The wheels have finally come off the 'gong giving' malarky.
It's all just getting fucking ridiculous.
Any twat that bothers to 'get up of a morning' seems to be getting one these days.
If you won a medal at the Olympics then you're fucking home and dry. Thanks for doing well at exactly what you were supposed to do well at - here, have a gong me old mate!
Oh, hang on a minute you did really well so why not have a fucking knighthood. A fucking knighthood for riding a twatting bike? You must be having a giraffe!
Arise Sir Write A Book, arise Sir Do A Bit For Charity, arise Sir County Council Executive. Sweep the roads OBE, sing a few songs CBE, services to this services to that MBE. As for The Order of the Bath. What the fuck is that all about? What a shower!
Please don't get me wrong. I am not saying that they haven't worked hard or that they haven't excelled at what they do. They have my respect for that.
I am just fucking pissed off at the vast waste of time and money, yet again, at the tax payers expense. And for what? What does it achieve? How does it help anyone?
The recipients have already received fair praise and recompense for their efforts.
Why not leave it at that!
PS. If anyone at the Chancellory is reading this I've just finished doing a fucking nice job of fitting a new bathroom. Customer was so pleased that they had to 'knock one out'. Ok, so I got paid for a job very well done, it's one of the many things that I am good at, but any chance of a gong you fuckers!
Finally finished counting all the bloody socks, boxer shorts, handkerchiefs and fucking longjohns. Took a bit longer this year due to extended periods of 'eye of the needle' anal aerobics. Must have been something that I ate although solid food hasn't been too high on the agenda in the last 2 days. As per usual my Christmas Day and Boxing Day fayre mainly consisted of fine wines, twiglets, champagne and a selection of single malts.
Ahh yes, I can see the problem there, too many fucking twiglets.
Woke up this morning, still wearing my safety gear, thinking "thank fuck that those 2 days are over".
This was shortly followed by a sudden sense of panic.
Had the Monkey been?
I had a pounding headache so things didn't seem too promising.
Then I checked the mouth. Oh dear the signs were there alright.
I ran downstairs to check the bottles. All empty.
The wallet? Devoid of all cash.
"Everything ok? Are you alright?" said Pigsy, in a 'you look rough as fuck' kind of way.
"That bastard Monkey must have crept in during the night", I replied ruefully.
"Oh I see" she said, trying and failing to disguise that 'serves you right' grin that she has in her armoury. "Over imbibed again have you?"
I couldn't answer. I hate that fucking Monkey.
Whilst I was slumbering he must have removed my safety helmet and clouted my head with a mallet. Then he must have lifted my safety goggles and rubbed bogies into my eyes, shortly followed by an urge to deficate into my open mouth. As if that wasn't enough he must have tip toed down the stairs and emptied all my beloved bottles of joy into the sink. Finally the bastard must have removed all the cash from my wallet.
"Fire up the perculator Pigsy!"
"Expresso No.5?" she asked knowingly.
Almost forgot to mention the Boxing Day Hunt that visited the manicured lawns at Twat Towers.
Unfortunately my blood pressure won't allow me to discuss this subject in depth. All I can say is 'Hunts'. What does that rhyme with?
I have recovered from yesterday's annual man pilgrimage to the High Street. This ritual did not pass without scars, both mental and physical, but I have survived.
The big day is here and I am all kitted out ready for any eventuality. In fact Pigsy even suggested that I look resplendent in my finest Christmas safety wear!
Nanny will be pleased, I'm sure, too.
I have even included asbestos underwear just in case I decide, as last year, to set light to my farts at the dinner table. It's the only party trick I know!
In fact I feel quite cheery today as I sit here awaiting a hearty meal and the impending arrival of my very good friends 'Chablis', 'St.Emilion' and 'Islay' . My other good friend, 'Bolli', arrived much earlier this morning but has already departed.
The shit for brains health and safety inspectors are at it again.
The guardians of the 'nanny state' have insisted that 45 police officers attend a 2 hour course to learn how to use a 3ft step ladder!
Once 'qualified', to use this piece of complicated equipment, they then have to wear a high vis jacket and 'cone off' the ladder so that no-one bumps into it.
Excuse me but what the fuck has happened to good old common sense!
Will you 'nanny state' mongs stop wasting time and money on yet more mindless fucking bollocks. Please go and find something better to do with your lives. Perhaps you could pick up dead leaves on the M1 or something? Please.
I suggest that the police should concentrate on 'sorting out' all those drunken and aggressive wankers that are making our streets increasingly unsafe.
The best way that they can use a 3ft ladder is to clip those ignorant tossers around the ear with it - then, stick a fucking cone up their lardy arses, preferably fat end first, and with a slight left hand twist.
It's comforting to know that as Christmas approaches we can try and forget how much our pathetic government is ruining our lives by putting up a few cheery decorations.
But no, hold on a fucking minute, some wanker of a jobsworth at Scrooge Council HQ has decided that tinsel is dangerous!
A school lollipop man has been told to remove the tinsel from his lollipop because it may distract drivers and put children in danger. Apparently he was 'reported' to the Council by an anonymous passer-by, who had nothing better to do, the sad twat.
Answer me this, you tossers. How can a piece of tinsel be more distracting than some bloke dressed in bright yellow clothing holding a great big fucking lollipop.
Wake up smell the coffee, get a fucking life and stop wasting Council Tax payers money on small minded bollocks.
First of all I have to avoid all the morons tear arseing around with their trollies - where's the fucking fire! Nobody told me that Tesco are on the F1 Grand Prix calender.
Then there are the kids, those snotty nosed little shits with no manners whatsoever, who just seem to do and say what the fuck they like. Its no wonder when you see their chav mothers, in velour shell suit bottoms, trying to decide how many cans of vodka Red Bull to buy. Those Katona lookalike bitches make no fucking attempt to restrain those twatting little Whitney, Britney and Shitney bastards. I fucking hate 'em, mainly because those brainless tossers have got loads more money to spend than I have because they're all on fucking benefits!
Dithering about the place whilst conducting a master class in how to be frugal.
Have you ever seen them buying one rasher of bacon, half a sausage and 3oz of tripe? At least they don't need bog roll - they're still using a commemorative copy of The Daily Telegraph that was published the Sunday after
The Titanic sank!
Finally I get to the breakfast cereal aisle! No shit!
There must have been ten different types of fucking Weetabix on those shelves.
What the twatting, bollocksy, fuckwank is going on here?
I just want an ordinary box Weetabix!
Gold? Gold what? Is that why it's so fucking expensive.
Please don't tell me it's got cow shit and sheep piss in it.
Weetabix Fruit & Fibre
If we needed a good shit we'd have had a curry last night.
Fuck me, they make small cars out of this stuff now.
Anyone seen one on the road?
I bet they're fucking useless in the wet!
What tosser decided how big a bite is then?
Kids bite? Adult Bite? Love Bite, Fucking dog bite?
Weetabix Chocolate Crisp
A kids birthday party feast all mixed up together in a bowl.
That's sure to make the little bastards puke all over their Wii.
Weetabix Honey & Nut
For fuck's sake put honey on your toast, like any normal person and scratch your nuts whilst your eating it you tossers!
Then there's all the cheap shite Tesco versions
and the Oat-a-fucking-bran-a-nutri-wank-a-flake versions.
Whatever happened to the good old 'pie and a pint'?
Who the fuck decided that the great British public wants over priced 'lardee dardee' shit for lunch?
Mediterranean vegetables with goats cheese and basil on a baby jacket potato £5.95 - fuck off!
Rocket and wild mushrooms with an autumn berry jus on ciabatta £4.75 - bollocks!
For fucks sake, where have the cheese and onion sandwiches and meat pies gone?
It won't be long before pubs stop selling beer!
Will all you pub landords stop bleating on about how bad trade is because of the credit crunch and wake up and smell the coffee (cappuccino, frappuccino, cafe mocha or whatever the fuck else you call it these days).
Have you ever got used to something always doing its job? It carries on year after year without a hint of breaking down, and if you're really lucky, you can even get away without servicing it either? Oh sweet heaven.
Then, just when you expect it least, usually at the most inconvenient time, the fucking thing develops a fault.
Well that's just what happened to the bloody dishwasher tonight!
Ok, it's over 25 years old and so what do I fucking expect but Pigsy has absolutely refused to wash the dishes tonight. Apparently, she is sick and fucking tired of me not paying attention to what she is saying (selective deafness I call it) and as a result she can no longer guarantee to do the washing up on a regular basis until I 'mend my ways'.
Mend my ways! Mend my fucking ways! Try talking to me about something interesting and then I'll fucking listen! Something that doesn't sound like 'blah blah squeal, yatter twitter yatter, blahdee fucking blah', might help!
England are getting thrashed in the 4th ODI cricket against India (no change there then!).
Thank fuck it's raining there at the moment so we might get away with a draw! Don't bother ringing any call centres today 'cos all those muppets from Bangalore are at the ground, jumping up and down like a load of twats everytime India score! Press 3 to nuke the whole fucking lot of them I say.
Pissing with rain here too, so needless to say that fucking cat has just come in and dumped another load of toxic waste. That'll be my nostrils fucked again!
Put the radio on and was confronted with the new Tom Jones single . . . what the fuck is that all about? Its about time that old fart knocked it on the head. Who wants to see some 110 year old has been from the valleys, still thrusting his leather clad, lump of coal filled crotch at anything with tits. Its fucking disgusting!
Turned the radio off, put the cricket back on, still fucking raining!
If you're looking for a well constructed and balanced argument on the subject of the BBC Licence Fee, then you're in the wrong place.
Jonathan Ross or Wonathan Wucking Woss (as he is known in this house) is a complete an utter fucking, twating, bolloxing waste of licence fee payers money. £16m for what? Showing us how far up his own arse he can shove his head?
Poncing about the place and sticking his tongue up anyone's arse that has got a new film/show/book/single to promote?
Please do me favour and fuck off (keep the change it'll be worth it).
Even though I fucking hate that kiddy fiddler, Gary Glitter, I hear that he has phoned Ross to say he has fucked his daughter, nice one!
Strictly Come Dancing . . . The judges are a bunch of moronic coffin dodgers!
If you don't like the public's opinion then don't invite them to phone in and fucking give it! Leave John Sargeant alone!
The One Show . . . The fucking One Show! That's ironic, there's fucking hundreds of them!
Its another example of shitting out licence fee money 'til the cows come home.
Full of mindless crap and yet another BBC vehicle for anybody who wants to promote their new film/show/book/single.
As for the presenters? A pasty faced twat that looks liked he's walked into a door on the way to the studio and some bird with a face full of teeth that looks like a fucking matchstick with all the wood shaved off!
That Adrian Chiles is fucking everywhere, he's like dog shit!
Fuck off back to Working Lunch where nobody can see you!
Just like the BBC does with some of it's output, I've got a feeling that I'm going to produce a series of worthless fucking episodes of this shit!
Now don't get me wrong, I love cats. Especially so when I was younger. There's something very therapeutic about stroking a nice pussy. Trouble is that when you get older it gets harder to find one that will keep still long enough for you to gain some comfort from it.
Anyway, I digress, what I fucking hate about cats is the unbelievable stink of their shit!
Have you ever in your whole life had anything that rips the fuck out of your nostrils than the smell of a cats bowel movement? There I am relaxing in the evening enjoying a nice glass of red and exchanging the details of my exciting day with Pigsy . . . and then it hits me! "Is that you dear?" I ask in a controversial kind of way, knowing that I'm going to regret it. Sure enough "Fuck off!" comes the reply "Are you sure it isn't you?". The Scrapster looks the other way and then confirmation of the real culprit reaches my ears.
Its the sound of cat litter being manically scattered at a vast rate of knots in a vain attempt to cover the almighty fucking stench of the cat's shit! Trouble is 75% of it ends up on the floor (Thats the cat litter not the shit). Its so nice having a gravel driveway for a hall!
What really gets my fucking goat is that the cat has been outside all day and I've just let her in. The first thing she fucking does when she comes in is take a fucking dump! What's that all about? Why couldn't she do it outside and preferably in a neighbours garden. If I was paranoid (which I'm not, am I?) I'd think she was giving me a head fuck!
What's even worse is that her name is Sweetie . . . . who the fuck thought of that name? (Can't say). I suggest that next time we have a cat we need to wait and see how bad her shit smells before we name her.
And another thing, as soon as you clear away the offending article, wearing 3 clothes pegs and using a pair of barbecue tongs, the next thing she does is park her fucking tea again!
Where does it all come from? What the fuck is she eating? Whiskers? More like Shitty Kat!
P.S. I wish my cat could do this (and flush afterwards!)
I'm sick and fucking tired of having to watch programme adverts on the BBC. For fucks sake, why would anyone want to see a preview of a programme about the one they are about to watch? Example "Next tonight on BBC is Spooks". This is then followed by a trailer about Spooks. Then Spooks starts! Why don't those fucking twats at the BBC stop arseing around and just show the fucking programme.
Another thing "Coming Soon", coming fucking soon!
Whats that all about? Coming when? If we were at all interested in "this programme" that was "Coming Soon", when can we fucking see it then, you tossers? How long is "Soon"? An hour, a day, a week, a fucking month?
"Coming Soon" . . . . Perhaps its a reference to all those female presenters who seem to be pregnant every 5 minutes (or is it 9 months?). Twats!