me that's not the single best thing ever invented?

As it turns out, this wasn't even a bathroom. Oh no. It was a 'wet room'. Now I always thought a wet room is what you get if the people in the flat above have drainage problems. But no, a wet room is a magical land of flooring glitter and ultra-showers.

Tuesday, 30 August 2011

The Grand Relaunch No-Expense-Spared Marketing Campaign

Sorry for not posting in so long, I was out leafleting one day and got stuck in some gravel because I was wearing my silly estate agent shoes. I've only just managed to crawl out.

So to celebrate the renewed life of the blog I thought I would begin an amazing marketing campaign. I blew my entire life savings on the following advertisment:

Unfortunately Transport for London took offense at my excellent use of the word 'fuck' and pulled the campaign. I then proceeded to think of an etirely more imaginitve way of getting my blog out in the puclic attention: Viral Marketing.

Yes, so armed with this revolutionary new approach, a woman, and a camera, I travelled back to the worrying town/city/village of Brighton. And it was in The Apple Store that I planned to launch my excellent scheme.

As you can see, this worked very well. I lost count of the number of foreign men in jackets who were absolutely astounded by the sheer amazingness of my blog. However, I also wanted to attract a female audience. Thus, there was only one thing for it, I had to do some kind of sexy pose.

This did not have the desired effect. It seemed that the only people who were attracted to my blog were foreign men in jackets. Although one staff member came over and closed the web browser... Maybe he liked it? Any ideas for other marketing campaings are greatly appreciated. Should I burn my name onto some toast? Should I create a trail of bread crumbs leading to my office? Anything, as long as it works better than my ideas.

And if you would like somebody to take pictures of you in a shop, why not try L J Pyecroft Photography? I did, and look how cool I am.

World Exclusive Interview With Original Lead Singer Of AC/DC Dave Evans

No I'm not entirely sure how I managed to secure an interview with Dave Evans either. Still, something to put on the blog isn't it?

Could you tell me a little bit about how the name AC/DC was decided upon?

We had tossed around a lot of names but could not get a unanimous agreement to any of them. Then Malcolm told us that his sister in law, Sandra, suggested AC/DC which signified power and was easy to remember. We shook hands and all agreed that this was a good name to go by and it was settled.

At what point did you realise that AC/DC had the potential to be a huge band?

We had no doubts from the very beginning. We also had Colin Burgess from the Masters Apprentices in the band as our original drummer and he had already had international success with his former band.

Is there one prevailing memory of being in the band that sticks out for you?

Haha! There are many. The first recording session, the first film clip. Our first gig of course, The amazing show at the Sydney Opera House. Hearing our hit single, Can I Sit Next To You, Girl? being played on the hour every hour on radio etc etc.

Are you still in contact with the band?

No. I have bumped into other past members from time to time though.

Am I correct in thinking you will be touring the UK some time soon?

Hopefully again next year, 2012.

Your  'Judgement Day' album is fantastic, how would you describe it to listeners who may only know you from your previous bands?

Still hard hitting Rock but with a slight bluesy feel on a couple of them. All with big hook line choruses and strong heavy riffs from my song writing partner, Mark Tinson who also produced the album. This is a follow up from the previous album, Sinner, which Mark also produced and received great reviews worldwide.

The cover of 'House Of The Rising Sun' is a great album closer, what's your favourite song of all time?

This is one of them for sure but I also like Heartbreak Hotel by Elvis Presley and most things by the Beatles and early Rolling Stones.

Is there a motto that you live by?

Just do it!

Saturday, 7 May 2011

I Don't Have Parts Of Your Fridge!

I was quite happily sitting at my desk at work today when a strange interruption occurred. Unfortunately I was alone in the office and thus it was left to me to deal with all the rich crazy people who wanted stuff.

In walked an Italian-looking woman wearing a red dress holding some coffee.

"Give me ma fridge shelf please!" she said menacingly.

"Excuse me?" I replied, trying to sound helpful, cheerful and relaxed but failing entirely and sounding like a pre-pubescent hedgehog.

"Don't mess me! I 'av an email! Give me ma fridge shelf!"

Part of me thought she was crazy, part of me thought she was Italian, and part of me was aware she was pointing her coffee at my expensive bits.

"I'm sorry madam but we are an estate agents, not a fridge company." I thought this might cheer her up or make her smile or something. It didn't.

The last book I read was about how the mafia like to kill people if they've offended them, and I strongly suspected this lady was Italian. She then reached into her dress and pulled out something long black and metal. Then she pointed it at me.

My whole life did not flash before my eyes, but for some reason I thought of bourbon biscuits. I wondered if my funeral would be full of beautiful women. I didn't mind as long as there would be biscuits. It seemed an unfortunate way to die, shot dead by an Italian woman in a revenge attack on behalf of her kitchen. Oh well.

I opened my eyes, either heaven looked very much like an office or she hadn't shot me. I looked at what was in her hand. It was an iPhone.

I read the email, it turns out that yes she did need to pick up her fridge shelves, I didn't have them. With one last flick of her hair and spill of her coffee, the Italian assasin was gone, taking her deadly iPhone weapon with her.

Thursday, 5 May 2011

The Doughnut Incident

I was walking home from college, and something rather peculiar happened. I was kinda casually swaggering along, minding my own business, planning how many women you can fit in a houseboat, when a strange noise emanated from behind me.


I walked a little quicker


I was starting to wonder what this noise might be, could be Andy the tramp having a heart attack? Could it be a strange bird having a heart attack? I did not know. So I looked round.

My boss was running after me waving a doughnut above his head. He's a respected, well-known member of the estate agent community, who evidently likes to make these noises whilst running as fast as he can whilst holding jam-filled baked goods above his head.

He caught up to me, put the doughnut in my hand, and casually walked off.

Wednesday, 4 May 2011

Scarily Loud Gardeners Like To Shout Vegetables At Me

You'd have thought that it would be quite safe to sit in front of a computer and go on facebook. Well you'd be wrong. HA

I had some rather expensive headphones on, except I wasn't playing any music. I'd forgotten that they were up to maximum volume.

I logged onto facebook, then left it and went to open itunes. It was a quiet day so there weren't any screaming children outside. Essentially I was quite relaxed.

"TRIM YOUR BUSH WITH CARE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"



Also Aaaah!

I removed the headphones pretty damn quick. Why was there a shouty American gardener in my ears? Why do I need to do gardening? Why do plants cost so fucking much when they are actually just vegetables you can'ty eat?   All these thoughts were swimming round my head so I buggered off and ate some chocolate orange until I felt brave enough to go near the computer.

It turns out facebook has plopped fucking loads of gardening adverts over my newsfeed. Thanks

Friday, 29 April 2011

Bumper Royal Wedding Special!

Women are like men but less hairy and able to cook. So today I went with my ladyfriend to Brighton.
For some reason that I've helpfully forgotten, she needed to buy penis-shaped sweets. That should give you an indication of where the day is headed. Now of course, I used my famous estate agent's sense of direction to find us the perfect place to buy these naughty sweets: 'The Family Sweet Shop'. It was run by a sweet old man and all the sugary yum yums were in old-fashioned jars. He even had paintings of the sea side on the wall. So it seemed logical that he would sell big dick sweets. I had to ask if he stocked them. "Hello there do you have any penises?" Up until today I had not thought it possible for somebody to suffer a stroke, a heart attack, and a bladder failure all at the same time. Evidently I was wrong. The old man crumpled onto the counter like the pizza I made that time. We ran off.

There was only one place left to look for these bizarre sweets. I think they were for somebody's uncle's birthday. They weren't for me that's for sure. Now when I last blogged about Brighton I detailed the sex shops. Now I actually had to go in one.


Why would you even want a massive flashing dildo? Or an arse whip? Or some strange rubber circle thing? I wandered round the shop like, well like the pizza that I made that time. My eyes were as wide as slices of salami and my crust (mind) was thoroughly burnt and floppy. I ran off.

After abandoning the penis search my ladyfriend decided that she would get a tattoo. Oh my. So while she had a schizophrenic putting toxic dye in her I quite happily read a leaflet about female genital piercings. The diagrams were scarily realistic. I was then asked if I wanted a genital piercing. I ran off, quickly.

By this point I felt a need to be around people who didn't have arms filled with ink and smelt like that pizza I made that time. So we went to an art gallery. Probably because there was an attractive lady working there. Unfortunately before I could engage her in conversation the owner of the shop started talking to me. He looked rich so I listened. "Blah blah blah banks are ruining the country, something something something I'm not a Conservative cunt." OK I lied I didn't listen. But I did watch him throw somebody out the shop because they waved a little Union Jack flag about. Patriotic bastards. I then saw a piece of art I liked. Then I saw it was £2000. I ran off like a poor person.

Now the last time I ventured into Hollister I was alone. That's probably unfashionable. So this time I took a lady with me. I think the braindead blonde greeting lady recognised me, even in the pitch black. She then realised I had a lady. She ran off. During the course of that particular Hollister trip I became sprayed with expensive perfume. I smelt like a cunt all the way home.

Which was probably why the swear man swore at me. I dont mean a little. I mean "Fuck you you fucking fuck fucker!" I just smiled at him and pretended I was busy being on a train.

That blog post didn't have anything about the Royal Wedding in it. Woops. Bollocks

Thursday, 21 April 2011

My 'Genius' App Reccomendations

I like music, I like moving, I like listening to music whilst moving in an environment that is not my home. Thus, I own an iPod. An iPod touch to be precise. Ive even managed to fit 20 gigabytes of music onto my 8 gigabyte iPod touch. Don't ask me how.

However, on my iPod, I also have apps. Jolly good fun. And today I ventured into the deepest recess of the AppStore and discovered 'Genius Reccomendations'. Ooh exciting. Apparently what happens is Apple looks at the apps I currently have and reccomends similar ones.

My first 'Genius' recommendation was 'Ginger booth'. Why the fucking fuck would anybody want to make even more Ginger people??!! Ive got nothing against our carrotted friends but Jesus Christ there is no need to make normal looking people into Sunny D monsters.

My next recommendation was 'Angry Birds'. I could not understand the concept of throwing birds at walls so I did not download this.

By this point I was hoping for a sensible app. Needless to say this was not recommended. Instead I got 'Abs Workout Free'. "cheeky little bugger" I thought.

Next up: 'Little Pirates'. Oh no! Don't try and brainwash me iPod. A game where you control a lot of men on a boat together? Might as well call it iBum or Arse simulator. No Anal Apps for me.

'Flick Cricket'. Cunt. What a shit game. Nobody even understands cricket. People that say they do are liars.

'Baby Adopter'. Really? 'Use awesome features like park visit and toilet!' no no no

And my final App recomendation? 'iBible'. Have you actually read the bible? Its really boring. To save you the effort, I'll do a CookieSummary:

God made world
World was full of naked people
People had sex
God got angry and killed everyone
Some hippy turned up called Jesus
Him and his mates went on a roadtrip
Due to an industrial accident with a nailgun he became stapled to some wood

So there you have it, my app recommendations and the Gospel according to Cookie0024

Friday, 15 April 2011


Had an interesting trip today. Brighton worries me. Here's why.

All the shops are fucking weird. Unless you want to buy some adult toys or some scary foreign food you're buggered. And then there are creepy old men who sell 'special massages'. No thanks.

The pier is made of chopsticks, or at least the one that hasn't burnt down is. And the sea is a shitty green colour. And if you sit on the beach too long you get shells up your arse and swarmed upon by German exchange students.

And the worst part? Hollister. Yes the high end surfer fashion label. Their shop is a hell of a lot scarier than any ghost train. Ok so the first thing you'll see is some steps. No disabled access. If I was a fashion conscious wheelchair user I'd be slightly angry.

But I'd be even angrier once I saw the signs. 'Chicks' or 'Dudes'. Really? In South-East England? Do I look like a dude? No. But I was looking to buy clothing for men so I had to go for that option.

Holy fuck. They saved money on lightbulbs in there. It's like a dimly lit vagina. And the only lighting is above the most expensive clothes. So I was walking through the pitch black shop when I painfully noticed the black table, which was on the black floor. In the dark shop. So if I was a visually impaired fashion-conscious wheelchair user I'd be lying on the floor dead by now.

But I was very much alive when a blonde face suddenly appeared and shouted "HEY GUYS WHAT'S UP?" Yes they employ semi-attractive blonde women to pretend we're all in Beverly Hills. I almost responded with "Yo Yo." I did try looking at the clothes, or at least what I could see of them. Then I noticed the price label and promptly backed away into the wall. Ouch. Meanwhile that fucking braindead blonde wanker was smiling expectantly at me.

It was time to leave. This was made more urgent by the smell. Apparently Hollister decided to pump hormones into the shop that are designed to make you buy stuff. It made me want to leave before I ended up smelling like my Nan.

So remember readers. If you want to go to Brighton, don't. And if you want to go to a Hollister shop take a torch because it's fucking awful.

Sunday, 10 April 2011

My TV Show Ideas

Let's face it, most modern television is awful. Even HDMI leads can't stop the majority of actors looking like talentless fools. Thus, I've decided I'm going to make my own TV shows.


Similar to Springwatch. Except Bill Oddie hides in trees watching poor people throw rocks at pensioners. A particularly interesting episode is entitled 'Mating Season' where Kyle tries to bum Charmaine outside the Co-op.

Come Whine With Me

The program gathers 5 miserable people who take turns to insult each other. They are scored out of 10 on the quality of their insults. The winner wins a wig.

Hash In The Attic

Where 2 drug addicts rummage through a load of useless old shit in the hope of finding some drugs.

Meal Or No Meal

In this program a starving African child chooses different numbered boxes in the hope he wins a packet of doritos. Noel Edmonds makes it difficult by being a complete bearded wanker.

Pig Brother

The new housemates are 99 Lancashire sow pigs and a bipolar schizophrenic called William. Viewers watch as William slowly goes completely fucking mental.

Saturday, 9 April 2011

A Reccomendation

There comes a point in all our lives, no matter young or old, where we need a ginger teenager to sing songs at us while plucking a guitar. Now I'm not suggesting you employ someone or actually pay anybody. But I do recommend watching the following video. I haven't actually watched it, so don't get angry with me if it's a racist expressing their views through the noble art of street dance. It probably isn't. It's probably Josie singing words about love and bollocks in a moodily lit theatrey thing.

Friday, 8 April 2011

Haircuts & Kinder Eggs

I went to get my haircut at the barbers today. There is no place on earth more manly than a barber shop. There are 2 choices of reading material: FHM or Zoo. I chose FHM and spent 10 happy minutes trying to figure out just how big breasts can actually get. My barber then decided to do some work. "How would you like it?" he said.
"Ooh just a tiny bit off thanks." was my reply.

Oh no. I came out of the barbers looking like a skinhead or a mouldy potato. So remember readers, when having your haircut concentrate on what's happening instead of planning your blog posts.

After this delightful experience I felt a trip to my Nan's was is in order. As soon as she saw me she became confused. You see, I was wearing my 'What Would Charlie Sheen Do?' T-Shirt. I asked my Nan if she knew who Charlie Sheen was. "Some kind of Arab?" was her reply.

My Nan then wished to take a picture of me using her digital camera. Pensioners should not be trusted with technology. She tried to aim the lens at me but as she squeezed the shutter button she missed and took a picture of the 'Arab' on my T-Shirt. I then taught her how to zoom in when taking a picture and she spent 5 minutes happily taking close up pictures of my face while I struggled to make the toy in my Kinder Egg.

Saturday, 2 April 2011

Selling & Spitting

There is a woman at my work. Yes. One of those things. Now she has an obsession with a particular male celebrity. Bet you can't guess who it is. Nope not Jude Law. Not Jonny Depp. Not even George Clooney.

It's Jamie Oliver.

Yes that long-haired fazzock who does cooking on TV. The guy with the tongue that is far too big for his mouth so everything he says just sounds like 'Waz'. The one who calls his Nan 'babe'. The bugger who abolished turkey twizzlers and introduced 'healthy eating' in schools. Motherfucker, I used to love burgers and doughnuts from the canteen. Then when stupid twat-face decided to make a program about it they replaced them with carrot. Just carrot.

We are also selling a lovely old lady's house. She's got face problems and everyone she know died. So I suggested to my boss that we reduce our fees. He spat out his drink over the blonde lady.

Monday, 28 March 2011

An Escapee

It's me again, enlightening your lives with my pearly nuggets of wisdom. I saw something today. I shall share it with you.

My Mum was kind enough to give me a lift home from college. In her Peugeot 206. Interesting vehicle. It's a limited edition. The only 'improvement' is the exclusive paint colour. I think it's called 'Green Awful' or 'Naughty Cabbage'. The only benefit is that you can't buy the paint colour in shops, thus ensuring an even coat of scratches, dents and chip marks.

So as we were happily driving along, I happened to glance out the window at a figure walking down the road. The figure in question had long grey hair, a blue dressing gown, and a hospital gown on. 'Strange', I thought. This was either a badly timed fancy dress party or he'd checked himself out of hospital.

I had trouble deciding if he was mental until I realised he had a baguette sticking out his hospital gown. Dirty. It was time to use my trusty mobile phone.

A small hint, don't buy an LG Cookie. You can tap away for half an hour and the bugger still wont let you delete the racist message. So I sat there in the 'Green Awful' car trying to stab my phone with a shitty little stylus while baguette-man flapped his arms at a cat.

Saturday, 19 March 2011

An Adventure

Some people do office work, others do painting and decorating. I get paid to go on adventures. When I leave for work I don't know whether I'll be showing a drug dealer round a bungalow or a pornstar round a penthouse. Today was no exception.

I knew I had a viewing in one of the worst parts of town. So, like all good estate agents, I researched the property on Google Streetview. Oh my. Outside the property was a young man presenting his backside to the camera and another group proudly demonstrating the collective length of their middle fingers.

Now, after this awful shock my boss decided we all needed cheering up. So we went on an adventure. I have never considered myself a city-dweller, I'd like to think of myself as a country hippy who discovered bathing and concrete. However, today made my nature roots less appealing. My boss decided we would go to the countryside.

We began by visiting a tea-room. Stupid name. There was more than 1 room and they served more than tea. We all ate breakfasty stuff like bacon and sausages and other fat-related yumminess. Didn't hurt that the waitress was exceedingly attractive. Whilst figuring out why my fried egg tasted like rubber I happened to glance at the walls of this 'tea-room'. They were covered in little plates with slogans on. Notable examples were 'life is short, living is not permanent' and 'I love my Grandchildren'. So we decided to leave the pessimistic slogans behind.

It was now time for me to demonstrate my leafleting prowess. Although this time, in the countryside. All the houses had names like 'Huntington Manor' or 'Cuntdingle Farm'. And only a few houses had letterboxes. This meant I jogged down several driveways, scrambled around looking for a slot, and then decided to just throw leaflets through open windows. Even the cows looked funny. They had Ginger hair and big horns. I'd trekked along a gravel path for quite some time until I realised the path had run out and I was now in a field with a pony and a stream. Time to turn back.

I was very pleased to be back inside the town. Where old men don't smell funny, and poor people can flash their backsides at cameras without fear of being attacked by horned Ginger cows.

Wednesday, 16 March 2011

Shocking, Just Shocking

Half way through my english essay, I decided I needed some headphones to supply musical assistance. Now, I sort of expected everything to be left how it was when I left. I was wrong, the last line of my essay read as follows:
Figurative language is used to describe the  kdkgnvnvcunts in mu botttommmmmm to you  fehklthdftop banana fnkkkllllllllletewfkn kcchbjdkcni


Seems my Mum had 'added' to it

Tuesday, 15 March 2011

Shopping List Madness

I don't normally decide on what toothpaste to buy. I never usually browse cabbage. Yet today was an exception. My Mum decided to let me write the shopping list. Brilliant. Instead of writing down the normal parade of Sainsbury's basic artery-clogging awfullness, I decided to spice it up a bit. Essentially, I thought of every drug name I knew and wrote them down. I left the list at home and trotted down to college, gleefully waiting for some sort of vibrating alert in my pocket that signalled an angry text from my Mum.

No vibration.

I don't know how, but instead of cocaine, weed, ecstasy, acid etc, I came home to find sausages and cabbage. I was disappointed, you can't snort cabbage, let alone sausages.

Monday, 14 March 2011

Parents Evening

Oh yes, a fun-filled evening. Of course, I attended. But in disguise. I wore an old jumper, did my hair different and didn't shave. And my teachers thought I was my Dad, WIN!

Here's an example of some dialogue

IT Teacher: So Mister Cook, what do you think about your son's progress?

Me: I am my son.

IT Teacher: Wow.

In unrelated news, I called my business teacher 'mind-numbingly boring'. Partly because he is, mostly because there was the opportunity to say it. I have yet to consider the consequences of this.

Thursday, 10 March 2011

Results Day

Well not actual results, just modules. But hey, still important. So I trot down the corridor towards the sports hall, trying not to look at the rather bizarre sex education posters. Then it's off to the 'A-K' desk to get my results. I will confess I did forget my name. I've been called 'Cookie', 'James', 'Bacon', 'Jim-Bob' and 'Tyrone' before so it was a little difficult to remember which one I was. Then I got handed a piece of paper. That's it? No suspense music like in X Factor?! No golden envelope like the Oscars?! Shit. For those of you that care, the results weren't fantastic, nor were they awful. But they certainly aren't 'getting into University' grades. Not that any University could handle me, I'm like Charlie Sheen but employed.

So as I walked past the groups of crying girls and pools of make-up, I had an idea. I applied to be Charlie Sheen's intern. Now if that isn't the perfect job for me I don't know what is.

Tuesday, 8 March 2011


Just returned from a pretty entertaining pancake session round my Nan's. I'm sure you've all read about her 'uniqueness' in this blog. Well today was no exception. Instead of squirting orange juice on her pancakes she decided to just suck an orange. Then a lemon. Then some pips arrived and it all got a bit chokey.

After this she decided to complain about her neighbour, "She is probably one of them lezzers, or at least a swinger." Apparently this neighbour watches Hollyoaks, awful isn't it?

Finally it seems my Nan has become paranoid. She is convinced that the current Government has changed the 'power' of electricity and that it makes her TV look funny. I did try to explain that she was watching High Definition but she wouldn't have it. Apparently 'that awful David Cameron chap is definately fiddling with the wires in my telly.'

Monday, 7 March 2011

A Big Shock

When I was out leafleting on Saturday, I saw something that horrified me. It was a sight so vile that I flicked my hair in disgust. Allow me to explain.

I was leafleting a road on the outskirts of town. Now this was a really nice road filled with expensive houses mostly occupied by pensioners. So as I turn the corner, I expect to see another Victorian house filled with wrinkle-tinkles. OH NO! I came round the corner, saw it, and swore. 'It' was a house. Not any normal house. A modern spiky house, made of glass and metal with points and see-through bits like an ironic hedgehog. I stopped walking and stared. I probably appeared quite bizarre. But this thing (I refuse to call it a house) just sat there. It didn't fit in among the old houses. I was scared, so I ran off. No way am I putting leaflets in that brushed chrome monstrosity.

Friday, 4 March 2011

The Town I Live In

Every amazing person is shaped by their surroundings, even me. Here's what makes where I live so unique:

The People
My town has a quick rail link to London, thus all commuters get on the train at 8:30. Everybody in my town after 9am is weird. Some examples include the ex-Mayor who runs his plumbing company. Or at least he did until he got beaten up outside Tescos. Then there is the old man who takes his shirt off, rummages through bins and lurks outside charity shops. And how could I forget Ros? A very 'special' woman who visits every single shop in town on a daily basis. Normally she just eats things, although sometimes she tries to hug me.

The Events
I fondly remember the time I came out of the bakers to hear the beating of war drums. "Oh dear!" I thought as I became involved in a Pagan parade. There were a couple of hundred people dressed in green, beating drums and shouting. Classic. Then there was the Arts Festival 2009. Cost £39 a ticket. So nobody went. The star attraction was an artist from 'Art Attack'. He killed himself 4 months later. Coincidence? I think not. And an upcoming event is called 'Purple Pinky Week'. I don't particularly want to know.

The Shops
My town is only suitable for shopping if you want one of these three things: A sausage roll, an expensive house, or a 'good time'.

The Weather

Tuesday, 1 March 2011

Why I Am How I Am

I often get asked why I do the things I do. For readers who do not know me personally I produce insults and witty comments like Colonel Ghaddafi on a trampoline.

Reason 1:  A Bump On The Head
Essentially when I was about 6 I fell over and got concussion. Rushed to hospital etc. I survived, my sanity didn't. Apparently the fall triggered the creative side of my brain and thus for weeks afterwards all I did was draw very very strange pictures. One was titled 'My Life In The Future' it seems I planned to marry Britney Spears and live in a spaceship. I've always aimed high...

Reason 2: The Hotpants Incident
It was a freezing winter's day in Southern England, and the 8 year old me slipped over and went head over heels down a muddy hill. So I trotted down to the office at school in the hope of procuring some new trousers because mine were now covered in mud. However, the only thing they had was a tiny pair of shorts. So I had to walk home in the freezing cold wearing these tiny hotpants while cars honked at me.

Reason 3: I Died
Halfway through an operation I had an allergic reaction to the anesthetic and died. LOL! They resuscitated me and I'm firmly alive to this day.

So hopefully those 3 points go part of the way to explaining the incredible fizzing ball of energy that is me.

In other news, I tried to brush my hair this morning and gave myself a pretty savage electric shock. I dont use gel, wax, or 'styling creme', it was just a hairbrush. Another one of my special talents I suppose.

Sunday, 27 February 2011

Dangly Bushes & Snappy Plants

As an estate agent, the most important part of my job is putting folded bits of paper into old lady's letterboxes. Or at least that is what I have been told. Welcome to the world of leafleting!

There are a variety of problems that can occur during this noble sport, and I shall list some below:

1. Pensioners
Chances are they're angry. Mainly at me. If you set foot in a pensioners front garden they change from nice stinky people to wrinkly bastards. For example, I once asked a lovely old woman if I could put a helpful leaflet through her door. Her response was as follows, "NO! YOU ARE A PARASITE! GET OFF MY LAND!"

2. Mysterious Liquid
Many houses have bathrooms above the front door. And I use the front door to put the leaflet through, thus for a small period of time I am directly underneath the bathroom window. This was only ever a problem once when some children poured what I hoped was water over me.

3. Plants
Some people like plants. I don't, you can't have a conversation with them. And some people like growing plants right next to their garden path. Sometimes the plant grows over the path. And sometimes the plant is full of stingy bees. Ouch

4. Death Gravel!
What is the point in covering your garden in little stones?! Sure they may make a crunchy noise, but cats shit in it! And I cannot walk in gravel. I shall confess, I wear pointy leather shoes. I remember when I tried to walk in gravel while wearing them, I ended up horizontal with leaflets on me.

5. Animals
Dogs, cats, children. All of those animals are dangerous. Infact, dogs are particularly dangerous for me because I die if I touch one. So I can often be seen running away from tiny dogs.

And finally, the most evil invention of all time...

To the normal homeowner, letterboxes are safe. However, to me they are spring loaded death traps. Picture the scene, it's chucking down with rain, I'm looking pretty damn sexy in a shirt and tie, and I have my right hand stuck in a door. I survived, the letterbox didn't. Some houses have metal letterboxes that spring shut and cut my fingers. Pretty awkward when a lady comes home to find a leaflet coveted in blood in her hallway, but it has happened.

So there you have it, the dangers of leafleting. So please spare a thought for that spotty, underpaid teenager who is covered in wee, bee stings, allergic swellings and cut marks collapsed on your driveway.

Friday, 25 February 2011

My A to Z Guide To The Internet

It has recently come to my attention that the majority of my readers are females or foreigners, so they may not have a grasp of how to use the Internet. Fear not! This handy printable A to Z guide can tell you all you need to know.

A is for Amazon, a place where grown men can order books about sex without fear of reprimand. Contrary to popular belief, Amazon is actually just 'amazing' spelt wrong.


C is for Chat Roulette. A place where French men wave their dangle at you.

D is for Doodlejump. A game that poor people play to give them a sense of achievement.

E is for Email. A place where P&O Cruises send me emails about exciting cruises to Libya.

F is for Facebook. A place where you be ignored by people more attractive than you and also where you constantly get invited to 'raves'.

G is for Google, where you can search for yourself, pictures of yourself, or the answers to your maths homework.

H is for Herpes, which is what you will get if you use Internet dating websites.

I is for Itunes, a place where you can fulfill all your dubstep needs by downloading albums that consist entirely of beeping noises.

J is for Justin Bieber, a girl who produces trashy hip hop records as often as I google myself (Quite a lot)

K is for Kinky, which is what you are if you look at certain websites for too long.

L is for Literally Everything I Think Of, a blog run by an incredible sexy young man.

M is for MSN, a place where you and your friends can have 'convos' that consist of 'LOL' and smiley faces.

N is for "Nooo! Why Did I Try And Do An A to Z???"

O is for Omegle. A website where I once convinced a Korean girl that every single car in the UK was broken and we had all forgotten how to ride bikes, thus we all rode horses to work.

P is for Pirate Bay, a place where you can download 'Big Momma's House' or 'Step Up' for free (along with some helpful viruses)

Q is for "Quick, miss out Q before they notice!"

R is for Rightmove, a website where estate agents can stare at your bathroom and pretend they are working.

S is for Skype, a place where you can wave your dangle at French men. Much like Chat Roulette, but in reverse.

T is for Twitter, a place where you can harass celebrities by repeatedly asking them to tweet a link to your blog.

U is for Umbilical Cords, I'm sure there is a website about them somewhere.

V is for Very quickly realising that nothing begins with V.

W is for Wikipedia. A place where you can edit the article about your secondary school so that it's says your tutor is a total prick.

X is for XXX or XOXO, if an attractive girl finishes a message with either of these, you're in there.

Y is for YouTube, a place where any twat who thinks they are funny can post a video of a cat smiling and get millions of views.

Z is for Zoosk, a dating website where you can meet like minded perverts, see also Herpes.

Monday, 21 February 2011

The Most Worrying Program Ever To Be Broadcast

I was presented with a choice, watch children's television or do homework. I'm sure I dont need to tell you my selection. So I begin watching 'In The Night Garden'. I was horrified. This is why:

3 bizarre creatures emerge from their penis-shaped home and help each other get dressed. Then they hear the 'Tittifurs' singing in the distance. This excites them and they repeatedly walk into each other.

After this, a big glowing nipple heralds the appearance of the giant flying breast that farts. The creatures contravene health and safety guidelines by electing to use the disabled access. It turns out that inside the flying breast is a bar. They all sit down and start to drink. Apparently then the 'Ponk Alarm' sounds and the breast crashes. One of the creatures had far too much to drink and vomited over the others. Kinky. They all take their trousers off and walk into each other.

The giant breast then lands and a furry brown racist named 'Makka Pakka' blows the sick off with his special face hoover.

And that is what horrified me. Infact I was so disturbed that I accidentally covered my face in shampoo instead of shaving foam.

Saturday, 19 February 2011

A Letter

To the abusive drunk man,

I appreciate that the majority of the UK population hate estate agents. I realise that you were angry due to your lack of hair. I understand you were upset about being in a sky blue volvo. I recognise you were drunk because it's Crawley v Man U tonight.

But please, next time I pop to the corner shop to buy 3 Freddo frogs for my colleagues, think of a better insult than 'Chesty Cunt'.

Yours sincerely,


Friday, 18 February 2011

Disgusting Behaviour

I live in a close. For those of you who don't know what a close is it's like a street but harder to escape from. If you look round my close at the right time you'll see a wheelie-bin jungle. And not just normal poor people's wheelie-bins, oh no, professionally cleaned wheelie-bins. Once every month some twat in a truck comes round and washes all the wheelie-bins for £3. Not mine, i'm capable of using soap and water. Look, here's a picture of the shit-wagon:

Mmmmm, shite isnt it? Well it seems today was the monthly wheelie-bin clean session. Now because I have loads of homework to do, I was up before most of my neighbours. So I saw what happened. The wheelie-bin man got my neighbour's bin, put it in the truck, and pulled the hatch down a bit. "Mysterious" I thought. So I had a closer look. The bastard was having a wee! Not in the bin, but in the truck! I nearly took a picture but decided having photos of middle-aged men urinating wasn't the best course of action. So yes, I understand people want clean wheelie-bins, but that really is taking the piss!