Tuesday, June 29, 2004

Riding Along in my Automobile

A pain in the arse, that’s what driving across the centre of one of Britain’s larger cities twice a day is. A right pain in the arse.

One junction in particular is a nightmare. Oncoming drivers on the carriageway I am joining can’t really tell that you’re there - and even those that do don’t let you out very often. The upshot is that I can sometimes sit there for several minutes. A right pain in the arse.

So, on the odd occasion were someone slows down to let me out I am always really chuffed. Last night was such an occasion. I was pleased to be waved through by some nice chap in a Peugeot. “Good man!” I said audibly to myself. I mouthed “Thanks mate” at him as I pulled out whilst also raising my hand to acknowledge. Then, for good measure, I also gestured gratitude in the mirror when in front of him. I didn’t want to miss the Henman match, Peugeot man had done me a big favour.

Then I began to consider whether he actually is a good man. Maybe he isn’t. Maybe he is driving a stolen car. Maybe he is on his way home and if his dinner isn’t ready he’ll give his wife a black eye. Maybe he’s a cannibal.

Then you think about those people on the roads who selfishly block junctions, who cut you up at a roundabout, who use filter lanes to queue jump. Wankers, the lot of them. Absolute fucking wankers. But hold on - how many of these people are on their way home from donating £10000 to charity? How many have just been made redundant and can’t feed the family? How many have just left the bedside of a dying relative?

It’s amazing how your identity can change when you get behind the wheel. Any character preconceptions you have of people you would not go near in the street suddenly go out of the window providing they let you change lanes. As a driver, I suppose you will never really know. Your mentality is set to abide by the rules of highway etiquette. These are that you thank those who need thanking and you stick your middle finger up at those who don’t.

But ever since my journey home last night - the thought I just might smile and wave to a paedophile who has a child tied up in the boot has made me feel sick.

On the flipside – the guy at whom I mouthed “fuck you dickhead” may have been the Archbishop of Canterbury, so every cloud…

Friday, June 25, 2004

The Friday Fuckwit!

This weeks Fuckwit has been written by Pencil, aged 25, From Reading.

#9. Tony Blackburn
Gimpy DJ, Cliff Richard loving, King of the Jungle Fuckwit.

On Wednesday, Tony Blackburn was suspended by Classic Gold for playing Cliff Richard records. He remains off the air at the digital radio station and the 61-year-old DJ will certainly be missed by his regular audience of more than 400, 000 breakfast show listeners.

Whilst Tony’s boss, the station’s managing director, was on holiday, clever old Tony decided to play a record by Sir Cliff. He was hauled into the office on the boss’s return and instructed not to play any more of the wrinkly old virgin’s tracks. Undeterred, he went on to play three Cliff records on the same day and ripped up his bosses email (informing him that playing Cliff was against station policy) on air. Unsurprisingly, the boss decided to put a halt to Tony’s shenanigans, before he disappeared too far up Cliff’s arse, and suspended him, which I think is where I came in.

There are any number of Friday fuckwits to choose from here. Tony for playing Cliff’s shitehawk music, Cliff for being a highly unbalanced nazi Christian virgin devil child, Tony’s boss for hiring Tony, Noel Edmonds for owning 80 per cent of shares in the station and the 400, 000 listeners who tune in every morning and legitimise Tony’s existence to name but a few.

But hats off to Tony, pictured in the paper wearing his ‘Jock till you drop’ t-shirt for behaving like a prize cunt and making Cliff Richard’s music a point of principle. Following the controversy, Cliff was reported to have said ‘Good on Tony Blackburn’. If that doesn’t make Tony a fuckwit, then nothing does.

Thursday, June 24, 2004

Mon Voiture

The ferry docked at Portsmouth on Monday evening at around 9pm. We got in the car and set off from the port, full to the brim with shopping so rather heavy and sluggish. In fact 150 quids worth of booze and cheese were stashed neatly in the boot, not even leaving enough room for a couple of small Armenians.

We made it about 8 miles along the Motorway with the footy on the radio. Little did I realise that this was draining valuable power. The light was becoming dusky so I decided that sidelights were probably the way to go. As I switched them on the car lost power and we slumped onto the hard shoulder, 120 miles from home. Nuts.

To cut a long story short we were collected and taken by pick-up to a local garage who advised that the alternator was long-since fucked and, at 10.30 at night, they did not have the parts to fix it. Bugger. So we were loaded onto another pick-up and driven back to Bristol, where we arrived at about 1.45am on Tuesday morning.

Once back we were unloading the car via winch from the truck in our narrow, steep, terraced Bristol street. At that time of night I felt a bit sorry for the neighbours. The truck had to keep it’s lights to give enough light to make sure we didn’t hit anything and Mr Fixit had to leave the engine running in order to operate the winch.

But as if the ordeal hadn’t quite been bad enough, as if the eleven hour journey from Le Havre had not be sufficiently stressful and upsetting, some utter prick leant out of a nearby upstairs window and starting shouting that we’d woken his household up and he was going to call the ‘fucking police’.

What goes through people’s heads? Unfortunately he had disappeared before I could reply “Terribly sorry mate, we’ll do our utmost to break down a little earlier next time, or failing that we’ll make sure that if it is getting late we’ll sleep under our coats by the side of the motorway” “You wanker.”

Anyhow, I would have thought the ‘fucking police’ would be more interested in lewd and bawdy public behaviour, shagging up against lampposts, sex with cats, that sort of thing?

Saturday, June 19, 2004


That's where I'm going today. Well, Le Harve to be precise. Just nipping over to get some wine and cheese.
I'll be back on Tuesday, bearing gifts of some frogs limbs and half a horse.

Friday, June 18, 2004

The Friday Fuckwit!

#8. Martin Fowler
Badly Acted, Jumped Up, Fruit Vending, Allotment Fuckwit.

Well, would you marry a bird who looks like a vomiting gargoyle suffering from facial spasms?


Wednesday, June 16, 2004

A Momentous Occasion in the History of Crumbkind

Having viewed approximately 18 trillion houses and flats in Bristol over the last 3 months we have finally bought a flat. It is smaller than we wanted, and to be honest we would have preferred a house, but it cheaper than we budgeted for and is in a fantastic location so we are definitely winning.

Our offer was accepted this morning and there is no chain in either direction, so fingers crossed, it has the makings of a smooth operation. That said - I am preparing myself for a torrid couple of months and will not get my hopes up until everything is sealed.

However I do have mixed emotions. It’s all very exciting and everything but the thing is that I don’t really want to move. The large 2-bed house I have rented for the last 3 years is great. There is masses of space and a garden, which I am really going to miss. If I could afford to buy a like for like place I wouldn’t hesitate. But, needs must. You can’t go on paying out dead money every month on something you don’t own. A muff is a muff, (as no doubt someone once said.)

So the rigmarole of planning how to downsize and the potential sadness of getting rid of stuff that we would ideally keep is ahead of us. But at the end of the day I am soon going to be the on-the-property-ladder-est. Which was nice.

Barman, drinks all round.

Tuesday, June 15, 2004

A Mugs Game

Quite glad I had £5 on Bulgaria to reach the quarter finals then…

Quote of the Week

From Federico (Big Brother 4 show pony) about Emma (current housemate and winner of this year’s “screechy irritating prick” award - previous winners include Jar Jar Binks)

“She looks as if she’s been smacked around the face with a cricket bat wrapped in chicken wire”

Bravo sir!

Monday, June 14, 2004

The Late Late Show

I’m not so sure it’s a bad thing you know, losing to France I mean. Of course it could never be a good thing - but providing we still qualify (and after the Croatia vs Switzerland game it still looks hopeful) I reckon we can look at it positively.

The fact is that had England won the press would have been even more unbearable than usual, making out that we are the best side since Brazil in 1970. Our players would have become even more cocky and so complacent they would have probably lost to one of the others instead. God knows our players do not need their egos inflating any further.

So lets take it as a good thing. We matched France for long periods in the game. The players know what they have to do now and should have more incentive to play well in the remaining group games. And let’s count ourselves lucky as James could (and should) have been sent off.

I got hammered last night and was supping ale until quarter to 2 this morning. This would have been fine had I not had to take Bonobo and Mrs Bonobo to Bristol airport at 7am. Ouch. He’s gone to Turkey by the way, and I am minging.

Friday, June 11, 2004

The Friday Fuckwit!

#7. Felicity Barr
Virtually unwatchable, wooden, awful awful awful newsy ITN Fuckwit .

I reckon that it’s safe to assume Felicity was not employed by ITN for her journalistic ability? This woman reads the sport report in a manner only achievable by someone who does not know what sport is. She puts so much effort into making it so deadly serious you’d think she was warning us about a fresh outbreak of plague.

All channels appear to favour women sports reporters these days and I’m all for it (especially if they look like Kirsty Gallacher). But ITN, as always, have successfully managed to entrust the task to the person who looks the most uncomfortable on camera out of anyone on the network. Why does she move her head all the time? With every single word comes a jerk like a comedy nervous twitch. And stop blinking woman! One of these days you’ll use up your full lifetime quota of blinks and your eyes will dry up and your head will spontaneously combust. (maybe).

On second thoughts, keep blinking…do it more…and quicker…

Wednesday, June 09, 2004

Talc Of The Town

There are some things that are strictly 'personal' aren't there? The sort of things that are pretty embarrassing, the sort of things that you really don't need to tell people. Ever. Definitely the sort of things you shouldn't blog.

Ah well, here goes, let me tell you a story...

As many of you know, whilst at university - myself, Pencil, Bonobo & Worzel all used to share a flat. There were also two other flatmates, lets call them Ernie and B...ert. We all lived together above a kebab shop in inner-city Southampton.

The summer of our final year arrived. The weather got very hot indeed. The flat got even hotter (the heat from the elephant's leg shop filtered up through the floors). At the time I working part time in a French Patisserie, scraping together enough money for beer and jars of pickled cockles. This too was exceptionally hot as there were ovens kept at a high temperature all day long.

Every Monday I worked from 9 until 3 in the shop, then would cycle home across the city centre, quickly change and then head to a lecture from 4 until 8. This was hot work. I got sweaty. The problem was that I was sweaty from work, then sweaty from cycling, then I'd jump in the shower and when I got out, instead of drying off, I'd just get sweaty again from the heat of the flat.

Aside from dousing oneself in Lynx, one found that an excellent method of keeping oneself 'in order' was to apply talcum powder to one's 'restricted areas'. Yes folks, I got into the habit of talcing my nuts. Let me tell you, it gives a guy a pleasant, comfortable feeling down below when everywhere else is perspiring. Try it, you might even like it.

Anyhow, one Monday I had showered and had returned to my room where I stuck on some very loud music whilst changing (and talcing). I sat naked on the edge of my bed, grasped my old fella in one hand and my tub of talc in the other. Then I became aware that my bedroom door was opening. It was too late, I opened my mouth to yell "wait", but Ernie had already popped his head around the corner to say hello.

I think he probably wishes he'd knocked.

And I'm never quite sure whether the lads believe that I was talcing my bits. I'm certain Ernie does, as he clearly saw for himself. As for the rest of them? I'm not so sure what they say when my back is turned. I don't blame them, I mean, would you believe me...?

Tuesday, June 08, 2004

Quote Me Happy

Life’s pivotal decisions:

Straight or Gay?
Meat Eater or Vegetarian?
Britney or Christina?
And the all-important - what’s the more irritating out of 1. Bev Kev Bev Kevving, 2. Curry’s adverts with the Barker witch or 3. Norwich Union ‘quote me happy’ adverts?

It ranks up there doesn’t it?

Last night I watched an episode of The Royle Family. Superb.
Then I changed channels.

No Craig Cash. No.

No. No. No. No. No. No.

Having co-written and starred in one of the most widely acclaimed sitcoms of recent times why on earth have you reduced yourself to this? A ‘quote me happy’ ad. You twunt.

Oh, and I’m back from camping btw. Lovely to see you. Weather was unbelievable; I am a delightful shade of turd brown.

Tuesday, June 01, 2004

Gone Fishin'

Well, surfing actually. Yes folks I can smugly report that just 6 weeks after Bonobo and I went to Newquay for a week I am officially back on holiday. This time I'm off to Croyde. Went out this morning and spanked £140 on a new tent - this is it - the Gelert Skydome 6. It's lush.

We’re not intending to come back until Sunday so no posts until early next week. However we will need a weekly fuckwit so lets just say it’s Worzel for this week cos that’s easy.

Until next time look after yourselves, and each other


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