When Sir John Logie Baird (you see….it’s funny, because it sounds like ‘John Yogi Bear‘) came up with the idea to invent the television in the 1920’s, I’ll bet that he could’ve never imagined that almost 100 years later, we’d all be watching a show about a black man with unfeasibly large bollocks.
Earlier this week, I had the displeasure of watching, “The Man With The 10 Stone Testicles“.
Now….you might find this hard to believe, as the title of the show was pretty confusing…..but….in a nutshell…..it was a documentary about an American man who had a ball bag that looked like a huge black space hopper…..or, a giant un-cracked walnut….or, a black bin liner full of dead cats.
It was the most bizarre/disgusting thing I’ve ever seen…..and i’ve seen ‘Two Girls, One Cup‘.
Is it me? Or has TV changed a LOT in the last 5 years?
Every night, I flick through the channels….merrily eating my tea….
Then, all of a sudden, a giant spotty bell-end pops up onto my screen…..it’s owned by a man from Leeds…..he’s showing Dr. Christian his cock rash…..and, allegedly, he’s dreadfully ‘embarrassed‘ about it….but, clearly NOT embarrassed enough to stop him from showing his bright red knob glands on National TV…..in front of millions of people…..
Not five minutes later, Dr. Pixie pops up for a quick chat to a woman with a fishy vagina.
All of a sudden….I’m not quite so hungry.
So….I reach for the remote, and change the channel to something more appropriate…..how about, ‘The Sex Clinic’?
Marvellous…..I can now tuck into my evening meal, whilst watching an acne covered teenager get a cotton bud jabbed into his japseye.
Thankfully, I don’t have a 3d TV….because, the thought of having a pair of ‘10 Stone Testicles‘ dangling into my Cream of Tomato Soup makes me shudder.
At least I wouldn’t need any croutons…..i’d have scrotums instead.
According to the article below, people living in the North of England are 20% MORE LIKELY to die before reaching the age of 75 than people in the he South.
This is probably because, our friends in the North tend to exist on a daily diet of pigeon, whippet and black pudding pie, served with lashings of chips and gravy (washed down with a mug of tea and 20 Regal’s)….and, the only exercise they get is when they beat the dust out of their living room rugs in the alleyway at the back of their terraced house.
In comparison, our friends in the South, tend to live on a diet of smoked salmon and cocktail blinis (washed down with a glass of champagne and a line of cocaine)…..and then, get plenty of exercise by walking their chocolate labradors in the park whilst wearing a pair of Hunter wellies.
Fortunately, dying early won’t affect me…..as I neither live in the North OR the South.
FOR I, AM A MIDLANDER……AND, A PROUD BRUMMIE!
Clearly, Birmingham is NORTH of London…..and SOUTH of Manchester……so where do us Midlanders fit in when it comes to dying early?
According to the media, us Midlanders don’t exist…..we are the forgotten people…..the embarrassing flabby mid-section…..the ‘no man’s land’ of the UK.
So, why should Northerners get to die early……where’s MY right to die early?
Mind you…..I happen to live in South Birmingham…..so, does this mean that i’m technically a Southerner?
I was curious to find out…..so, I Google Mapped it:
My House to London = 115 miles My House to Manchester = 98 miles
Therefore, I’m a Northerner!
Hooray! I get to die early….in your face you soft southern Jessie’s!
Right…..where’s my flat cap?…..i’m off to take my ferret for a walk….
I saw THE worst transvestite I have EVER seen…..IN MY LIFE……..but, that’s not what today’s blog is about.
Today’s blog is about this…..
From the bottom end of New Street all the way to the Town Hall, the pavement was infested with a swarm of approximately 10 ‘Charity Muggers’……otherwise known as ‘Chuggers’.
In the last few weeks, New Street has seen Chugger’s from the following charities:
UNICEF
Save the Children
Cancer Research UK
Shelter
All superb causes……I’m sure you’ll agree.
However, today, the Chugger’s were working on behalf of ‘Born Free’.
‘Born Free’ is a Wildlife charity……it’s basically about helping wild animals (Lions, Tigers, Snakes….oh my…), and trying to wipe out the illegal ivory trade and put an end to big game hunting.
Great……
Good luck to you…..
I’m sure it’s a very noble cause…..
And……I’m not saying that I don’t care about the plight of elephant’s and gorillas and what-not……
But……I honestly don’t care……
Soz……
Now…..
Every 20 metres or so, a dreadlocked, tunnel earring, sleeve tattooed, knob-end would jump in front of me wearing a false smile and waving a clipboard and give it the following bollocks:
Chugger 1:
“Hi Mate, do you like animals?
Me:
“Not really”
Chugger 2:
“Heyyyyyyy buddy…..can I talk to you about saving wildlife?
Me:
“Nahhhhhhh”
I could see Chugger 3 eyeing me up as I continued up New Street, so I nipped into Pret A Manger to avoid her.
I loitered next to a Tarragon Chicken and Watercress Bloomer for about 5 minutes…and, whilst the Chugger managed to get hold of another unsuspecting member of the public minding their own business……I made my escape……but not before buying a tuna Mayo baguette.
I walked to the top of New Street and sat on the benches near to the Iron Man statue.
I carefully unwrapped my baguette and took my first bite……and then……
Chugger 4:
“Hi Pal….whilst you’re enjoying your lunch, I wonder if I could talk to you about….
Me:
“Fuck off!”
The chugger looked shocked…..but, I’d had enough…..I’d only walked about 400 metres, and i’d been accosted by four of these fuckers….
Look…..I have nothing against charity…..as long as it’s not FORCED on me whilst I’m hoofing down my lunch!
How VERY dare you!
Chuggers are NOT volunteers…..they are PAID!
Often they couldn’t give a flying fuck about the charity they work for…..and this is what offends me more than being asked to donate money to a fucking charity for disabled lions.
I posted a blog entry yesterday about a fat lady who farted into my face at Walsall FC……
Within the entry, I also attempted to explain how, at the ripe of age of 38, I still find flatulence HILARIOUS.
And….by all accounts…..you, dear readers, do to.
Since I posted ‘Woman At Walsall FC Farts Into My Face’ , over 40 people have read it in just under 21 hours…..which means pop-pickers, that this ‘fart-based’ post is a brand new entry into my Top 20 blogs of all time!
Obviously, this scientifically proves my point that people STILL find farting brilliant fun.
Therefore, I thought I treat you to a 12″ Remix/B-Side/DVD Bonus Extra’s story about embarrassing, inappropriate expulsions of vegetable flavoured gas.
I hope you enjoy, “The Coca-Cola Van Fart”:
Back in the mid-90’s I worked for Coca-Cola.
It was my 1st ‘proper’ job….and basically involved me driving around Birmingham in a BRIGHT RED VAUXHALL COMBO VAN selling Coca-Cola, Sprite, Fanta, Lilt and Dr. Pepper to newsagents and chip shops.
I loved my van.
It was my 1st ‘company car’ and gave me unlimited freedom.
It had an AM/FM radio, a cassette deck…..and…..erm……a drinks holder.
Ok….so my red van wasn’t fully equipped with leather trim and a walnut gear knob…..but, it DID have a safety grill separating the front cabin from the rear storage area which meant that I wouldn’t get decapitated by a stray case of Sunkist when I slammed the anchors on.
Every day, I’d load my van up with 100 cases of ‘pop’ from Booker Cash & Carry in Stirchley and make my merry way out into the suburbs to sell sugary drinks.
There was a convenience store on the Frankley estate that I loved to visit.
The owner was a fantastic Indian guy who would ALWAYS make me a cup of traditional chai (super sweet, fragranced tea made in a saucepan)….and, more importantly, he’d let me take back issues of porno mags that had failed to sell (mainly Fiesta, Escort, Razzle and 40+), as long as I sold him his Coca-Cola without the VAT.
This guy had owned the shop for decades and raised his family there…..including his extraordinarily beautiful daughter who would often bring us our chai as we chatted.
So, I’d get a delicious cup of chai, a good look at his daughter and an armful of porn every time I visited…..AWESOME!
One hazy summer afternoon, I happened to let rip an unbelievable ‘shart’ in the front cabin of the van (for those who don’t know, a ‘shart’ is a mixture of a shit and fart…..the smell is truly horrible).
The vicious scent drifted up my back and seeped through the safety grill into the storage area of the van.
Once I’d made certain that I hadn’t shit myself, I made my way over to Frankley to sell some pop and take delivery of a new selection of ‘toss rags’.
When I arrived, we chatted for a few minutes and he called upstairs for his daughter to make us both a cup of chai whilst I filled out the paperwork (without the VAT) for his order.
As I did the paperwork, he nipped out to the stockroom….and came back with a selection of ‘jizz books’ (I can still remember that one of them was a ‘Black and Stacked’).
I took the mags, and quickly nipped outside to the van to hide them away and unload his order.
I unlocked the van and opened the double doors……only to be hit with a ‘wall of shit’.
The smell of the ‘shart’ I’d done earlier had literally filled the storage area of the van like a fog of poo and nearly knocked me off my feet.
The hot summer sun had almost intensified the overall flavour of the fart and increased it’s power 10 fold…..
I placed my porn mags onto the roof of the van and flapped the back doors of the van in and out to clear the stench so I could get in to collect the stock…..
“Is there anything I can take inside?”, asked a voice from behind me……
I spun around to see the ‘beautiful daughter’ standing directly in my hazy shit cloud…..she’d CLEARLY smelt it…..she’d CLEARLY tasted it.
In a mad panic, I quickly slammed the double doors of the van shut……only for the noddy mags on the roof to fall off and flop open DIRECTLY IN FRONT OF HER!
Without saying a word…………..
I got into the van and sped off at approx 50mph….
Never to return………………..
Today (April 1st), is the 100th entry i’ve written since starting my blog back in December 2012.
You’d have thought that my 100th entry would be a real cracker…..littered with a number of hilarious one-liners and packing a terrific punchline.
But, no……
I’ve drawn a complete fucking blank today……and, it’s April Fools Day…..you’d have thought SOMETHING funny would’ve happened!
This is when writing a daily blog gets difficult……
When literally NOTHING funny or interesting happens…..what the hell do you write about?
I’ve trawled the news web-sites to find some inspiration…….but there was nothing that tickled my fancy.
I don’t feel particularly annoyed about anything at the moment…..so I have no vitriol within my soul to spill out.
So, today…..for my 100th blog entry…..I’ve had to rifle through some of my ‘EMERGENCY STORIES’ in order to give you something to read.
My ‘Emergency Draft File’ contains stories from my past that I can (hopefully) fall back on when times are hard……some of these ‘works in progress’ can be found on my “Two Month Anniversary Blog – Pilchard Rabies Review” and have titles like:
Ejaculating Into A Black Girls Handbag
Snogging a Midget
The Ninja Wasp
The ‘Break-Up’ Fart
Burning a Lapdancers Face
Shitting Myself at the Gym
The Coca-Cola Van Fart
But tonight…..I give you…..
THE CILLIT BANG STORY:
Back in 2007, Elle, Edie and I lived in a little terraced house in Cotteridge.
We loved that house for lots of reasons……we first lived together in that house and we had our first baby there too.
It had a lounge like a postage stamp, no parking, no garden and a downstairs toilet/bathroom that you had to walk through the kitchen to get to!
Not ideal for bringing up a family….
If you needed the loo during the night you’d have to get up, turn the landing light on, walk down the creaky staircase, turn the dining room light on, turn the kitchen light on, turn the bathroom light on, use the loo, flush the toilet (very noisy Saniflo), wash your hands, turn all the lights off, walk back up the creaky stairs and get back into bed without waking the baby up.
The staircase was so creaky that Edie would inevitably stir……so, you ran the risk of spending an hour or so settling her back down unless you were SUPER QUIET.
One Christmas, Elle bought me a portable travel urinal (as a joke).
This was for me to take with me on long journeys, just in case I got caught short in a traffic jam (this happened to me once…..and I had to urinate into a lunchbox).
The portable travel urinal sat unused….next to the bed…..until one night when I returned from the pub……….
I stumbled into the house after consuming several pints…..at about 2am my bladder informed my brain that it needed to evacuate……I woke up and proceeded to make my way out of the room.
On the way to the bedroom door, I noticed the shiny white portable urinal on the shelf…….hmmmmmmmmm, I thought…….
Rather than waking the whole house up…..all I needed to do was pop the ‘old man’ into the neck of the portable urinal……release my forceful jet of piss, and empty it into the toilet in the morning.
GENIUS!
The thing is….what started as a ‘one off’ use of the portable urinal, soon turned into a ‘full time’ affair.
Every other night, I’d wake up for a wee…..swing my legs out of bed…..slash into the portable urinal, seal the lid and empty into the loo the next morning……unless I forgot…..and then i’d empty it a few days later when it had festered and fermented a little bit!
It was a bit like ‘slopping out’ in prison……
Anyway……Elle wasn’t happy about this festering piss bottle hanging around the bedroom and she constantly moved it back downstairs to the cupboard in the bathroom.
One night, I came back from the pub and quickly nipped to the loo before I went to bed…..to my surprise, my portable urinal sat waiting for me on the toilet seat!
Elle must have left it out for me, knowing that I’d take it to bed with me……..ahhhhhh, she DOES love me!
Later that night, my bladder informed my brain it needed to wee….
As usual, I swung my legs over the side of the bed….and urinated into the bottle.
The next day, I jumped into the shower and found that the end of my cock-piece REALLY, REALLY hurt.
As I washed my ‘bits’ in the shower I glanced at my bell-end to find that it was bright red…..like a fucking plum tomato!
Over the next few days, passing urine was EXTREMELY painful and my wee was cloudy…..like melted butter.
I told Elle, and she said that I should go to the Doctors.
The next day, I visited my G.P. who took a look at my bright red knob end.
After the doctor had finished laughing at my penis and informing me that I should wash it more often….he referred me to a ‘specialist clinic’ in the City Centre.
Off I trotted with my cloudy piss, my stinging plod and my clnic referral to the Whittall Street Clinic in town.
When I got to the clinic, I noticed that there were an awful lot of posters about sexual health……also, most of the people waiting to be seen by the ‘specialists’ were nervous looking blokes who were all scratching their nut sacks….
Hmmmmmmmm…….
I asked the male nurse behind the counter, “Excuse me….my G.P. has referred me to this clinic for some tests……why has he referred me here?”
The male nurse replied, “This is Whittall Street STD Clinic……”
“Erm……ok”, I replied……”I think I must be in the wrong place”
The nurse looked at my G.P. referral documents……and confirmed that I WAS in the right place!
WHAT THE FUCK!!!!!
I immediately called Elle in a panic…..
Me:
“Elle…..the fucking doctor has sent me to the STD clinic in Birmingham for my sore cock……what’s going on?”
Elle:
“Ha ha ha ha……I dunno….what have YOU been up too?”
Me:
“Fuck off…..chance would be a fine thing…..my fucking cock is killing me…..and the doctor has referred me here for tests!”
Elle:
“When did you first notice your cock hurt?”
Me:
“The other day…..when I had my shower….”
Elle:
“What day was that?”
Me:
“I dunno…..Saturday?……I went out with the lads on Friday night….and, the next day my cock really hurt”.
Elle:
“Did you use the piss bottle?”
Me:
“Erm……yeah…..on Friday night…..I took it upstairs when I got home from the pub”
Elle:
“Ahhh……did you rinse it out before you used it?”
Me:
“Errr…..No!…….why?”
Elle:
“Shit…….I poured a load of Cillit Bang into it to remove the stains!”
Me:
“What?”
Elle:
“Rich…..it stank of piss…..so I cleaned it out with some Cillit Bang……didn’t you rinse it out?”
Me:
“No…..I didn’t fucking rinse it out……so……are you telling me that i’ve bleached my cock with corrosive chemicals?”
Elle:
“Well……possibly……at least it’ll be clean!”
Me:
“Ha fucking ha……”
I hung the phone up and went back into the clinic…..
I then filled in the most intrusive questionnaire EVER:
Have you received unprotected anal sex in the last month?
Have you given unprotected oral sex in the last month?
Have you had unprotected sexual intercourse with a person from Africa in the last month?
Have you had unprotected sexual intercourse with a prostitute in the last month?
Have you shared needles with anyone in the last month?
Have you licked a dogs arsehole in the last month?
Once i’d completed the questionnaire (NO to ALL answers!)…..I was frog marched to the treatment room and met with the ‘specialist’……
The ‘Specialist’ was a female doctor…..she was about 39 years old and, the duty nurse was a large lady who was about 50……
FUCKING BRILLIANT!
The specialist asked me a few sexual health questions, to which I answered…..”I’m ever so sorry doctor…..I think there’s been a mistake…..I’ve burnt my penis on Cillit Bang”
She looked at me and smiled……
“Cillit Bang?”, she said…..
“Yes…..I’ve bleached my penis accidentally”, I said……
“Hmmmmmmmm……how do you know that this is the cause of the problem?”, she asked…….
I then had to explain to the Specialist about my filthy, lazy habit of urinating into a bottle rather than going downstairs……I also went on to explain how my partner had conspired to dissolve my penis with highly dangerous corrosive acid.
The Specialist looked at the nurse……the nurse looked at the Specialist……there were no laughs from either of them……but you could tell that my ‘Cillit Bang’ answer ranked right up there with:
“I was walking through the house naked, when I slipped and fell ‘arse first’ onto this dildo, which proceeded to get lodged in my rectum”
My story made no difference……I still got tested.
I had to drop my trousers and pants and lie down on a bed.
I then had several cotton buds shoved into my cock slit before being forced to produce enough urine to fill a pint pot.
I did all this under the watchful gaze of the two female nurses whilst saying…..”I don’t know why your testing me for STD’s…..I’ve bleached my cock…..that’s all!”
I was then given an HIV test to round off the humiliation……
TERRIFIC!
Two weeks later, I received a text message from the clinic to say that my results had come back negative for STD’s…..but…..I had tested positive for a form of ‘Non-Specific Urethritis’ that was likely to have come from contact with ‘chemicals’…….
Needless to say, the ‘portable urinal’ was instantly thrown out as soon as I returned home from the clinic……and I didn’t talk to Elle for about 3 days as I was too angry.
I still can’t bring myself to use Cillit Bang to this day!
If I even see the logo on a supermarket shelf, my cock begins to sting and I get flashbacks of that humiliating afternoon at Whittall Street Clinic.
BANG! And the dirt is gone…….along with your ability to take a piss without crying for several weeks!
I dropped Edie off at school this morning…….
The ice cold wind whipped through the playground punching me in the face and kicking me in the balls like a cruel frosty bastard.
At one point I’m sure the wind actually laughed at me as I used Edie as a human shield in to shelter my sensitive skin from the wind.
As a giant fat bastard, I very rarely feel the cold weather as it struggles to penetrate my immense layers of flab……today was different……..and, according to Meteogroup, it was the coldest March day for 27 years!
Well……I checked all of the meteorological web sites to find out exactly how cold it had been in Birmingham today……..and, according to most weather reports, it has officially been ‘COLDER THAN A WITCHES TIT!’.
I’ve always wondered where the phrase ‘Colder Than A Witches Tit’ actually originates from…….so, as soon as I had a few minutes I entered the phrase into a search engine……and this is what I found:
A ‘witches tit’ is the mark that English Civil War witch hunters would look for on the body of a person accused of witchcraft.
Supposedly, witches would suckle their ‘familiars’, and sometimes the devil himself with her poisonous saggy nork……
In order to find these ‘devil’s marks’, the suspects were stripped, shaven, and then closely examined for blemishes, moles and scars.
To find marks invisible to the eye, the examiner would poke the victim inch by inch with a blunt needle until they found a spot that didn’t feel pain or bleed.
Discovery of these marks or spots were considered proof of full-on witchiness and led to a swift dunking in the nearest pond.
Apparently, the ‘cold’ element comes from the fact that since a
witch is in cahoots with Satan, she has no maternal feelings and is cold blooded……therefore, her booby milk is icy cold and lacks nourishment….although, it does sound extremely refreshing!
I didn’t say it was interesting……..fuck you!!!
Anyway……now I know the proper meaning of the phrase it seems completely inappropriate and inaccurate.
My new phrase for freezing cold days has now become:
‘As cold as Jack Frost’s Cock’.
Feel free to utilise this saying next time the freezing ass cold makes your testicles shrivel up to the size of walnuts or your nipples poke through your bra like flesh coloured javelins.
About 4 weeks ago, I dropped Edie off to her drama classes at the Hippodrome and went on my usual walk around the city.
After an hour or so had passed, I nipped into Wetherspoon’s for a ‘coffee’ (actually, it was a Full English, but I don’t want Elle to find out!).
I went up to the counter and waited to be served.
I noticed a sign stuck to all of the beer taps that read, “Due to an English Defense League (EDL) protest march scheduled for 1pm today, West Midlands Police have requested that we suspend ALL alcohol sales until 5pm”.
I asked the girl serving me why this ban was being enforced, and she said, “Last time we had an ‘EDL’ march in town, they nearly wrecked the pub. They were racist and abusive to staff and it was really frightening”.
Any time I’ve witnessed an English Defense League protest on the streets, or on TV, it strikes me as being nothing short of a mob of pissed-up, racist thugs who have little to no interest in politics.
As far as i’m concerned, the ‘EDL’ is the BNP in disguise, and have no coherent policies or solutions for the political future of the U.K.
Yesterday, I wrote that I would defend the rights of ANY comedian to tell ANY joke, because I believed in freedom of speech.
However, when it comes to the EDL, my belief in ‘freedom of speech’ is tested to the limit.
Again, it’s not ‘what the EDL say’……it’s ‘how they say it’ that worries me.
As far as i’m concerned, their views are mis-guided, mis-informed and packaged in such an aggressive, overtly Nationalistic way that anyone who says that they are not a racist group must be on crack!
Thankfully, their views are so hilariously out of step with ‘normal’ humans that thankfully, the EDL will never amount to anything other than a tin pot group of loud mouthed idiots……in baseball caps.
A survey published today by the ‘Chatham House Think Tank’, surprisingly found that supporters of the English Defense League were mostly white collar, managerial or skilled workers…..NOT jobless, ill-educated young men.
The report also said that xenophobia, rather than ‘traditional racism’ was the hallmark of the attitudes.
Hmmmmmm, interesting!
How big was the sample group for the survey??
A HUGE 298 people!
What a load of shit!
Dear Chatham House Think Tank,
Rather than pontificating from your head office in Central London and extrapolating ridiculous figures from a tiny sample of 298 survey results, why don’t you pop into the City Centre of Birmingham the next time an EDL march comes to town and take a look at the gangs of alcohol fuelled twats that used openly racist language in front of my 8 year old daughter and run riot all over town using up police resources that could be utilised elsewhere.
Your survey is a complete and utter waste of time.
My name is Maisy, and I’m a female Staffordshire Bull Terrier mixed with a Boxer (not like Mike Tyson…..a Boxer dog…..).
Pilchard Rabies is away today and, as a result, he won’t be able to get to his computer to write his usual tirade of nonsense and bollocks.
So, whilst he’s away, he’s asked me to write a guest entry for his blog.
Obviously, as the family dog, I’m completely flattered to be given the opportunity to air my views on life as a dog.
So, here goes……
Every day, Pilchard and I go for our usual walk around the neighbourhood.
Our route differs from time to time, but as a general rule, we tend to walk past the posh houses down by the Kings Norton nature reserve.
Anyway, there’s this fucking fat brown labrador that makes a concerted effort to race up to the gates of his house and bark like a twat at me as I casually mind my own business.
What the fuck!?!
I get it! You’re the master of your domain! None shall pass! Big deal!
Hey! Labrador! I’m really not interested in coming into your shitty garden or going near your precious gates……you DICK!
Come round my house and I’ll bite your fucking face off……
I feel better now……
Right…..I’m off…..this arsehole isn’t going to lick itself you know!
PS – I’m not really aggressive……the Labrador just pisses me right off. If you do ever meet me in the street, I’m more likely to urinate on your trainers if you choose to stroke me……rather than bite you.
Every Saturday I take daughter number one to her drama club in the City Centre.
Once we’ve negotiated our way up Hurst Street, past the numerous gay bars (Queer Street) and porn shops (The Amsterdam Experience), we arrive at the Hippodrome.
Once I’ve dropped Edie off, I have to kill two and a half hours before returning to pick her up.
This bit of ‘quiet time’ should be a great opportunity for me to catch up with the endless amounts of paperwork I have to complete for my job.
However, I usually spend the time walking aimlessly around town for two and a half hours before I pick her back up at 12.30pm.
One of favourite things to do on a Saturday is to embrace my inner geek by mooching round the famous Nostalgia & Comics store on Smallbrook Queensway.
This nerd emporium has been peddling replica Light Sabre’s, Green Lantern Mugs and Dr. Who Cybermen masks to pale, sweaty men who should groom more since 1977.
The store has changed a lot since then, but it’s still an overwhelming visual treat for ANY man who still like to read ‘books’ in a giant picture bound form.
Is it uncool for a 37 year old man to enjoy reading comic books?
Probably….
Do I give a fuck?
Nope….
Anyway, several months back, I dropped Edie off at the theatre and made my way across the road to the comic shop.
I’d been mooching for about 15 minutes when I noticed a familiar looking gentleman perusing the Spiderman graphic novels.
Wrapped up warm in a duffle coat and sporting a superb rockabilly quiff was the brilliant comedian Stewart Lee.
You may be thinking, “Who the fuck is Stewart Lee?”
Stewart Lee used to be in a comedy duo with Richard Herring called, ‘Lee and Herring’.
It was the 90’s…..they were like Newman and Baddiel…..only funny.
Nowadays, Stewart Lee is one of the most respected comedians in the UK, and I’m a huge fan.
I normally wouldn’t ever bother a famous person because it’s extremely intrusive…..however, I really wanted to tell Stewart how much I enjoyed his show and his stand up in general.
Unfortunately, the conversation went like this…..
Me: “Hello Stewart, I just wanted to say ‘hi’ and tell you how much I enjoyed your show on Comedy Central”.
Stewart Lee: “Thank you”
Me: “I bet you get really cheesed off with people coming up to you in shops when your trying to work out which Spiderman book to buy”.
Stewart Lee: “No, most of the time, people are very polite and considerate”
Me: “Yeah, I come across as polite and considerate now, but you’ll feel differently when I follow you out of the shop and SLIT YOUR THROAT!”.
*Complete Silence*
Stewart looked extremely confused and returned to his Spiderman book.
I smiled nervously and quickly moved over to the Manga section…….
WHAT THE FUCK WAS I THINKING?
Whatever made me say something so stupid?
Why did my brain think that comment would even be remotely funny?
I left the shop.
I went back over the interaction….and, whichever way I looked at it, I’d made myself look like a massive knob in front of one of the UK’s best, most intelligent, most respected comedians.
I made my reparation by way of monetary restitution.
I walked straight to Waterstone’s and bought a copy of his book, ‘How I Escaped My Certain Fate – The Life And Deaths Of A Stand Up Comedian’.
Sorry Stewart…..I can only put it down to nerves…..and being a twat.
This morning, I was driving to work and listening to Radio 5.
There was a business report discussing the worst area’s in the UK for business closures.
It was no surprise to find that the West Midlands is at the top of the list.
The reporter said that 1 in 7 shops on the High Street is now empty and the ‘mega retailers’ like Tesco and Asda are continuing to kill local shopping centres by offering everything for sale from a loaf of bread to a bicycle.
Thanks BBC…..Tell us something we don’t fucking know!
However, according to a new report, the shape of our High Street is changing, and slowly but surely, new shops are beginning to open…….
Unfortunately, these ‘new’ shops are made up of:
Shitty Discount/Pound shops
Shitty Tanning Salons/Nail Bars
Shitty Fast Food outlets
Charity shops…..which are fine…..but shitty!
How depressing……..
I needed to pay in a cheque this afternoon and happened to drive into Northfield.
I parked up in the good old Grosvenor Shopping Centre…..negotitated the piss stinking car park….walked past the broken lifts and down into the ‘mall’.
Being half term, the ‘mall’ was packed to the rafters with all kinds of tracksuited slags and scallies.
The stench of hydroponic weed was strong enough to get an elephant high and there is clearly a big trend for ‘neck tattoo’s’ that my style radar has obviously missed…..
Check out this handsome gentleman below:
Apparently, ‘Only God can judge him’……(I blame Tupac)…..this picture tells you EVERYTHING you need to know about the state of Northfield today!
Anyway, after paying my cheque in at the Halifax, I walked back down the High Street and had a good look around……
This is what I counted:
7 Charity Shops (Including PDSA, British Heart Foundation and Sue Ryder)
10 Fast Food Outlets (Including McDonalds, Subway, Sam’s Chicken, Greggs, Firkin Bakers and KFC)
2 Pawnbrokers (Including Cash Converters)
3 Phone Shops (Including Phones 4 U and O2)
3 Pound Shops (Including Poundland)
3 Buy Now Pay Later (At a hugely inflated APR) Shops (Including Bright House)
This just says it all doesn’t it?
It’s no wonder we have become a nation of obese, unhappy, disjointed, ‘live now, pay later’ zombies…..
Northfield High Street is literally a snapshot of the ENTIRE UK!
EAT A FUCKING PASTY….
PAY IT BACK ON YOUR FUCKING PAY DAY…..
HAVE YOU HAD AN ACCIDENT THAT WASN’T YOUR FUCKING FAULT YOU FAT FUCK…….
BUY SOME MORE SHIT FOR A POUND…..
HAVE A FUCKING IPHONE WITH A BEJWELLED CASE……
BUY THIS!
EAT THIS!
PAWN THIS!
No wonder we gravitate towards the safety of the clingfilm wrapped world of the giant Tesco store……even if they are trying to feed us horse meat.
pilchardrabies 