Cat rape. It's not big, and it's not clever. I know I haven't posted in a while but seeing as I'm writing this post in between chucking my ring up into a bucket at the side of my bed, you're bloody lucky you're getting this, so don't fucking moan. On the other hand, I'm living proof that if you want to lose half a stone in five days, you can. You just have to get dysentry, or gastroenteritis, or whatever this bloody thing is. If it goes on much longer, bollocks to all this manly-man never-go-to-the-doctor stuff, I'm getting some pills down me before I vomit out a major organ.
Excuse my irritability.
First of all, let's deal with the sport. Why do Mark Lawrenson's predictions still make it onto the front page of the BBC's website every single weekend? The man is about as much use at predicting football results as ASBOs are at preventing gangs of kids from smashing your face in. I reckon I could do a better job of predicting results than him, and I know cock-all about football past what I've learned from Football Manager, and I'm so far into the future on there now that Wayne Rooney's just managed Halifax Town to the semi finals of the Champions' League.
I have to agree with the old sod that Manchester United are going to win the title, though. I know Wigan have been awful all season but I still wouldn't put it past Steve Bruce to put out his Under-12's reserve side to make absolutely sure of a United victory. I suppose I want it to work out that way, really, if that's the way it has to go, as I'd prefer them to win it over Chelsea just because, as annoying as Ronaldo and Rooney and co are, they're not as massive a bunch of cunts as John Terry and his mates down at Stamford Bridge who, inevitably, will beat Bolton by the usual 1 - 0 scoreline. Though hopefully not before Kevin Davies boots that cunt Terry right in the teeth.
I still want Chelsea to win the Champion's League, though - Avram Grant deserves something for all he's managed this season, and the sack is not it. He's gotten far too much stick for not being a pin-up poster boy like the Man from Del Monte, but he's done pretty well, and at least he hasn't managed to fuck up enough to let a team of world-famous multi-millionaires struggle to a draw against Rosenborg, who usually consider it a good result in Europe if they don't lose by six or seven. Plus a Man U double would fill the streets with hordes of glory-hunters in United tops who couldn't find Manchester on a map of Britain with a pin the size of England. Don't even get me started on the mate of mine who supports Man U but 'hates all northerners' because one dumped her once.
Moving on to Entertainment, it's Radio 1's Big Weekend. Apparently. See, I didn't know about this because I've spent most of the last week with my head wedged down a toilet bowl, but Radio 1 has been throwing a music festival, and the lineup appears to be a sad indictiment of UK music. Usher, who's an American and some terrible rap... thing... is first on the list, followed by The Ting Tings, and I have no idea who they are. They're a 'The' band, though, so they're going to be invariably shit. Then there's Robyn, a Swedish singer who's sole song seems to be on a constant loop in my gym and who's only defining feature is she looks remarkably like Judi Dench, Duffy, who's the most ugly, untalented and stupidly-named person in the history of the world, and the triple-bill of tediousness that is Scouting For Girls, The Futureheads and Editors.
The infuriating thing is you could take any song by any of those last three, play them in any order, and I would not be able to tell the fucking difference between their 'individual' styles two-chord Coldplay-worshipping trendy-indie 'low-fi' noise. Play some music with some fucking passion, would you, or just piss off. Also, if I ever meet the critic that thought it was a good idea to compare Hard fucking Fi to The Clash, I'm going to nail their tits to the wall. I fucking hate Hard Fi.
Oh, and I'm too ill for politics, but apparently the Scottish are kicking up another fuss about independence. You know what? Cock off, then. Or at least get out of the fucking news until you've made your bloody minds up. Do you want to be independent? Don't you? Have a fucking vote. Tomorrow. If you don't vote, shut up, because all right to complain goes out of the window the minute voting closes on my completely arbitrary demand for a vote, tomorrow. If the issue is that important that you feel the need to endlessly bang on about it any time anyone with an English accent has the audacity to look at you, then fucking vote. I bet you'd get out and vote against a bill proposing to have me come round and chop your toes off.
Oh, and as a final point, if you've got a medical condition that causes heartburn and vomiting, don't try to self-medicate and cure the former by munching Tums antacid tablets by the fistful - all you'll do is vomit brightly-coloured foam until you want to die.
Goodnight.
Excuse my irritability.
First of all, let's deal with the sport. Why do Mark Lawrenson's predictions still make it onto the front page of the BBC's website every single weekend? The man is about as much use at predicting football results as ASBOs are at preventing gangs of kids from smashing your face in. I reckon I could do a better job of predicting results than him, and I know cock-all about football past what I've learned from Football Manager, and I'm so far into the future on there now that Wayne Rooney's just managed Halifax Town to the semi finals of the Champions' League.
I have to agree with the old sod that Manchester United are going to win the title, though. I know Wigan have been awful all season but I still wouldn't put it past Steve Bruce to put out his Under-12's reserve side to make absolutely sure of a United victory. I suppose I want it to work out that way, really, if that's the way it has to go, as I'd prefer them to win it over Chelsea just because, as annoying as Ronaldo and Rooney and co are, they're not as massive a bunch of cunts as John Terry and his mates down at Stamford Bridge who, inevitably, will beat Bolton by the usual 1 - 0 scoreline. Though hopefully not before Kevin Davies boots that cunt Terry right in the teeth.
I still want Chelsea to win the Champion's League, though - Avram Grant deserves something for all he's managed this season, and the sack is not it. He's gotten far too much stick for not being a pin-up poster boy like the Man from Del Monte, but he's done pretty well, and at least he hasn't managed to fuck up enough to let a team of world-famous multi-millionaires struggle to a draw against Rosenborg, who usually consider it a good result in Europe if they don't lose by six or seven. Plus a Man U double would fill the streets with hordes of glory-hunters in United tops who couldn't find Manchester on a map of Britain with a pin the size of England. Don't even get me started on the mate of mine who supports Man U but 'hates all northerners' because one dumped her once.
Moving on to Entertainment, it's Radio 1's Big Weekend. Apparently. See, I didn't know about this because I've spent most of the last week with my head wedged down a toilet bowl, but Radio 1 has been throwing a music festival, and the lineup appears to be a sad indictiment of UK music. Usher, who's an American and some terrible rap... thing... is first on the list, followed by The Ting Tings, and I have no idea who they are. They're a 'The' band, though, so they're going to be invariably shit. Then there's Robyn, a Swedish singer who's sole song seems to be on a constant loop in my gym and who's only defining feature is she looks remarkably like Judi Dench, Duffy, who's the most ugly, untalented and stupidly-named person in the history of the world, and the triple-bill of tediousness that is Scouting For Girls, The Futureheads and Editors.
The infuriating thing is you could take any song by any of those last three, play them in any order, and I would not be able to tell the fucking difference between their 'individual' styles two-chord Coldplay-worshipping trendy-indie 'low-fi' noise. Play some music with some fucking passion, would you, or just piss off. Also, if I ever meet the critic that thought it was a good idea to compare Hard fucking Fi to The Clash, I'm going to nail their tits to the wall. I fucking hate Hard Fi.
Oh, and I'm too ill for politics, but apparently the Scottish are kicking up another fuss about independence. You know what? Cock off, then. Or at least get out of the fucking news until you've made your bloody minds up. Do you want to be independent? Don't you? Have a fucking vote. Tomorrow. If you don't vote, shut up, because all right to complain goes out of the window the minute voting closes on my completely arbitrary demand for a vote, tomorrow. If the issue is that important that you feel the need to endlessly bang on about it any time anyone with an English accent has the audacity to look at you, then fucking vote. I bet you'd get out and vote against a bill proposing to have me come round and chop your toes off.
Oh, and as a final point, if you've got a medical condition that causes heartburn and vomiting, don't try to self-medicate and cure the former by munching Tums antacid tablets by the fistful - all you'll do is vomit brightly-coloured foam until you want to die.
Goodnight.
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