Archive for August, 2007

Monday, August 20th, 2007

Rancid dickpaste! It’s MR AGREEABLE!

Waking up to a breakfast of cucumber wafer slices, wholemeal cornflakes with low fat milk, mint yoghurt and a can of petrol topped up with the urine of an alcoholic tramp, I set aside my breakfast tray and peruse a handful of recent periodicals. Therein I read that this last week was the 30th anniversary of the death of Elvis Presley, the “King” of rock’n’roll, who died aged just 42.

F*** me sideways, are people still celebrating this greasy, cummerbunded sack of f***ing hamburger excrement? Shouldn’t it be some sort of f***ing sectionable offence to dress as the c***? Can’t we put them away, the way we f***ing do people who dress as f***ing Napoleon? I mean, everyone laughs at these sad f***ing suet brains but f***ing think about it, it’s thanks to their sort that we’re lagging behind evolutionarily as a f***ing species! If it weren’t for these f***ing greased back Elvis Conventions-in-Doncaster attenders, the chances are the human race would be well on the way to growing extra f***ing fingers by now! He was the King of f*** all, you docile twats, except the f***ing appallingly decorated bathroom in which he shat his f***ing sloppy kilograms every evening before the f***ing Colonel hammered on the door and shouted at him to get his fat arse in the f***ing van to Vegas!

It seems that Tim Henman, after a lengthy career in which he was much loved and supported by British fans, is on the point of retiring.

Well, you know, I think it kind of might make f***ing sense, don’t you, Tim? Now that you rank 845th in the world among people viagra online listed as “Henman” in the f***ing phone book! How you f***ing dare show your blank little ferret face f***ing year in, year out, with a solid career of 100% crushing disappointment behind you, I’ve no f***ing idea! With every f***ing advantage on your f***ing side – pampered upbringing, sorbet-brained Daily Mail readers braying you on, you still f***ed up, like clockwork, every f***ing time, to some f***ing Belgian! A spine made of f***ing wet lettuce! Even if you’d gone into every match with a two set head start just for being “Tiger Tim”, you’d still have f***ed up, because you are a 24 carat, died in the wool, copper bottomed, certified, Grade A, sure fire loser, as well as being the man who extracted the “Shorpe” from f***ing Scunthorpe!

India Knight has been writing in the Sunday Times, musing on the subject of “Wags”, or wives and girlfriends, who recently suffered the wrath of Roy Keane. She first of all brings to our attention the fact that “Wags” is now used as a word, which she finds quite amusing. As to whether or not “Wags” are a good thing or a bad thing, she keeps an open mind. However, she does observe the following. “Is there really such a huge difference between being a stay-at-home mother who relies on her husband’s income and a shopaholic Wag flashing the cash? The principle’s the same, it’s just the amount that varies.”

An open mind? An empty f***ing mind, more like! Did you even think this worthless f***ing piece through before you started, or just start f***ing writing in the vague and vain f***ing hope that eventually you’d stumble upon something that made sense? Yes, you vaporous f***ing saphead, to answer your f***ing question, the one you’re paid to f***ing answer not f***ing ask, there is an enormous f***ing difference! One’s a homemaker, the other’s a f***ing permatanned f***ing parasitic symbol of the monumentally avaricious f***ing gormlessness of 21st century “lifestyle”, one aided and f***ing abetted by the f***ing broadsheet supplements who used to be a f***ing antidote to this sort of f***ing hooray horseshite!

Finally, it seems that The Pigeon Detectives, Leeds’s latest indie sensations, have been knocked off their number one perch with their single, “Take Her Back”, no longer roosting atop the hit parade.

Christ on a f***ing kebab skewer, have you seen or heard these f***ing chimps? Sweaty f***ing potatoheaded skull wasters who if they ever came across a f***ing hairbrush would probably stuff it down the front of their f***ing spunk encrusted f***ing underpants! I would rather have six straight pints of lager spilt over my head than listen to this lairy, ogling piece of chantalong wankery ever again! Imagine the f***ing Cure left in a dustbin for ten years straight, then dragged out through several hedges, pissed all over by a bunch of f***ing drunk students, then presented to the f***ing British public with a “Will this do?” C***s!

Tuesday, August 7th, 2007

Fiddly fucksticks, it’s . . . MR AGREEABLE!

Waking up to a breakfast of kippers, lightly margarined toasted soldiers, boiled free range eggs, muffins, grapefruit and a a quart of my own still heavily alcohol-laced urine, I partake of my repast, then turn to a handful of periodicals to peruse the latest goings on in the world of popular culture. In so doing, I read that the singer Pete Doherty has been released pending sentence for numerous drugs offences and as part of the condition of his bail must stay with a family, or some other strangers, while he continues rehab, rather than return to his own London dwelling. He appears on the front cover of the New Musical Express with a cigarette hanging from his mouth.

F*** me, I’ll tell you what – he can f***ing come stay round my f***ing pile! I’ll give the c*** f***ing rehab! 9AM! Woken by my f***ing rotweillers, Satan, Gouger, Terminator IV, Terminator V and Fido The Impaler! 9.05! Lick the f***ing cesspit dry under my f***ing supervision! 9.10! Rinse out mouth by being held down in f***ing toilet bowl for ten f***ing minutes! 9.30! Take functional, serf-like role at f***ing clay pigeon shoot of f***ing Babyshambles CDs, as, pissed up to the f***ing gills, I take wayward aim with my f***ing rifle, shooting you square in your fatuous f***ing face a couple of times! Rest of day! Be pursued across difficult f***ing terrain by psychotics on horseback armed with f***ing maces! You, Doherty, are the pasty-faced, obnoxiously extraneous, sheer distillation of c***dom in a human piss-streak! You are a f***ing malignant grape up the f***ing anus of mankind! You’ve got off way too f***ing light for way too f***ing long! And get that f***ing fag out of your never-shut, fatlipped f***ing mouth, you vacant, futile, spacewasting, carcinogenic f***ing c***!

I note that Lisa Tarbuck, daughter of the Liverpudlian golfer and comedian Jimmy Tarbuck, is appearing in a series of adverts for the supermarket chain Asda, posing as a homely trainee, taken aback that at the store you can purchase a pair of jeans for three pounds and accosting an African-Caribbean customer with these terrific retail tidings.

For c***’s sake, woman, Lord f***ing forbid your f***ing conscience should be troubled by fronting for Asda, bastard f***ing spawn of Wal-Mart, the world’s vilest f***ing retailers as anyone with a f***ing three digit IQ should have f***ing divined by now, but Christ on a f***ing cockstick, does it not occur to wonder how they can afford to put out f***ing jeans for three quid? By the Asda bosses agreeing to work for £15,000 year and cash their f***ing stocks and bonuses into the fighting fund in order to pass on savings to the f***ing customer? F*** that! It’s by running f***ing sweatshops! Some poor Third World c*** has to work for what you’d consider parking meter change per diem and add a couple of hours on the end of his shift to make the size of jeans that’d accommodate your f***ing fat arse! I don’t care how black the bloke is in the advert, you have sucked the f***ing cock of Satan, gargled and spat back the spunk in the faces of the f***ing poor and oppressed!

Casting an eye over the range of magazines upon the newsstands, I am intrigued by the uniform obsession shared by magazines such as Heat, Closer, etc. Charlotte Church, it seems, has gained a few pounds. Anthea Turner, however, has lost a few pounds. One or two of The Spice Girls are in danger of gaining a few pounds but are exercising hard in order to lose a few pounds. And so forth. And so forth.

Oh, for bellowing out loud, is this how we’re gonna spend the last few f***ing decades of f***ing civilisation? An entire popular magazine culture devoted solely to monitoring the f***ing weigh fluctuations of a gaggle of f***ing females whose sole contribution to the world is to inflate and deflate occasionally? It’s that f***ing sad! Woman who was moderately famous for doing pretty much f*** other than fill a television screen about ten years ago! Go out, binge on f***ing six straight pounds of chocolate confectionery! Next, have an enormous f***ing shit! Finally, appear on the cover of some spurious f***ing health/celeb magazine bragging about how you lost six pounds in three f***ing minutes! Be the envy of millions of gawping, dead eyed f***ing water cooler natterers whose own, sad non-story is that they’ve gained 12 pounds in 12 f***ing years! Hate to say it, folks, but step one pace forward the one gender solely responsible for this f***ing bullshit! Ex-f***ing-actly! Not the f***ing wombless one!

Finally, my attention is drawn to a “smackdown”, due to take buy viagra place, this Sunday evening, at the Mucky Pup, Old Queen’s Head St in Islington, between a certain David Stubbs, who will be championing the cause of Krautrock and a certain Mr Andrew Mueller, who will be countering with a selection of Country & Western. All are welcome, free of charge, to witness the confrontation.

Well, f*** me, loath as I f***ing am to champion Krautrock, the recorded, tuneless, mirthless, soulless emissions of a f***ing Düsseldorf power plant passed off as f***ing art, it’s shinola compared to the f***ing shit option of Country & Western, the preferred musical choice of those who use their f***ing big toes to operate their f***ing steering wheels, who burn crosses on the lawns of minorities in their midst (ie the f***ing two-eyed), and base their f***ing rabid, nail-bomb-y’all-disagree-with-me-in-the-land-of-the-free fundamentalist f***ing Christian theology on the teachings of the f***ing Flinstones, then f***ing Krautrock it’s gonna have to be! See you at the f***ing front, pockets laden with past sell by date soft f***ing fruit!