do da

On the left … down to a 0.5 shorn along the sides. When it’s this short it looks like it’s grown loads in no time, so you’re at the barber’s thrice as often. Henry’s on Clayton St., don’t you know. Sweating because another PB, 62.5 kg in clean & press and military press. (I know it’s geeky, but I like it – PS … did 65kg AND top time for OpFit triathlon, 6:49! :D)

On the right is … is that the same person from 20 years before, who only weighed 62.5 kg? (Nah, about 75 kg or 11 and a half stone in real money, but compared with 95-6 kg / 15 stone now …).

What a photo to find.
At Manchester, and I haven’t just shaved, there’s just nothing on my face.
Got a girl to die my hair blonde, and it came out gold…
Then I bought a leather jacket, which stank…

Youthful hi jinks…

But there’s genuine, screaming Hell going on in that ludicrously gilded head.
That boy doesn’t know who he is, and is only barely aware that he’s actually out of his mind with grief and despair. Strange thing to find and memories to throw up.  

WH Smith plugs violent racist

Even the BBC finally baulked at profiting from this violent racist (well for now at least), but WH Smith thinks it’s OK?

Stuffing

Paxo was right, they don’t make pant gussets like they used to.

I just bought three pairs of trunks from BHS a week ago, and already there’s a small hole appeared in the groin of the gusset. Damnit, can no fabric on Earth bear the weight?

All I can think of is spider’s silk … maybe I can harness the productive powers of a colony of arachnids, maybe even get them to set up a loom, a mill even. What a partnership, I get indestructible trunks, the spiders get a toehold on the ladder of development, they’d be the new Bangladesh for textile production.

Or this could drive me mad … I could become obsessed with trying to perfect the perfect, indestructible, spider’s silk trunks, and spend all my hours in a laboratory to that end until some freak accident changes my DNA and I become a super-power villain, ‘spider silk pants man’ and launch a whole raft of comic books, Hollywood franchises and then reboots of the same shitting stories every 5 years, ‘J J Abrams’ version of Spider Silk Pants Man’, retold months later in P I Ssoff’s darker reboot, then two weeks later O F Orfucksake’s even darker reboot with all the colour bleached out that two days later is re-released in brighter colours as a ‘restoration’.

Ach. Shit already. I’ll just stick to boxer shorts and let the whole lot hang free and hopefully not knock over too many dustbins.

Death of the Great American Novel

My debut novel is dead … I’ve killed it … it’s for the best …

We’re all in the gutter … where best the Tories can kick us in

From Liberty, who tell us we can expect: 

An Immigration Bill that will include plans to criminalise undocumented migrants working in the UK and confiscate their earnings.  It will also extend deport first appeal later provisions, risking huge injustice and separating families.

I’d suspect undocumented migrants are already at the bottom of the wealth ladder, access to social services, rights, and income. I’d theorise they’re from the poorer, further flung parts of Europe, Africa, South America, people we’ve always been brought up to despise, and I’d guess they mostly work as farm hands, earning £1 an hour at the violent hands of gang masters who ultimately answer to the multinational supermarkets that dominate our cities and kelp keep their profits so high (although with Tesco every little bit of dodgy accounting also helps).

I mean, if it’s more revenue the government’s seeking to fill some massive financial black hole left by interest payments to their banker backers who cooked up the entire PFI racket, let alone the bailed-out, they’d probably rake in a lot more a lot quicker by chasing up and closing all the tax loop holes or demanding HSBC and its friends at Top Shop and Starbucks et al actually pay their tax bills. I’m just guessing, but on a cost-benefit analysis the outlay versus rate of return, I bet would, pound for pound, earn way, way more than employing goons to raid some cabbage hacker’s tea caddy for coin.

But I am at risk of blaming the wrong side for this. The reason for our impecunious woes lies with the poorest, so I’m led to believe by the lies put out by pornographers like Richard Desmond, or international war-mongering grave-robbers like Rupert Murdoch.

And mostly nobody will complain about the ever worsened plight of those damn faceless migrants, who no-one ever sees because they work in the back ends of agriculture and industry that British folk never get near these days, those stateless, rightless, penniless migrants who survived their overloaded boat sinking on the voyage across the Med, who survived the back of the tomato truck, who survived the rising tide of Morecambe Bay, who survived the undercarriage of the Eurostar or whatever jet came into Stansted, let alone whatever Hell in their homelands that led them to these ungrateful isles, because of course they’re the bastards who are to blame for everything.

For God’s sake

I was proffered this in the street, and thought’ ‘that’s nice, ‘HOPE for the Homeless and the Poor’, took a copy, thought it odd that I didn’t have to buy it like The Big Issue or donate or anything, but y’know, someone’s doing good.

So I open the cover …

AGHGHGHGHGHGHGHGH!!!! 

Christ allmighty, if you were homeless and near the end of your rope, and took a copy just to see what ‘hope’ lay around the corner … f***** hell you’d be looking up train times for the next one to chuck yourself under, surely?!

Jesus wept 

And the train would be late, just to prolong the pain!

AGHGHGHGHGHGH

How to win on Twitter – by a UKIP-voting expat doctor in Switzerland

Get this – the way to win on Twitter is to post topless shots of yourself in Kim Jong-il shades doing some gangsta finger thing:

PS: Not long after, I blocked said doctor. I then had 8 views of this blog from one visitor … that my blog-dar traced to Switzerland! Then I find all his tweets mysteriously deleted. What on Earth could it all mean?

Top Arsehole

The BBC allows a sacked employee – sacked for assaulting a co-worker (while said sacked employee evaded any P45 while using the BBC as a platform to racially abuse half the planet) – back onto its premises, and gives him another platform from which he gets to wallow in self-pity, like he’s the victim, and talk up how he intends to rip off the BBC’s own show, and wheel it about with his acolytes.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/entertainment-arts-32823130

It’s so warped, it’s incredible.

To smash someone in the face and then laugh it off as ‘silly’.

New Justice Secretary dopple-ganger

lol

robintudge

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CVs

CVs are strange things, a two-page summary of everything you ever did? Doesn’t tell you jack, just years, titles, brand names, collations of letters passing for education and training. They’re incredibly abstract. Not that you’d seriously expect to learn much from a CV, but they don’t really say anything of the highs and Hells of what actually goes on in work, in life. And of course the writer of the CV edits what’s in it. I remember coming across a pile of spent CVs when I worked at Heren Energy (I know, one would think such kinds of what is essentially a professional, semi-confidential document shouldn’t be left lying around, but hey ho, easy come, easy go), and found a CV from a former colleague at a former employ. And on paper, he was the biz, very much so, very impressive, a shoo in. I knew however he was beyond crazed, such that when he’d been given notice at his former job, they ended up paying him to leave early and changed the door code the second he left the building, while Quasimodo spat his way across the road, P45 in hand, into the work’s pub to get smashed and corner any ex-colls fool enough to wander in there after 5pm … I contacted my former firm and said what a coincidence, and they said they’d be giving him the highest recommendation to come work for us, which I replied they had better not or it would be received as a hostile act.

I’ve been working since 1995, or since before if you count working in McDonalds, working for a psychotic chemist, or selling house portraits on commission. So I’ve got 20 years in the tank, and, I’d hope, at least 30 years to go, if not more, as the age limit for retirement seem to be ever shifting up. Well, good, I don’t want to have to retire, and skills-based industries surely should value their elders? Then again one might not want to be worked to death …

But to get to the end and look back and think not of the highs but of the Hells, not of the what was, but the what ifs. You could torture yourself for so long and only then, at the end, at that late hour, would you realise all that time lost regretting the time lost.

An obituary is like a finalised CV, one you can’t prune and edit yourself … what would be in your obituary?

‘In fits of morbid narcissism he’d wonder aloud what his obituary might say …’