Cock and balls. After being roused out of my comfy bed what seemed like mere seconds after I went to sleep after the Calzaghe fight last night to deal with a typical sunday morning family crisis, and after watching the fight again on Youtube in the cold light of, well, mid-afternoon, before the copyright police come and get me, I can safely say that the BBC was talking bollocks. Five Live spent bloody ages telling me Calzaghe was getting his arse kicked from pillar to post last night and the minute I tune in and watch the fight properly, it's plainly obvious that other than a couple of cheap knockdowns, Hopkins was bricking it and legging it around the ring for 11 rounds out of the 12 and Big Joe never looked like losing. Another case of the Alan Greens, I think, as in Five Live saying an awful lot but talking complete shit. Honestly, if I have to hear Al Green having one more knee-trembler over the very idea of Wayne Rooney kicking a football, I'm going to do something terrible to my radio, but that's an issue for another day. Probably next sunday, when some poor unfortunate has a stint in casualty having bits of my radio removed from their face. Still, it looks like it's Roy Jones Jr. for Calzaghe next, which should be an even bigger test. We'll wait and see.
Anyway, from boxing to eating disorders, John Prescott is a bulimic. Now, I know what the smiley happy nanny state has to say about these sort of things, but that basically means he's a lardy cunt that eats too much. I'm sick of everyone having to have their own personal condition that makes them special and not responsible for their actions - bit of a mouthy twat? You must have ADHD then. Can't stop yourself having that extra portion of chips? You poor man, suffering through bulimia without a word. It's fucking rediculous. Whenever I'm around people who think they have their own special disorders, I feel the urge to punch them in the face - can I have my own special disability and a free government grant please? Thanks. "what I did was stuff my face with anything around, any old rubbish, burgers, chocolate, crisps, fish and chips, loads of it, till I felt sick", says the former deputy Prime Minister - that's not bulimia, that's just being a lardy cunt. ""I could sup a whole tin of Carnation condensed milk, just for the taste, stupid things like that.", he said. Well, fucking don't. I could eat a chicken vindaloo with extra bombay potatoes for breakfast, lunch and dinner, but I don't, because I'd end up a 16-stone lardy pissing and moaning in the paper about how it wasn't my fault that my trousers didn't fit.
Still, staying with politics, there's a protest over new EU work restrictions on immigrants from outside of the Union, led by restaurants and takeaways that fear losing a good portion of their staff to the new regulations. Now you can think what you like about immigration and economic migration, but if Sanjeev and Ravi aren't there to serve me my previously-mentioned chicken vindaloo, I'm going to be massively pissed off with someone in government, and regardless of what I've said about lardy cunts and food, a man that gets between me and my spicy delight (chicken vindaloo, not Konnie Huq, though it would be a close run thing) is in some serious fucking danger. I went to an Italian restaurant once that had failed to employ anyone even remotely Italian. It didn't help that the woman I was with was Italian (yeah, I took an Italian girl to an Italian restaurant - I never said I was fucking Casanova did I? Mark me down for lack of imagination and piss off) and we were served by a man with a horrifically put-on Milanese accent, curly ginger hair and freckles. It just wasn't the same. If you look like that the most exotic thing you should be handling is a bag of Nice 'n' Spicy Nik Naks, not Chicken fucking Tortellini. If I'm ever brought my keema nan by some chavved-up tit named Billy, I'm going to move to Bangalore and say fuck off to the lot of you.
Even there I'd still probably get Kevin from Dagenham bringing me my dinner - outsourcing's got to work both ways, hasn't it? - so I'd end up having to order the stuff via the internet and turning my kitchen into some sort of shrine to everything that is holy about British Indian restaurants - lots of purple lights, Hindi pop music and two dickheads in the corner snogging each other's faces off that never seem to leave. There's a certain fatty shame to ordering food over the internet, bashing your sausage-like fingers off the keyboard as you strain for the fourteenth time to type 'pizza hut' into google without your fingers sloshing over onto any adjacent keys, but I wonder if it's comparible to the shame of ordering women via the internet? Online-based brothels? Bookings? I don't know how I wasn't informed. It seems like a great idea in principle, it leads to easily tracked punters, safer girls and more perusal of merchandise than you get under a dim streetlamp at 3 in the morning after nine pints and a kebab. I suppose the downside is if it's anything like other things on the internet, it might end up like eBay, and your girl of choice looks great in her photographs but up close is an older model than expected with a few extra scrapes, and all the important bits don't work.
Then again, that's not much different to MySpace really, so it's hard to see the problem - it's just on MySpace you pay them with Bacardi Breezers, so it's a bit less official.
No less true, though.
Anyway, that's about it for today, unless you're really interested in reading US Democratic Presidential hopeful Barack Obama's attempts to rebrand himself 'Barry' Obama in a bid to seem less like the black power fundamentalist Muslim the likes of Fox news have tried to make him out to be - if the name Barry is anything like it is over here then it's just going to rebrand him into a Stella-swilling shaven-headed thug that probably wants to fight you for looking at a wall near his head, so if that's the case he should probably stick to Barack - if he ever comes to Britain calling himself Barry some tracksuited cunt called Callum is going to batter him for being in the wrong postcode.
Actually, the Secret Service twatting some scally around the head would be pretty good.
Vote Barry.
Goodnight.
Anyway, from boxing to eating disorders, John Prescott is a bulimic. Now, I know what the smiley happy nanny state has to say about these sort of things, but that basically means he's a lardy cunt that eats too much. I'm sick of everyone having to have their own personal condition that makes them special and not responsible for their actions - bit of a mouthy twat? You must have ADHD then. Can't stop yourself having that extra portion of chips? You poor man, suffering through bulimia without a word. It's fucking rediculous. Whenever I'm around people who think they have their own special disorders, I feel the urge to punch them in the face - can I have my own special disability and a free government grant please? Thanks. "what I did was stuff my face with anything around, any old rubbish, burgers, chocolate, crisps, fish and chips, loads of it, till I felt sick", says the former deputy Prime Minister - that's not bulimia, that's just being a lardy cunt. ""I could sup a whole tin of Carnation condensed milk, just for the taste, stupid things like that.", he said. Well, fucking don't. I could eat a chicken vindaloo with extra bombay potatoes for breakfast, lunch and dinner, but I don't, because I'd end up a 16-stone lardy pissing and moaning in the paper about how it wasn't my fault that my trousers didn't fit.
Still, staying with politics, there's a protest over new EU work restrictions on immigrants from outside of the Union, led by restaurants and takeaways that fear losing a good portion of their staff to the new regulations. Now you can think what you like about immigration and economic migration, but if Sanjeev and Ravi aren't there to serve me my previously-mentioned chicken vindaloo, I'm going to be massively pissed off with someone in government, and regardless of what I've said about lardy cunts and food, a man that gets between me and my spicy delight (chicken vindaloo, not Konnie Huq, though it would be a close run thing) is in some serious fucking danger. I went to an Italian restaurant once that had failed to employ anyone even remotely Italian. It didn't help that the woman I was with was Italian (yeah, I took an Italian girl to an Italian restaurant - I never said I was fucking Casanova did I? Mark me down for lack of imagination and piss off) and we were served by a man with a horrifically put-on Milanese accent, curly ginger hair and freckles. It just wasn't the same. If you look like that the most exotic thing you should be handling is a bag of Nice 'n' Spicy Nik Naks, not Chicken fucking Tortellini. If I'm ever brought my keema nan by some chavved-up tit named Billy, I'm going to move to Bangalore and say fuck off to the lot of you.
Even there I'd still probably get Kevin from Dagenham bringing me my dinner - outsourcing's got to work both ways, hasn't it? - so I'd end up having to order the stuff via the internet and turning my kitchen into some sort of shrine to everything that is holy about British Indian restaurants - lots of purple lights, Hindi pop music and two dickheads in the corner snogging each other's faces off that never seem to leave. There's a certain fatty shame to ordering food over the internet, bashing your sausage-like fingers off the keyboard as you strain for the fourteenth time to type 'pizza hut' into google without your fingers sloshing over onto any adjacent keys, but I wonder if it's comparible to the shame of ordering women via the internet? Online-based brothels? Bookings? I don't know how I wasn't informed. It seems like a great idea in principle, it leads to easily tracked punters, safer girls and more perusal of merchandise than you get under a dim streetlamp at 3 in the morning after nine pints and a kebab. I suppose the downside is if it's anything like other things on the internet, it might end up like eBay, and your girl of choice looks great in her photographs but up close is an older model than expected with a few extra scrapes, and all the important bits don't work.
Then again, that's not much different to MySpace really, so it's hard to see the problem - it's just on MySpace you pay them with Bacardi Breezers, so it's a bit less official.
No less true, though.
Anyway, that's about it for today, unless you're really interested in reading US Democratic Presidential hopeful Barack Obama's attempts to rebrand himself 'Barry' Obama in a bid to seem less like the black power fundamentalist Muslim the likes of Fox news have tried to make him out to be - if the name Barry is anything like it is over here then it's just going to rebrand him into a Stella-swilling shaven-headed thug that probably wants to fight you for looking at a wall near his head, so if that's the case he should probably stick to Barack - if he ever comes to Britain calling himself Barry some tracksuited cunt called Callum is going to batter him for being in the wrong postcode.
Actually, the Secret Service twatting some scally around the head would be pretty good.
Vote Barry.
Goodnight.
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