Naptastic

06:30 - They are gone. No sounds of squabbling inside and all is quiet outside. Coffee and a smoke on the balcony. This will trigger the clockwork shit.

06:45 - Let's do a bit of work if for no other motive than to appease my conscience. There's a half-finished bottle of rosé in the fridge... what the hell. 

07:15 - That went down a treat. I'm sure there is half a bottle of red around. TalkSPORT is on. The Prem won't be back for a while but there is always football stuff to talk about: Brighton reject 70 million quid bid for Caicedo; Lionesses want more money. Some bloke hit two holes-in-one.

07:40 - Second breakfast looming, brought on by that first glass of red. Scrambled egg goes down a treat. Work-wise, I fool my guilt into believing that I have done enough. Still quiet. Quick check on the world news... heatwaves. Gotta be enough left for a second glass.

08:15 - Second glass despatched. Funny how a guilty pleasure always tastes so good. Back to the balcony for another smoke. 

08:20 - Slash, scratch, bed. Gervais and Merchant are slagging off Pilkington. Heard it a thousand times but I know they and the brekkie vino will send me where I wanna go. Rebecca de Mornay, Clive Warren...

10:20 - Has anyone in the history of sleeping ever woke up as contently as me? It is so relaxing that there should be a bit of classical music being played in the background. Scratch, slash, balcony.

It's just shit

-Dirty cunt- some might say.
Others, -when you gotta go, you gotta go-

The bus stops at the lights just as the geyser is squatting down against the wall, his jeans and underwear pulled far enough away to give his hole some breathing space. The steady stream of semi-solid brown matter starts automatically; it's like it's triggered when the cacks pass a certain point on his arse. The expression on his face is one of relief as he filters the seemingly endless procession of shit with his fingers, presumably to get rid of any chunks that may go astray, and wipes the resulting sludge on the wall. A few people are out and about, but nobody's that close to him. The bus offers the best vantage point. His head darts from side to side, but no intervention's gonna stop him now he's in full flow.

There's a bird sitting in front of me who shoots the bloke a glance, gags a little, and mutters -animal-
How do you take a shit love? The process is basically the same: assume the position, grunt a bit and let gravity do the rest. The only difference between you and him is that his fundament won't smell of roses afterwards (or whatever the fuck they put on bog roll nowadays), and you won't be clawing dried faetal matter from your ass hair until your next crap... comfort kills. And as for animal... it wasn't that long ago when we were hanging from branches flinging shit at each other. Unfortunately, with the passage of time, we have designed so many, more glamorous projectiles.

As the bus pulls away, it's not hard to see the irony: life has done to him what he has just done on the pavement.

Blokes in PJ's

Came back from work about lunchtime the other day; the Turk that's been living in the apartment was standing in the kitchen in his pyjamas - blue things that have definitely past their bin by date. My first thought was, lazy cunt, but this was quickly eclipsed by the second thought, they don't do anything for you, son.

Now, it's probably a piece of piss for Messrs Clooney, Depp, et al. to carry off the whole PJ ensemble, and I'm sure they look very well too, but the stark truth is that the average bloke shouldn't be (or should only be) seen dead in his pyjamas. If I was a woman waking up beside an 'Alan-Harper-attired' twat, I don't think it would inspire a wide-on regardless of the morning glory that may be poking through the flap of the PJ bottoms.

A proper bloke should sleep naked, wake up proud and hard, give his ass a good scratch, and let his nearest and dearest know that he's awake...

Easy on the ego, hard on the head

But it is well known that a man carried away by passion, especially a man getting on in years, is quite blind, and prone to find grounds for hope where there are none; what's more, he loses his judgment and acts like a foolish child, however great an intellect he may have. (The Idiot)

You're out and about. The bird you're with, quite a bit younger than yourself, has an arm around your waist. She looks hot, oozes confidence and sexuality. Every cunt passing by has a quick ogle, and why not? You're not stupid... she makes you look better, more interesting. But don't get too carried away on your ego trip just yet.

She may have those attributes (and more) that the superficial bloke craves, but she also possesses an indefinable quality that sets her apart from most others: there's fire behind those eyes and you know it could spell danger. She's capable of anything and you're not 100% sure you can trust her. So how do you handle it, while preserving your sanity (and some dignity), knowing she's that independent type who's gonna go off and do her own thing when the mood takes her?

Regardless of your feelings for this girl, you know the ego needs fed, otherwise you'd be with that fat bird who's battling those nasty self-esteem demons (let's face it: she's gonna be more than chuffed if you spend 5 minutes in the same room together occasionally, and only fuck her after a night on the lash). To continue to feed the ego we must pay the price and this ultimately means doing business with Mr Paranoia. Yes, you'll spend a lot of time with this uninvited guest when she's out with mates or working late. Still, you could always settle for something more conventional, ogle the hot sort in the street, and wonder what the alternative would be like.

Junior

I don't know much about Junior, I must confess,
But I reckon he's good at reducing all kinds of stress.
I have limited knowledge of these types of toys,
So I'm not sure if he's silent or he makes a noise.

I can only presume his shape and his size,
And how it feels when he's between your thighs.
Loyalty, fidelity won't be problems, surely,
And he'll never go soft or shoot his load prematurely.

I'm jealous of Junior and those things he can do 
But if I practise real hard I could do them too.
However, there's one action he just can't replace,
He'll never get overexcited and make a mess on your face.

Fucking hate Coldplay

I don't know how they manage to do it, but they always seem to have a song doing the rounds when I'm going through strife.

It all kicked off with Clocks in 2003. I was having a bit of a nightmare with the booze and an ex-girlfriend, and there it was on the fucking radio everytime I switched it on. Don't get me wrong... I think it's a very good track, but it just doesn't conjure up good memories.

Onto 2005, and there's Speed of sound. I had a major medical problem around that time (oddly enough, it had something to do with the hooch) and the same thing occurred - I heard the fucker everywhere I went.

Viva la vida came out in 2008, and even though nothing really crappy was happening to me, it still reminds me of some of the problems I was having trying to find a decent job over here.

Onto the present day and I can now connect two songs to the marital shit I'm going through. It kicked off about six months ago with Paradise, and is culminating with that new one - I think it's called Charlie Brown (can't be arsed to check it).

Come on Coldplay... could you give it a rest for about 10 years. Anyway, let's face it, your music's becoming a bit shit anyway.

When shitting becomes a real pain in the arse

Got a new job a few months ago and my daily routine has changed accordingly because of the early morning starts. I didn't notice it immediately, but the old bowels (there's more than one, isn't there?) haven't been a bit pleased with the resulting changes. Traditionally, I'd always taken a dump around 7:30 and another one before lunchtime - that was pretty much me for the day. Now, it's anyone's fucking guess when I'll find myself in the crapper.

The one constant is the first shit of the day. I'm up around 5:30 and I'm on the porcelain within 2 minutes - that's a given. The problem is that my arse has started teasing me (it's like a game of chicken) just before I leave the house about 6 o'clock. I'm a lazy bastard so I can't afford the luxury of shitting twice before I leave for work - 50% of the time I give in and get my trunks down again. The real hassle begins when I don't want to play the game, and just bolt out the door.

You see, you've gotta factor in all the variables: length of bus journey; availability of crappers in work; number of cigarettes x cups of tea/coffee. This is a fucking science in its own! The problem becomes exascerbated (doesn't look right) when you introduce the most unpredictable factor of them all - alcohol consumption. Here's an example:

Went out on Saturday night and had a right skinful - beer, whiskey, rum. Suffered all day Sunday but was feeling 100% come Monday morning (pity my sphincter muscle hadn't received the news). Before I'd got out of the house I'd served up two portions of mini logs (the second didn't flush so good), and was comtemplating a third before 7 o'clock. Stifled that urge for about an hour before giving in, and found myself on the pot again just before lunchtime. I don't mind telling you... I felt exhausted. It's now Thursday, and I reckon I've been more than a dozen times so far this week.

Then there's the wiping, the endless fucking wiping. It's not too bad when you can wipe clean in one session, but you've always gotta be wary of leaving 'man's make-up' behind, especially after a shower. I've never been too fussy about what type of paper I use to clean my ass - newspaper would do if there wasn't anything else available - but recently I've had to start buying the real classy stuff, you know, like $3 a pack. I'm fighting a losing battle here, so the least I can do is pamper the offending area.

Old people fuck faster than...

people walk, over here.

I have absolutely no tolerance for how painfully slowly people walk in this part of the world.

I was in a shopping centre (mall, whatever) yesterday afternoon and I spent most of the time mumbling fuck, shit, bollocks whilst stuck behind slow traffic. I got particularly vexed when I couldn't get by two bints eating ice creams and talking shit whilst moving at the speed of a couple of arthritic snails. I then observed some tart, deep in mobile phone conversation, shuffling up to the escalator only to find that she was trying to go up the one that was going down.

People should really be expected to pass some sort of 'walking coordination test' to prove that they can maintain a certain speed whilst carrying out some basic manual task.

Things are never that bad...

if you can pause to admire some cleavage.

I've been having a pretty piss poor time of it recently - you name it, it seems to be going wrong. So, today I decided to have a coffee and a smoke outside just to, you know, go to my happy place. As I was daydreaming of fuck knows, I was suddenly jolted back into this life by nearby cleavage - the kind of cleavage you want to take a photo of and send to Epic Tits.

It was at this point that I asked myself the following... how bad do things have to get before a man will stop acknowledging lady parts?

The average bloke could be suffering from clinical depression whilst having a flesh eating disease devouring his muchacho, and still think, "hold up... look at the arse on that."

Lest I ever forget

Smoke out the back, don´t smoke out the back

You can´t cook if you can´t clean up

Close the fridge door the moment you take something out of it

Never leave the microwave plugged in when not in use

If your water isn´t too yellow, don´t flush the toilet

Tulip and the Nazi

Proper day's football

How refreshing it was to sit back and enjoy the footy today without being reminded of all the bollocks that has recently overshadowed the great British game...

Giggsy scoring the winner against Norwich in his 900th game for the United - magic!


The Gunners comeback from a 0_2 deficit to beat the Spurs 5_2 and the fickleness of the average fan - "we hate you Theo, we love you Theo."


Cardiff City's dreams cruelly shattered by the Scousers in a dramatic LC final penalty shoot-out.


Rangers bouncing back from their ongoing financial woes with a 4_1 away win.

Just for a change, we could forget about: racism, administration, tax evasion, spoilt bastards throwing their rattles out of prams, special projects, and retards tweeting when they shoud just be shutting the fuck up.

KLSI

Hats off to the bloke who was collecting the fares on the bus this lunchtime. Multiple leers, the odd wolf whistle at any bird that caught his eye when the bus was stopped - did almost everything but take his cock out.

King Leer Society, International

Back in the day, (thanks, Pawn Stars - I can't get that out of my fucking head now) me and my old mate Conrad coined this phrase - I'm not claiming we were the first, we just hadn't heard anyone else use it.

Does it mean that we were fans of the Shakespearean tragedy? No, not really. I've never actually read it. What it means is that we were actually partial to ogling the better examples of the female form. Just looked at the definitions/examples of ogle and leer:

Ogle: to glance with amorous invitation or challenge; he sat at the bar, ogling several women.

Leer: to cast a sidelong glance; she complained that some disgusting man was leering at her.

It soon became obvious to us that there were many like-minded souls in this society, and that several methods were employed in leering:

The full on leer - used mainly by the novice, or the sexual deviant. Lacks subtlety and finesse; leaves the leeree with no doubt in her mind about what's going on.

The mistimed leer - a poorly executed manoevure which results in eye contact. The leerer is left embarrassed, but this can be avoided with more practise.

The consumate leer - this incorporates the use of peripheral vision, and requires the leerer to be aware of his surroundings at all times. Basically, you have the leeree in your sights long before she enters your leering zone, affording a reasonable glance at the frontage. Then, you avert your gaze until she has walked past you, allowing you to take in the view without fear of detection. However, beware the backward glance - the best of us have been caught out by this.

Since I've been in South America, I've been very impressed with the high standard of leering form the Latinos. It's only when you've walked down a main street over here (especially on a good day) that you can truly appreciate just how many curves and cleavages are actually on show - spoilt for choice. I'm proud to say that our international members have mastered the age old art, and will no doubt pass this skill onto future generations.

Old face, young cleavage

I was on a bus today when some nearby cleavage caught my gaze. Proper bloke that I am, I paused to have a butchers at it before glancing at the owner's face (I guess she was about mid-forties), and it was at this point I relaised something just wasn't adding up. The cleavage was deep and split a pair of perfectly good, fresh looking tits, however, the woman's mug left a lot to be desired - wrinkly, troubled, uncared for.

I repeated the observation process a few times - cleavage, face, cleavage, face - and each time it felt like I was looking at two different people. What was her story? Had she intended to have everything renovated only to run out of funds before getting started on the roof, or had the hardships of life only affected her boat and left the chest area unscathed?

Lady parts

I was on holiday last week and I seemed to spend a lot of time looking at women's arses, and now that I've come back I'm paying more attention to the chest area. Does this mean that next week I'll be concentrating on the thigh area? This apparently natural switch of focus has puzzled me for a long time.

This topic came up in a highly intellectual conversation amongst a few mates of mine years ago, but we never really got to the bottom of it. I'm sure there's some high-falutin' scientific explanation that I'm just too fucking lazy to look for, so here's my take on it - I think it has something to do with the first female body part that we ogle at the beginning of the day. I have no scientific research to back this up except that there seemed to be a lot of firm, well rounded arses on display last week, and the first thing that caught my eye yesterday was an exceptionally well mounted set of Bristols.

I read somewhere that the average bloke is attracted to a female whose waist is roughly 7/10's the size of her thighs; this is supposed to be genetically stamped into our brains and relates to a bird's child bearing abilities. That would explain why we cringe when we see some fat bird in a tracksuit whose waist and thighs are roughly the same circumference. This also means that even the most stupid fuckwit can claim to have some knowledge of fractions.

Stupid fucking handshakes

I live, work in an environment where the handshake is considered an important greeting between blokes. I have no problem with this, in fact I applaud it; there's something old fashioned, indeed respectful, about this. However, I've noticed recently that the 'stupid handshake' is beginning to oust its traditional cousin.

You know what I'm talking about... when the hands of the shakee and the shaker go through some sort of weird, personalised fucking dance routine. There are numerous complications associated with this activity,

  how many individual movements are in the shake?
  what are the movements?
  what is the shake duration?

I went into work the other day and started off with a couple of traditional shakes (no confusion there), then got involved in some type of hand flapping, moved onto vertical salutes, and finished off bumping knuckles - all very fucking unnecessary. I like the traditional shake, the traditional shake works for me.

Now I think I'm being regarded as a bit of a handshaking retard due mainly to my lack of interest and coordination, but I have a plan to remedy this. My solution is simple - people should carry with them a detailed description of the movements in their routine. Basically, when you meet someone that you'll potentially shake hands with in the future, you should swap routines and agree on some sort of daily schedule, "we'll use your routine on Monday, Wednesday and Friday, and mine on Tuesday and Thursday." This will give both shaker and shakee time to practice at home and avoid any embarrassing encounters.

Two days lost...

or more appropriately... down the crapper.

Due to my current circumstances, I found myself on my Jack for the New Year. I decided to go out and purchase what I thought was an adequate supply of booze the day before to get me through New Year's Eve. Par for the course, I managed to get through the best part of this before the main event and had to do another run on the Saturday afternoon (par for the course, I bought more than I needed).

My first real recollection of 2012 was waking up on Monday morning. Realising that I still had a small ration of the Devil's piss, I mixed up a booze breakfast and eventually stumbled into the new year some time on Monday night - two days well and truly fucking lost.

The main victim however, has been my arse - I have never 'pissed' so much filth into a toilet bowl in my life! And was it all worth the effort... was it fuck!

It's not a Milky Way, it's a Mars Bar

There are some who know the Mars Bar as a Milky Way, but don't be fooled, it's always been a fucking Mars Bar and it'll always be a fucking Mars Bar. The Milky Way is/was (?) similar to a Mars Bar but is/was smaller and doesn't/didn't contain the creamy caramel (the Milky Way went through some sort of transformation a while ago, I think).

Now that I find myself living in S.A, I have discovered you can buy packs of Mars Bars from the local supermarket. They're a lot more fucking expensive than I remember when I was a cub but the exquisite flavour has not diminished, especially when accompanied by a mug of tea.

Back in the day, when the grocery van came round our square, we normally had to go for the Milky Way (think it was about 10p) as the Mars Bar was considered a fucking luxury, weighing in at roughly 16p. When one was fortunate enough to have the necessary funds to purchase one, one had to take drastic measures to enjoy the tasty chocolate treat in peace. You normally had to do one of the following:

     find a quiet place and eat it like you were having an affair with a friend's mum

     spit on it to deter the vulture cunts that were your mates (wasn't always effective)

It's also worth pointing out that any chocolate bars/sweets over the average price had to be treated in the same way (Rolos, Lion Bars, Cream Eggs, etc.)

I recall one particular Saturday morning, I must have been 12 or 13, when I had enough coin to purchase a Mars Bar. I thought I had bought myself a couple of minutes to eat the bastard in peace when, much to my shock, one of the older boys (yes, you D.Vennard) wrapped his hands round my throat to prevent me from swallowing it. I think the fuck would actually have eaten the regurgitated product had I not repelled him.

Mars Bars!

The unfinished ogle

Very frustrating, this...

I was waiting on getting a coffee served up this morning when I spotted this bird standing outside chatting to a couple of people. She was decked out all in black - knee-length boots, leggings, blouse - and she certainly looked the part from the front. But you know the score... you can't really pass judgement until you've had a butchers at the chassis.

I continued casually glancing out the window (confident that I'd cop a look when she walked off) until my coffee was ready, then took a split second to grab some sugar. When I looked back she'd gone.

It's a bit like losing a sneeze.

Delighting in the misfortune of others

I had a bad feeling about United's game against Basle on Wednesday. I actually work with a Swiss bloke, and I told him about an hour before the game that I wouldn't be surprised if United got beaten. I think he thought that I was humouring him in some way, so he responded to my remark with a casual laugh.

When I got home I realised that I only had a choice of two games to watch on the box, Man City v Munich, and Villarreal v Napoli. I decided to watch the City game, on the off chance that they'd lose, and follow the United game on the BBC Live Text. However, once United went 1-0 down I flicked over to the Napoli game and started rooting for them. The only time I was happy during the afternoon was when Napoli scored their second goal close to the final curtain. I was right royally fucked off that United had been dumped out in such humiliating fashion, but fed greedily off the crumbs of City's misfortune.

Then, on Thursday, it was Liga de Quito playing in the first leg of the Copa Sudamericana final against Universidad de Chile. The game was in Quito and the home team were expected to win handsomely (I know a LOT of locals, and 80% of them are Liga fanatics). All day Thursday, I suffered jibes about United's exit from the CL and listened to them spout their predictions of 2-0 and 3-0 victories for the home side -throat clearing noise- Liga performed miserably and the Chilean side took a 1-0 victory away with them... more crumbs of comfort to shove down my gullet.