Fred to Darling: "Fuck You"

You know what, if I had managed to negotiate a future income of 25 grand a week, fine wines, country houses and as many girls as my tongue could cope with¹ from a government that could not find its arse with both hands and a map let alone navigate a path to future prosperity I would most certainly be going "Fuck you" when said government came back and said "er, that deal we negotiated, it's really become politically embarrassing so would you mind handing that seventeen million quid back"

Look as you know I work for Banco di Haggis I'm not really meant to comment but let's say that should Sir Fred ever cross my path he'd be getting both nostrils set to "crispy" and not just because he's a fucking knight but he made a great place to work into a laughing stock and every time we get summoned to a manager's pow-wow we're all sat there going "ooooh fuck... here it comes"... and don't get me started on the sodding ABN merger. That said though if the government, B de H's major (only?) shareholder makes such an epic FAIL then one really cannot blame Fred The Shite for taking the cash and running whilst no doubt grinning like a loon at his good fortune.

Mind you we now have to watch NuLab throw good money after bad as they will no doubt in their socialist spite start a court case to get the cash back. When they do I really hope that Fred opens up and spills the whole story of the backroom deals and political chicanery that went on "that weekend" and thus hammers yet another nine incher into the coffin of Gordon the Monocular Cunt.


¹ (c) Ben Elton, back when he was funny.

Who Killed Stuart Lubbock?

All through yesterday thanks to the humungous plasma screen tellies on the wall at work (now 70% owned by all you lucky taxpayers out there) which are permanently tuned to Sky News for some unfathomable reason every time I looked up I was treated to the sorry sight of this stupid fucker.



This is Terry Lubbock who yesterday was sporting the t-shirt you see in the picture which reads "Who killed Stuart Lubbock?". I am assuming it says that because the guys down at PrintaShirt told him that "I am a homophobe who cannot accept the fact that my son was into taking massive quantities of drugs and enjoyed getting rogered roughly up the arse" would not fit, even on an XXL shirt.

OK so it kinda sucks that your kid died but what do you fucking expect when he took a cocktail of drink, ecstasy and enough Colombian marching powder to open an artificial ski-slope and then, after a few rounds of coked-up bottysex, fell into a swimming pool when everyone else was similarly in a haze of pharmaceutical oblivion and probably, therefore, not at their most attentive.

Actually come to think of it... how come I never get invited to that sort of party?

So even though the Essex Filth made a complete Horlicks of the investigation, my guess is Terry that who killed your son was himself.

But that's not good enough for you is it Tezza, no we need to keep blaming the nasty queers because your son wasn't a queer was he? No could not have been, look here's a picture of him in a morning suit getting married to something dressed in a marquee. He really could not have possibly been on the other bus and fantasized about pulling a train of these guys...



... not your perfect son, no way. Must have been murder. Course it must.

Still, nice little handout coming to you courtesy of the public purse. When some granny in Basildon gets her head cracked open by some scrote who nicks her pension money because there's no copper on the street because that copper's salary is in your back pocket I'm sure that won't cause you any lack of sleep. You cunt.

Introducing The Archko Volume

OK so I have fallen for this "Let Wikipedia Name Your Band" meme.


This is my little beat combo:

If The Archko Volume sounded like anything I recon it would be something like early Simple Minds meets Godspeed You Black Emperor but played on xylophones and ukuleles.

Have a go yourself... it's rather fun:

Go to Wikipedia. Hit “random” and the title of the first article you get is the
name of your band. Then go to “Random Quotations” and the last four or five
words of the very last quote of the page is the title of your imaginary band’s
album. Next, go to Flickr and click on “Explore the Last Seven Days” and the
third picture, no matter what it is, will be your album cover.

Have a look at some more (done with better photoshoppery than I can muster!) here:
http://www.buzzfeed.com/expresident/the-best-of-wikipedia-names-your-band

Snap

Lt Ilea from the first "Star Trek" movie and Jade Fucking Goody... separated at birth?

OK sure it sucks that she's got cancer, it sucks that ANYONE gets cancer but please can we get a grip here? How many poor fuckers whose hair has fallen out and are spending three days out of seven honking up from the drugs they give you must be sick to the back teeth that all of a sudden everyone cares about cancer victims. They didn't get that cunttrumpet parasite Clifford smarming up to their hospital bed and doing exclusive deals for the papers did they and I'm fucking sure that they would all like to "care for their family when they are gone" as well.

No the people making all the fuss are the "Grieve By Proxy" crowd. You know the silly fucks who leave acres of teddies and balloons outside where some sprog has died in a suitably gruesome manner to make the six o' clock sodding news. The ones weeping and wailing after Diana decided that getting into a merc with a pissed frog and doing 180kph through Paris was a sodding great idea. "Oh you poor person," they probably go to our cancer victim "You must feel so close to Jade now." I tell you if anyone does that beat the shit out of them with your drip stand.

And I mean it's not as though we are about to lose anyone, you know, important or anything. I mean she's famous for being famous and fuck all else. The overall culture of the UK will actually go up once she's not wobbling over our TV schedule any more as she desperately tries to cash in yet again on being a thick cow on a reality TV show.

The New Witches

You know I recon that the paedophiles must be rubbing their hands together with utter glee at the moment as the great British public have found someone to hate even more than them. I am, of course, referring to bankers.

Yes the evil, nasty, corrupt, thieving bastards who have run the economy into the toilet and pocketed huge sums. Lots of finger wagging, tough talking and last week's kangaroo court political theatre courtesy of our lords and masters who were quite happy to take the corporation tax amounting to billions from these evil nasty bankers when their banks were making telephone number profits not to mention trousering 40% of those bonus payments. You didn't hear much clamouring from the fucking socialists then did you?

What pisses me right off is that now I work for the monocular haggis-fucking cunt* who "does not want to run a bank" we have all been told in no uncertain circumstances that there won't be a single penny in bonuses for the likes of code cutting dragons this year. Mind you that did make for a very brief annual appraisal because of course your bonus normally depends on your appraisal rating for the year.

"OK Dracunculus, so your appraisal for this year, lets see now."

"Doesn't really matter a fuck does it, there's no money."

"Er, fair point. Fancy a coffee"

"Sure, you're buying"

So why am I reading that Banco Di Haggis will be paying out massive bonuses? They certainly won't be to me. So which bugger is getting them? Better not be any of the cunts who turned my bank into a laughing stock, made me work the this fucking shower of lefties and mean that I am having to do my own fucking landscape gardening rather than getting a man in.

I suck at landscape gardening.







* Trouble with Clarkson is that he needs to ramp up his swearing content, "One Eyed Scottish idiot" really doesn't cut it when we are talking about Gordo.

Where's the dragon?

Some people have, apparently, been missing me. Quite why you are missing a foul-tempered fire breathing lizard that swears like a fishwife is beyond me but there you go.

Your scaly green friend is having to take a break from blogging as, rather foolishly, he decided to take on not one but two units for his Open University mathematics degree in January and so blogging time on the train has rather been taken over by balancing text books on my knees and juggling calculators and pencils (much to the amusement of my fellow commuters - well at least they found it funny until they got turned into small smouldering piles of ash).

Normal service should be resumed in April. Until then please carry on hating Gordon Brown and all his works without me.

Love and kisses

Dracunculus

When Christmas Decorations Attack

Just for the record I absolutely fucking hate Christmas (but then again I fucking hate everything) and I utterly, utterly loathe those people who festoon their house in sodding light bulbs sometime in November in what they think is a marvellous son et lumiere tribute to the Son Of Man but in reality is a LED shitstorm of cheap tackyness.

However over on The Paramedic's Diary I read a wonderful story of one chavtastic disfunctional family who probably won't be draining the National Grid with their blinking cack next year...

Then a 2am call came in for an 18 year-old who’d fallen thirteen floors after an argument with his mother... I could see the ambulance inside a small courtyard below a very tall block of flats. It was eerily quiet as I approached the figures standing around the crew... They were looking down at the body of a young man - he lay like a starfish, arms outstretched, on the concrete. Blood had gathered in a think dark pool under his head. His eyes were shut and he was very still.

So what had caused this tragedy?

The boy had argued with his mother about a trivial matter. He had a habit of climbing over the balcony of the flat and standing on a thin ledge on the other side, holding onto the balcony itself. From there he would threaten to jump. It was emotional nonsense and he never carried out his threat, so when he did it again tonight, nobody in the flat took him seriously.

His fatal mistake was to hold onto the Christmas lights that were wound round the balcony on the outside. He used the tubular light strip for support but it came away in his hands and he simply slipped down it, like he’d grabbed a greasy rope. I looked over the balcony and the light strip was waving about in the wind, flashing happily away. Far below it was the body of the boy who’d used it to threaten his loved ones.

Awesome! Truly world class fuckwittery! This guy surely is a shoo-in for The Darwin Awards. I do love it when twats like this do themselves in as it saves me having to breathe on the fuckers. I nearly pissed myself laughing.

The only downside to this is I feel sorry for the poor bastards who had to scrape him up off the pavement. If I were in charge Stuart and his colleagues would have been able to chuck him in the bins round the back of the flats.

Do go and read the whole thing - I defy you to keep a straight face.

And don't eat too many nuts. See you in the new year.

The Real Leonard Cohen

You know in all the media kerfuffle about what was, to be fair, not one of the miserable Canadian's best tunes but the one everyone knows because it was in Schrek when Dragon and Donkey rediscovered each other and some talentles twatess sung it in a talent contest you could have overlooked that said miserable Canadian actually was a pretty grumpy dragon in his day.

For me this is his finest hour. I really hope what is in those suitcases is very, very nasty.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tFBKV0zVXSE

The other Lapland sounded funnier.

By now you must have seen the story about the craptastic "Lapland Experience" down in the New Forest and probaly if you are like me you had a giggle at the mural, the log cabins that were just garden sheds painted green and what has to be the best quote ever on the BBC's website...

"One of the elves got smacked in the face and pushed in a pram."

I would gladly have stumped up the 25 quid just to see an elf get worked over. Pointy eared bastards.

Anyway it turns out that there is a "proper" Lapland theme park somewhere down in Kent that is at great pains to point out that their Tunnel Of Light is more than just a couple of fairy lights in a tree and so our pals at Pravda went over and did a road test.

Mind you I think for shits and giggles the one that got closed down sounds funnier, this one just sounds barf-inducing.

An information board at the entrance explains the "flight" will be one of the imagination, travelling down the magical pathways that elves have used to get around for centuries, and which have been specially opened up for the lucky children invited to come.

Be still my churning stomach.

We are greeted by people dressed in traditional Sammi costume, some with husky dogs, although others are in tackier Rudolph costumes.

Something for the furries then. However then they go and stand in the reindeer shit...

and the trip begins with a lecture on recycling from an "eco-elf".

Fucking hellski!

About the only thing they got right is their name

I am referring of course to "Plane Stupid", the Eco pressure group who decided to bolt themselved to Stanstead airport this morning. I did catch one of them whittering on about "our parents generation have failed us so we have to take direct action". Well you lived up to your name by firstly making fatuous wank statements like than and also in one fell stroke alienating tens of thousands of people who might have been sympathetic to your cause and now might just take a look deeper at the guff, quite frankly dodgy science and vested interests in Global Warming climate change. {hint: follow the money}

If it were me I'd have hopped into the left hand seat of a handy 737, taxied round to where they were, pointed the tail at them, popped the park brake on and then opened up those Pratt and Whitneys to about 60% of N1

How's that for Local Warming you cunt-trumpet hippy freaks.