He is not “grumpy”. He is not a “curmudgeon”. He is fucking angry and fucking rightly so.


Wednesday, December 5th, 2007

It’s a gentle poke in the eye with a soldering iron for Morrissey in . . . MR AGREEABLE!

Waking up to a breakfast of sautéed button mushrooms, poached free range eggs, dry wholemeal toast, grilled herring portions and my own urine from last night topped off with a pint of overproof rum, I enjoy my reviving repast, set aside the tray and peruse a pile of recent journals in order to catch up on the events of recent days. I read that Morrissey is currently having something of a run-in with the New Musical Express, over comments he is quoted as making concerning England having lost its identity. He contrasts this with Germany. “If you travel to Germany it’s still absolutely Germany,” he remarks. Morrissey is indignant about the publication of his comments and denies that he is a racist.

Yeah? Well, I’ll tell you what you f***ing are, and that is a f***ing addled, self-absorbed, middle aged adolescent f***ing c*** with more braincells in your f***ing hair than your f***ing head! You’re still in a f***ing sulk because in England we’re not all permanently suspended in some sort of f***ing black and white kitchen sink melodrama, living in some quiet, desperate state of f***ing cobblestone misery, making f***ing scrapbooks of clippings of the f***ing Moors Murders for kicks, all for you to f***ing wank lyrically over from afar from f***ing Rome or Los Angeles or wherever the f*** you’ve fetched up in as an immigrant nowadays! “Travel to Germany, it’s still absolutely Germany”? You gangling, greasy f***wit! If Germany was still “absolutely Germany”, they’d still be f***ing goose-stepping to f***ing work, England would be a province of the f***ing Third Reich, and you’d be wearing a f***ing pink triangle! Just be f***ing thankful modern Germany consists of f***ing idiots in red trousers and braces with all-advised f***ing moustaches with names like DJ Hot To The Max Uli! Stupid f***ing arsehole!

Last week, the Week In Politics show, presented by Andrew Neil, fronted one of their trademark amusing items. It was based around the remark by Vince Cable, acting leader of the Liberal Democrats, to Gordon Brown that he had transformed himself from “Stalin into Mr Bean”. It featured a Week In Politics reporter in a bowler hat, amid an array of different costumes.

No, you wretchedly befuddled, useless, leaky f***ing wankbuckets, that wasn’t f***ing “Mr Bean” it was f***ing Mr Benn! MR F***ING BENN, YOU F***ING MORONS! This should be the f***ing cue to have this smug, smirking, piece of shit show thrown off the air like a f***ing shopping trolley into a f***ing canal! Just have one last f***ing edition where Dianne Abbott finally jumps f***ing Portillo and shags him till his f***ing eyeballs pop and have f***ing done with it!

Tim Henman has hinted that Andy Murray is definitely the man to lead viagra for sale the British team in their upcoming Davis Cup fixture – he has the resilience and the leadership skills.

Oh, for c***’s sake, Andy Murray? What the f*** is the fuss about? He’s ranked number f***ing 11 in the world! And who’s f***ing ahead of him? A f***ing farrago of spoiled South American f***ing playboys, a former Yugoslavian with f*** all better to do, some c***, some other c***, and a couple of other c***s! There’s only about f***ing 200 people in the world f***ing play tennis, aren’t there? And still, Murray actually manages to f***ing lose to most of them in the f***ing Fourth Round, usually from having to retire hurt having sprained his jaw from whingeing at his latest f***ing coach! He is, in every f***ing sense, one long, miserable f***ing losing streak! Scottish Murrays were only f***ing good for sucking, and that’s the one thing he’s not f***ing shit at!

Finally, it seems that American punks Green Day are to follow up the success of their 2004 album American Idiot with a new album next year.

Oh, my giddy f***ing arse, Green Day are still clinging to the f***ing chairback of relevance like a dead Grandfather’s dried out bogey from two f***ing Christmases ago? I’m surprised they haven’t shrivelled up of f***ing shame! Corporate punk, an oxymoron created, sold and bought by f***ing morons! What’s it gonna be, another f***ing album of blasted out edgy rock anthems to toss on the f***ing cesspit of sameness that is your pointless f***ing career? F*** off, back to the untidied Californian bedrooms that spawned you, you loathsome little c***s!


Wednesday, November 21st, 2007

Liverpool, India Knight, Amy Winehouse, it can only be . . . MR AGREEABLE!

Waking up to a breakfast of smoked kippers, herring pieces, low calorie flakes, muffin, Gala melon slices and alcoholic tramp’s vomit sucked through a straw, I set aside my breakfast tray and peruse a selection of periodicals, to catch up on recent events. Therein, I read that Liverpool has been designated European Capital of Culture in 2008 and in January, to kick things off, a one-off event entitled Liverpool – The Musical will take place featuring Sir Paul McCartney, Ringo Starr, Dave Stewart and the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra. Also to appear are Echo & The Bunnymen, Pete Wylie and The Christians.

F*** me sideways, you could take all of the words out of the above paragraph except f***ing “Dave Stewart” and this would c***idious enough but Christ on a f***ing cockstick, Liverpool – The Musical? how f***ing far into this sub-prime farrago of self-congratulatory cheesewank is anybody gonna be able to get before the end off tearing off their f***ing left legs and beating themselves over the heads with the f***ing sticky end? The Christians? If they’re f***ing playing, who the f*** is gonna minicab people home after the concert? Liverpool is no more the f***ing Capital of European Culture than f***ing Marseilles is the f***ing Capital of European Hygiene! If this were a celebration in music and verse of a city’s longstanding tradition in f***ing insurance fraud, then they might have a f***ing point, but it f***ing isn’t, is it? City of Culture? City of f***ing self-congratulatory, self-pitying, phlegm-spraying f***ing losers, more f***ing like! You might as well ferry back and forth across the f***ing Mersey selling each other f***ing hubcaps because the f***ing Transatlantic trade link’s long f***ed, and you extraneous Scouse c***s with it!

It seems that 70s rockers Led Zeppelin have decided to add more dates to their highly successful comeback tour.

Let’s f***ing face it, folks, a world so many of whose f***ing citizens choose to cram themselves in like slaves on a f***ing ship to watch these three ancient, histrionic f***ing prunes creak through the f***ing motions is a world that deserves to f***ing choke to death in its own f***ing waste products! Jimmy Page looks like the f***ing disinterred and bewigged corpse of the f***ing late Tony Banks MP, Robert Plant looks like some sort of f***ing overgrown, geriatric, caterwauling f***ing elf and how hard would two men have to pull at the lead of a f***ing dog to persuade it to come along and watch f***ing John Paul Jones if he was playing f***ing solo, the cockend?

Choppy waters for the government as Alistair Darling was forced to announce that 25 million people’s child benefit details stored on two CDs have been mislaid by a junior official by HM Revenue & Customs.

F*** me, we knew f***ing Gordon Brown was a f***ing miserable, irascible, scrotum-faced old Scottish c*** who can barely put his f***ing tie on the right way round but if this is an example of his f***ing fiscal prudence then f***ing excuse me while I sew my f***ing savings into a f***ing mattress and leave it out in the middle of the f***ing street! You don’t f***ing save money by scrunching two f***ing huge departments into one, you stupid, myopic f***ing skinflint, any more than amputating your f***ing left leg is a sensible way of losing f***ing weight! Still, this is Brown’s chance to get rid of f***ing Chancellor Darling and replace him with Chancellor f***ing Baldrick! Useless c***!

Finally, something of a double treat – India Knight of The Sunday Times has devoted her latest column to Amy Winehouse. Detailing the recent adventures of Britney Spears, Pete Doherty, Kate McCann and Ms Winehouse herself, she deplores a culture in which “we” “gawp” at celebrities in difficulties. She offers the original thought that the public like to see the famous cut down to size but wonders if “our” relatively small and insignificant lives are really so much better than that of the “brilliant” but wayward Winehouse.

Well, f***, yes, that’s me put in my insignificant f***ing place. Yes, we do gawp rather, don’t we? All of us. And that’s not at all rich coming from a f***ing columnist who spends most of her f***ing personal and professional f***ing life gawping till her jaw’s practically touching her f***ing knees at the f***ing drearily endless vacuous tabloid parade of f***ing dysfunctional celebdom in the f***ing hope of finding 800 f***ing sanctimonious words to submit, at least 100 of which will be the f***ing word “we” every f***ing week! India Knight talking about the public’s unhealthy f***ing relationship with celebrity is like a f***ing vulture complaining about unhealthy relationships with the f***ing recently deceased!


Monday, November 12th, 2007

RICHARD BRANSON YOU ARE AN ARSEHOLE, IT’S . . . MR AGREEABLE!

Waking up from a short coma, following a breakfast some weeks ago consisting of grilled kippers, lightly buttered wholemeal toast, grapefruit segments and kidneys (possibly a pair of my own, recently discarded prior to a double replacement, consumed in error), I emerge from my bedchamber and peruse the latest periodicals. Therein, I read that Al Gore has won the Nobel Peace Prize. Accepting the honour with thanks, Gore confirmed that he and his wife intend to travel to Oslo themselves to accept the award.

Really? Well, you’d better f***ing set off now, because it’s a long f***ing walk! Oh, unless you were thinking of f***ing flying there, ripping out yet another f***ing chunk in your own personal hole in the f***ing ozone layer and racking up yet more air miles in your hilariously f***ing ironic mission to save the f***ing planet? It’s like f***ing Hitler firing up a f***ing hot air balloon from the furnaces at Auschwitz to travel out to accept an award from the f***ing Jewish Defence League! Get your f***ing wife to slap a f***ing “censored!” sticker on that, you jaw aching, self-righteous, self-serving c***! As if you’d have lifted one f***ing finger for the environment if you’d been elected f***ing President!

The saga of Paul McCartney/Heather Mills divorce drags on; in the latest twist, Heather Mills has been dropped by her legal team and will represent herself, following her decision to go on TV and compare herself to Princess Diana, as well as claim to be “responsible for nine countries”.

Y’know, the woman’s obviously as mad as a f***ing balloon on the end of a f***ing stick hanging off the f***ing Pope’s nose but for f***’s sake, some hard f***ing questions need to be asked of f***ing McCartney, surely! Like, for one, when this f***ing scary-eyed bint first came f***ing hopping towards you clutching a f***ing spade, did it not f***ing occur to you to, y’know, put your f***ing guard up? Do you not have people on hand to slap you on the f***ing head when you’re clearly on the verge of doing something incredibly f***ing stupid with your life? Or do you consider yourself the f***ing world’s sharpest, best bloke just because you wrote “Eleanor Rigby” 40 odd years ago, who doesn’t need to take advice from anybody? Because you’re obviously f***ing not, if a f***ing swivel-eyed unidexter like Mills can f***ing take you to the cleaners! Silly c***!

Richard Branson’s foray into the cable/broadband empire continues apace, with NTL about to be renamed “Virgin Media” and all account holders required to revise their email addresses to include the word “Virgin”.

Consumers, I’d thoroughly recommend that each and every one of you to drop everything and switch right now to the fabulous, exciting service offered by Richard Branson and his beard on the new-look Virgin Media. Yes, Branson and his beard have come up trumps again! Granted, the start up packaging is rather sexist, with a sultry, come hither-looking female displayed above the words “You’re In” – but overlook that because when you open that package you enter a world of surprises! The first f***ing surprise is that they offer absolutely no f***ing instructions whatsoever as to what the f*** you’re supposed to do with this random f***ing collection of wires and boxes, or remotely enough f***ing cable to connect to your f***ing television! So, for £25, you have to get out one of their engineers to fit the thing, in a f***ing fortnight’s time! Your next surprise is that, contrary to the f***ing assurances of your sales team, and the contract sitting in front of you, telephone isn’t actually available in your f***ing area after all! So, while you thought you were paying £20 a month for landline, broadband and TV, you’re actually paying £34 a month for just broadband and television – because the f***wits have signed you up to “Virgin XL”, which is the same as f***ing Freeview (which you’ve got anyway, for, you know, f***ing free), but now you get the chance to see Stock Car Racing From Belgium live on the f***ing Setanta Sports channel! So, that’s two thirds of the original f***ing service promised for almost twice the price originally quoted! Still, no matter because the TV service only freezes on you roughly once a day, while the internet broadband service is up and functioning a whopping 75% of the f***ing time! And, if as a result of all of this you should feel the f***ing need to contact the company, help is at hand at the touch of a telephone keypad and a mere 40 minutes wait, to the accompaniment of a teeth-itching loop of muzak, until you’re told you’ve come through to the wrong f***ing department and patched through to a line that dials till roughly infinity or until you die, whichever occurs f***ing first! And, finally, should you experience further minor problems, such as, you know, your new email being able to send out messages but not receive them except via the fabulous Virgin media website, then it’s informative to know that a “technical support” team are on hand to read out to you the f***ing instruction notes for installation you already have in your f***ing hand! Should your query require them to depart from their 100 word script, however, and they’ll put you through to their PC helpline at a reasonable £1 a minute – though sadly, contrary to what they state in their literature, they can offer no technical support to Mac users, either by phone or in the “troubleshooting” section on their f***ing website! So, here you are – you’re in, and you’ve been f***ed, though not, unfortunately, by a sultry, come hither-looking female but by a smarmy bloke with a f***ing beard! Branson, you are the biggest, most howlingly useless arsewart who ever filled a f***ing jumper to no helpful f***ing purpose! You’re a f***ing take-everything, contribute-nothing, parasitic pot of f***ing pigpiss! I wish that f***ing abseiling stunt had resulted in your f***ing testicles being twisted right off and you’d splatted to the ground, slowly bleeding to death, with onlookers as quick and effective to come to your assistance as one of your own helpline teams, with your last f***ing sight that of your own f***ing knackers, lying just yards from you, in a small, torn pathetic f***ing heap! Get my f***ing internet working properly, you c***!

Monday, September 17th, 2007

Goodness gracious c***, it’s MR AGREEABLE!

Waking up to a breakfast of eggs benedict, wholemeal dry toast, grilled mackerel, low calorie grapefruit juice and a septic tank full of Jamaican overproof rum topped off with a single olive, I lay aside my teak breakfast tray and peruse a selection of periodicals to absorb the latest tidings in the worlds of culture and current affairs. Therein, I read that the classic rock group Led Zeppelin are set to reform.

Insert a f***ing baby shark in me, in what other world but that of “classic rock”, could the news that three 60something greying f***ing dried out prunes with f*** all to say or do about anything are going to be trundled back onstage to go through a bunch of self-parodic, geriatric motions that are supposed to remind us of their f***ing former glories? Why don’t we just reunite the f***ing Little Rascals, rounded up from their f***ing Florida nursing homes, bathchairs and colostomy bags and all, and get them to re-enact one of their old routines where they go scrumping for apples and wind up getting involved in a f***ing boxcar derby by mistake? The people who put this idea together are stupid c***s, the people onstage are stupider c***s, but the people who are the stupidest c***s of all by far are those who shell out money – actual money, not commemorative, printed up pseudo-money with Robert Plant sitting like f***ing Boadicea on the banknotes to troop along and see these f***ing dessicated arsetwats caterwaul and noodle their way through their bollocktwisting f***ing songs about f***ing elves and shit! God, people were f***ing morons in the f***ing Seventies! The decade f***ing evolution forgot! I’m surprised we didn’t all end up having f***ing tails again after that one!

Michael Parkinson has recently complained that programmers on chat shows are somewhat conservative in their selection of guests, looking only in the top 10 of the Hit Parade. By contrast, he cites his own record of having booked a “then unknown” Duke Ellington onto his own show in the early 70s “something he believes would not happen nowadays”.

Oh, for c***’s sake, Parkinson, it’s a f***ing wonder you never sounded f***ing muffled, talking and f***ing sitting down at the same f***ing time! Did that f***ing emu bludgeon all the last sense out of you or f***ing what? Duke Ellington “unknown” in the f***ing 1970s? He f***ing died in 1974 after a lifetime’s f***ing high profile achievement, dating back to the f***ing 1930s! There’s a f***ing difference between “unknown” and “Michael Parkinson not buy viagra knowing about them” which is why it’ll be a solid 20 years before you and f***ing U2 become acquainted! Conceited f***ing twatlump! Parkinson? No wonder they named a f***ing disease after you! Every f***ing week, it was the same! One week you have Kirk Douglas on, for 20, feeling like 40 minutes, wending his way through some Sunday driving f***ing anecdote about how some old woman begged him for his autograph, said she was his biggest fan, then when he gave it her, said, “Thank you very much, MR STEWART!!” Cue gales of f***ing sycophantic laughter! Then the week after it’d be f***ing Jimmy Stewart on, with some similarly, arseachingly long story about some old woman begging for his autograph, says she’s his biggest fan, he gives it her and she says, “Thank you very much, MR DOUGLAS!!” Cue gales of sycophantic laughter! Northern c***!

Prince has become rather annoyed at the number of people filming clips of his gigs at the O2 concert hall and posting them up on YouTube. He feels his art has been stolen and violated.

Woaah, wait a f***ing second, you pepperpot sized, preening f***ing prick! You’re the one who was among the first to suck the f***ing cock of the internet when you realised there was no f***ing way you could sell records the proper f***ing way any more! And then, down the f***ing line, you were the one who rinsed your mouth out and started sucking the f***ing cock of the mobile phone companies, by going with a f***ing O2 sponsored f***ing venue for your latest, umpteenth, desperately f***ing laboured, vain, in every f***ing sense of the word attempt to resurrect your f***ing relevancy! Now you’re f***ing complaining! F*** you sideways, f***ing Mail On Sunday boy!

Jim Davidson, the popular comedian, has been ordered off the Celebrity Chef series after he made a reference to “shirtlifters” during the filming show, betraying his chirpy, cocksparrer, knees up Mother Brown, roll out the barrel, good old fashioned political incorrectness.

You know what, why the f*** don’t you slit your sagging scrotum with a f***ing rusty Stanley knife blade and slowly f***ing bleed to death, you vile, odious c***?

Finally, it seems that Menzies Campbell, the generic viagra Liberal Democrat leader, inadvertently described himself as a “failure” in an interview with Sandi Tostvig regarding nerves prior to Question Time. This has only exacerbated the debate regarding his place at the helm of the party.

Yeah well, f***ing face it, you wretchedly senile, patently not up to it fool, the only reason the Lib Dems elected a f***ing Godfrey like you to lead them is because they’re f***ing subconsciously dedicated to the idea of f***ing failure! There they stretch, like a f***ing hammock of sleepy complacency between the Tories and Labour, the “left and right” who in f***ing reality are as ideologically poles apart as two competing f***ing estate agents! We need the f***ing Lib Dems like we need a f***ing third buttock!


Tuesday, September 11th, 2007

Kicking against the c***s, it’s . . . MR AGREEABLE!

Waking up to a breakfast of unsweetened muesli, a fresh fruit platter, lightly grilled kippers, pumpernickel and a gallon of illegally homebrewed cider which has already caused an epidemic of blindness in the West Country, I set aside my breakfast tray and peruse some recent periodicals devoted to current political and cultural affairs. Therein, I read an article penned by Mr Martin Amis, concerning the events of September 11 2001. After many thousands of words, many of them devoted to the numerology of the phrase “9/11”, Mr Amis comes to a bold conclusion; the people who carried out these attacks were fanatics.

Well gee, Martin, thanks a f***ing lot for that luminous f***ing shaft of insight! You earned your f***ing four figure fee there, didn’t you? Because I’d always wondered if, in fact, the attacks had been carried out by the f***ing moderate wing of Islam. Which really made me worry, because, f***, if this is the sort of thing the moderates get up to, imagine what the radicals would do! Gosh! But now you’ve set me mind at f***ing rest – I feel more assured and more f***ing educated. Thank f*** we’ve got Martin Amis to tell us what’s what. You dismal, dentally dysfunctional f***ing c***! Who the f*** appointed you Mr f***ing 9/11 in the f***ing first place, anyway? Just because you were first in there, like an unseemly rat up a f***ing drainpipe, with your f***ing “Out of the clear blue skies sailed Death, like a shark” piece, now we’re gonna have to put up with you clacking out excoriating bollocks like this annually! As if it’s not f***ing bad enough that thanks to these self-charcoaling, suicidal clothheads that you can’t find a f***ing waste paper bin within a ten mile radius of a f***ing railway station nowadays, we have to put up with Amis aching our balls with his tortuous, tedious f***ing musings like he owns the f***ing tragedy! Arsehole!

Luciano Pavarotti, the acclaimed tenor opera singer, has died of cancer. He was, as you may not have been reminded, famous for his rendition of “Nessun Dorma”, which became theme to the 1990 World Cup Finals, his supreme achievement to provide the soundtrack to Paul Gascoigne’s tears.

Well, I suppose they had to bury the fat c*** because if they’d cremated the fat f***er, they’d have had to lay on catering and f***ing accommodation for three f***ing days for the f***ing mourners while he burnt away like a f***ing forest fire of f***ing flab! Why the f***ing long faces, folks? Every f***ing account of the man’s life is a study in sheer f***ing fatty twatdom! A philandering, fat, overpumped f***ing warbler with zero f***ing consideration for the people who had to work him or made the f***ing mistake of booking him and imagining he’d do them the f***ing courtesy of actually turning up and do his very easy, very pampered f***ing job, ie wearing a scarf and vibrating from the f***ing neck upwards! I hope Il Fatso’s in f***ing purgatory right now, stacking all the chairs that had to be stacked early at events because he f***ing blew them out, the fat, self-indulgent f***ing c*** of a deceased, c***faced cock!

It seems there is a new cat in Downing Street – according to the BBC news website, the animal is the property of the new Chancellor of the Exchequer, Alistair Darling.

Well, there’s one thing this important f***ing story reminds us all of – and that’s that we actually f***ing have a Chancellor of the f***ing Exchequer! I mean, f***, who the f*** would have that f***ing job, with that Caledonian c*** next door hovering over you all set to put his hand up your chicken arse like f***ing Keith Harris and make you do what the f*** he wants unless you f***ing second guess him? F***, Captain Darling in f***ing Blackadder had more f***ing independence than that malleable, careerist blob of f***ing Whitehall grease Alistair does! They might as well put the f***ing cat in charge of the Treasure for all the f***ing difference it’d f***ing make!

Finally, it seems that Ian Brown, former lead singer of The Stone Roses, has released an anti-war track, in collusion with formerly bald chanteuse Ms Sinead O’ Connor. Entitled “Illegal Attacks”, it features the following lyric; “It’s a fact, it’s an act/These are illegal attacks/ So bring the soldiers back/ These are illegal attacks/It’s contracts for contacts/ I’m singing concrete facts/ So bring the soldiers back!”

Well, I’m telling you, the f***ing hawks in the Bush administration are giving each other f***ing high fives tonight! Because if anything was going to act as a f***ing buttress against the growing anti-war sentiment on both sides of the f***ing Atlantic, it was the news that that mumbling, talentless, clueless, barely-out-of-chimpdom, excremental syntax machine Ian Brown had decided to tell the world that the war was a f***ing bad idea! You wait till this kicks in – the next anti-war demo will consist of half a dozen confused SWP members wondering when the f***ing tide turned unexpectedly in favour of a quadrupling of commitment of British and American troops to f***ing Iraq! Because, let’s face it, if Ian f***ing Brown wrote a song protesting that the earth was f***ing round;The earth is round/Round as a pound/I’m talking facts right, dead sound/Round, I’ve found/It’s fooking well round”, membership of the f***ing Flat Earth society would jump into the f***ing millions overnight! C***!