Friday, 25 June 2010

La-Di-Da London

The in-crowd. The beautiful set. London at it’s preening, pouting best. This is what I was greeted with last night in a rather (s)wanky restaurant in Regent Street. There they were in all their ‘Look at me, look at me. I’m so gorgeous and better than those wretched poor people outside’ glory.

The terrace overlooking the London skyline was filled with ex public school boys, with their Eton hair and smarmy-pants expressions, and beautiful women resplendent in their compulsory over-sized, bug-eyed sunglasses. Mingling amongst them were a swarm of fifty plus men with sandy hair, mahogany tans, Rolex watches and cat that got the cream expressions, as they regaled hilarious stories to the young beautiful women. The young, beautiful women laughed uproariously, clearly only interested in the wealthy, walking tanned wallets for their personalities.

What a repulsive sight it was.

Eventually a waiter who seemed like the love child of Adrian Chiles and Larry Grayson wandered over to take our order. One by one he caught our eye as we deigned to request some liquid refreshment. Every order was greeted with a ‘well if that’s what you really want, fine.’ expression. The same waiter later impressed me in equal measures when my meal arrived. I had ordered a Beef dish, with vegetables and fat chips. When I finished counting my two beans I enquired where my fat chips might be.

“Fat chiiiiiips. You not get fat chiiiiips with this, only with the beef.”
“But I ordered the beef.” I said. “What’s this then?”
“It’s peeeek.”
“What’s peeeek?" I enquired, considering this to be a fair question.
“Peeek. Peek, you know peeeeek.”
“Do you mean pig? Pork? Are you saying this is pork?”
“Yes pork. Peeek. You want it changed?”

So changed it was, and as everyone else finished their meal my cooooooooooooow arrived. As tasteless a piece of meat as I’ve ever had the pleasure of eating. Still, never mind I’ll enjoy my fat chiiiiips. But where were they? I looked under the two new beans. Not there. I looked either side of the leathery main course, and then it struck me. That solitary rectangular yellow mystery object residing on the left hand side of my plate was my fat chips. One. One fucking chip. One fat fucking chip. I went through all that for one feckless, fat fucking chip.

Anyway, it was a nice evening, with good company and plenty of wine. But it was a reminder of what a pretentious, shallow and pompous city London can be. It’s a good job that London has so much else going for it. For all the general buzz, great bars, parks, shops, museums etc I can forgive a few la-di-da, big-haired, loud-mouthed ponces and the equally vacuous clothes dummies.

But I can’t forgive being given only one fucking chip.

Sunday, 20 June 2010

Situation Vacant

An exciting opportunity has arisen for a Spherical Object Progression Executive.
Short-term contract based in South Africa.

The successful candidate will have a passion for fast cars, orange girlfriends, nightclubs, oversized watches and ‘roasting’ teenage girls.

The role requires you to work up to 6 hours a week including occasional weekend shifts. We offer a competitive seven-figure salary with bonus scheme.

The team has a diverse opposition base and a growing reputation for being as useful as a whore’s chastity belt. As Spherical Object Progression Executive you will be responsible for delivering goal-optimised ball passes, producing a little bit of effort and hitting the back of the fucking net occasionally.

Responsibilities include
• Kicking
• Running
• Standing with hands on hips
• Shouting
• Swearing
• Falling over
• Spitting
• Excuse making

We actively promote equal opportunity employment and will consider current Spherical Object Progression Executives with learning disabilities or delusions of adequacy. Experienced footballers are expected to be able to feed and dress themselves, read without moving their lips and walk upright. The ability to kick a ball in a straight line is desirable.

Applications are to be submitted by email or crayon. Grunting or faecal smearings will not be accepted.

Please note that due to exceptionally high levels of response, we are only able to get back to those applicants who can read.

Wednesday, 9 June 2010

A charity appeal on behalf of MAHWAB

I hope I can take a few minutes of your precious time to make an urgent appeal on behalf of a charity that is particularly close to my heart. MAHWAB is a new organisation, and one that I hope can bring some relief to the suffering of many poor souls across the country.

For those of you who have not heard of it before, let me introduce you to MAHWAB. It stands for Middle Aged, Hard Working And Broke. Yes there are thousands of sufferers across the land who spend their days juggling the demands and expense of a career, family and life in general. But yet to add to their woes we are living in phenomenally expensive times. Tax, National Insurance, food, drink, mortgage payments, childcare, petrol, utility bills, insurance policies, the list goes on and on and on.

What can we do to help these unfortunates you may ask? Where can we find the funds? Goddammit how can we help? Fear not, the people at MAHWAB have had a great idea of where to find the cash. The welfare state, that’s where. It’s time for a fairer redistribution of wealth. They are not for one minute suggesting we take anything away from the people who honestly need the help of the government. The ones who really can’t work for genuine medical reasons or who want to work, and are doing their best to find a job, but can’t. No, clearly these people need help and it’s right they get it. The people MAHWAB are talking about are the work-shy, lazy, ignorant, scum sucking leeches who sit in their state funded houses, in front of their state funded 50” Plasma screens, watching state funded Sky television, drinking state funded cider and complaining that life is hard. The ones who can’t be bothered to look for work because they get everything handed to them on a plate. The ones who contribute nothing, yet say they are only claiming what they are entitled to? The ones who realise the more children they have the more money they get, so set about breeding faster than a couple of bored rabbits.

Did you know there is a family in Hull for instance, who live in a council provided seven-bedroom house with their ten children? The father has been out of work for 15 years and his wife has never had a job. Yet thanks to the generosity of the welfare state and the tax you and I pay on our hard earned wages, they receive about £33,000 a year. £628 a week in income support, disability allowance, carer's allowance, child tax credit, plus £120 a week rent on their home. You or I would have to earn £46,500 a year before we even matched their income.

So the MAHWAB plan is to take some of our money back. Cut payments to the lazy and dishonest. Have a huge car boot sale of their flat screen televisions, cars and designer clothes and sell off their houses as affordable homes to those more worthy.

Please pledge your support at