Mostly Bollogs, I'm afraid

But occasionally, a glimmer of truth.
If you find one, please let me know.

Thursday, 13 December 2012


I'm writing this because I hope it helps somebody.

I was unemployed from the end of last year until late June. That's shit. You run out of money in no time.

The reason I was unemployed is that job agents are evil, their bosses are worse, and ... and ... I can't describe what a carbuncle on the backside of humanity this whole profession is. See previous blogs for details.

Anyway. In June I got work. It started off OK, developed into shit, and got worse. Crap, no chance of doing anything constructive or creative. Boss was an idiot. At least I got paid.

In the last few weeks I have got an awesome position. I do stuff. The boss, and his boss, think I'm brilliant, and so do I.

I am ahead of things and I've been given the day off just for being me.

So don't give up. If the bank want to repo your gaff, read them the riot act. If people want money off you, tell them to fuck off. HMRC, rent, rates, anything. Just do it. There's not much they can do, the wheels of what we farcically call justice in this crock of godforsaken shite we used to be proud to call a nation are slow, inefficient, and ... well, just do it.




Monday, 3 December 2012


It has been said that if your job title contains the word "agent" and doesn't begin with "007, special ..." then you're probably a dick.

But there is a thing called job agent. I'm in the IT business, which doesn't mean I have a working knowledge of Word and Excel, it means I know how they work and what to do with them. In some considerable depth.

There are people who want me to do work for them. They can't find me, because there is a whole layer of pond life in between me and them. This layer are called, collectively, job agents, or recruitment consultants. They are scum.

They have access to a place where CVs go. They set themselves up as consultants so the poor unsuspecting folk who wish to employ one of us think that going to them is a Brilliant Plan.

There are HUNDREDS of firms of these job agents.

This is what happens. I put my CV on a well-known job site. These "agents" subscribe to it, God knows what they pay for that privilege.

They then have requirements from a firm who wishes to employ one such as I.

They "match" them. This means that they blindly search for words in the CV which match the words in the requirement. I used to have a dog which could do that.

They are, on average, about 6, thick as shit, and call one "mate."

They say things like "I have interview on this role".

There are no words for my hatred for them, their firms, and the whole stinking paradigm which makes it virtually impossible for me to align myself with the poor sod who wants someone to do work for them.

Apart from the words "so you, you snivelling little fucktard, think you have ANY idea what I do, what your customer wants, and you think you're therefore worth 20% of what I am to earn, you festering piece of winnet on the arsehole of humanity?"

Monday, 12 November 2012


You lot really are up yourselves, aren't you?

Do you really think anyone gives a fuck what you think?

Wednesday, 24 October 2012


I firmly believe that if you've got anything worth saying you can fit it into 140 characters.

Monday, 22 October 2012


I lived in a shed.

Because I lived anywhere other than a tent, the "authorities" felt fit to send me a letter. It was from the TV Licensing Authority.

I hate the words Licensing and Authority.

I threw it in the bin.

I had several more such letters. I threw them all in the bin.

Eventually I had a "form". The "authorities" like a "form".

It had a list of reasons, which I could tick, why I didn't have a TV licence. None of them were the reason why I didn't have one.

I was eventually summonsed to appear in court, confronted by a magistrate (dickhead) and some representatives of the law of this fair country, and some cunt from the TV Licensing Fiasco.

The questioning commenced. I shall spare you the stupidity; suffice to say it turned to me, and I was asked why I had not responded and/or paid up.

I stated, simply, to the mag, "I haven't got a television, and the onus is not upon me to prove otherwise."

The mag looked over his glasses to the legalese titfucks assembled, and I was awarded handsome expenses.


End of rant.

Monday, 8 October 2012


RIP my mate Terry

Brilliant bloke. Words can never say what a great guy Terry was.

He was an engineer, an arse, a top bloke.

Once not long ago we were working on a project where he'd made a load of spouting to deliver flour, coming down a pipe at 26 tonnes an hour (a lot of flour), and he was on the phone to me to turn the system on and dump this white fluffy nightmare into a tub on wheels.

We filled the tub, which took about 4 seconds. Terry hollered into the phone "WE'RE GOING TO NEED ANOTHER TUB, HANG ON"

I turned it off and shouted back "WHAT? ANOTHER TON?"

Terry: "No, another TUB, you deaf cunt! STOP. STOP!"

"Another ton?" I yell.

"FOR FUCK'S SAKE TURN IT OFF!" Terry responds, politely.

It takes a while to stop. I go downstairs to the warehouse and as I go through the door Terry is there with a handful of wet flour in his mitt and he shoves it in my ear. We go to the pub. We laugh a lot.

I'll miss the fuck out of Terry. He had cancer, he knew, he didn't have all that long. He NEVER fucking moaned.

Next time you lot go on twitter and go "meh" and "pfft", bloody well think. Or you might get the pointy end of the penguin's tongue.

Monday, 24 September 2012


I am struggling, C peeps.

I have:

struct thing {
 int i;

struct stuff {
 int i;
 thing *t;

stuff **pst;

There are many stuffs (in pst on the heap) each of which have many things which are allocated on the heap.

I know which stuff I want to access and which thing in the stuff. x is the element of thing I want.

So what I want to say is


The "(" is a syntax error which it shouldn't bloody well be, but it is.

Can I access that without something like

thing *t;

No, didn't think so.

Monday, 3 September 2012


I have seen many people say how they'd like to lose weight.

I have developed this tasty curry recipe which is vegan-friendly* and is GUARANTEED to lose you weight whilst satisfying your hunger.

Your money back if I'm wrong.

You will need (per person):

1lb lamb shoulder, diced
Salt (heaped tablespoon)
Water (Highland spring) to taste
Ghee (large spoonful)
Mustard seeds (black)
Cumin powder
Fresh coriander (large bunch)
Chillis to taste (about 8)
Onions (10, large)
Potatoes (about 3lb, peeled and diced) plus 3 for grating
Okra (about 1lb)
20 party balloons
Helium canister
Fresh tapeworm


Weigh yourself. Hold weights (about 5lb in each hand) AWAY from the scales so they don't affect the measurement, to help your balance, you fat cow.

Fry the Ghee until smoking hot. Throw in mustard seeds, call fire brigade, have teatowel (dampened) at the ready.

When flames are extinguished and doors opened, add the onion, salt, chilli and lamb. Add the water and savlon. Fry mercilessly. Add grated potatoes and diced potatoes and all the spices.

Cook for about four (4) hours, adding lard if the consistency becomes too thin.

Add the Okra (whole) and simmer for five minutes.

Finally, stir in the tapeworm, taking care not to overheat (as this can impair the efficacy).

Blow up the party balloons using the helium canister.

Once you've enjoyed the meal, hold the balloons (not the weights) and re-weigh yourself.


Now you'll lose weight EVERY DAY for at least a fortnight.


*not vegan-friendly in the strictest sense, you understand.

Tuesday, 21 August 2012


Why not? I haven't done rape yet.

My turn.

Rape. That's when a "man" (I believe, women aren't allowed to be rapists any more than black people are allowed to be racists) have sex with people of the same or opposite sex when the other party doesn't want them to.

Brilliant. What sort of tosser wants to have sex with someone who doesn't want it? Where's the fun? Where's the ANYTHING? Is it because blow-up dolls don't fight back?

So. No point. Wrong on all levels, stupid, pointless.

I know two men who have been accused by women scorned. One went to chokey. Ex-military. Drummed out. He didn't do it. I know that. The other, the woman withdrew the accusation before court. Again, I know he didn't.

Raping a teen boy in a shop is pretty bloody low too.

Here's what I think. Find the perp. Take off his bollocks, one at a time. I'll do it if you like. Just make sure he did it.

Also, shut up about it. And Assange. And Due Fucking Process. And most other things, which you know nothing about, haven't experienced, never will.

Why not talk about cross-amputation, torture psychologically by the state, why the government don't do anything useful, that kind of thing?

I'll tell you why. You're a woman. And, speaking as a woman (a euphemism for talking out of your fucking hat) you claim the sole fucking right to discuss matters legal, moral, and political, with no reference to any common sense or logic.

Now sod off.

Your honour.

Monday, 20 August 2012


I have to go to a site for 2 days.

The cheapskates I work for don't pay accommodation.

I point out it's cheaper than paying for the travelling.

They point out that they expect me to go there one day, stay over at my own expense (it's included in the rate), and travel back the next day.

I think that I have never heard of an arrangement such as this, and they can fuck off.


Thursday, 16 August 2012


Everybody has blogged about Assange today.

I've ready a dozen and they're all shit.

There's no point me waffling on about something that nobody knows anything about and making it worse.

I think I'll have a pasty for lunch.

Have a nice day.

Thursday, 2 August 2012


There are two sorts of people. The majority, who haven't got anything to moan about, and moan and moan and moan.

Then there are the other sort, and there aren't enough of them. The ones who have EVERYTHING to moan about, who have had the most awful luck, and illnesses they didn't deserve, but who you can talk to for hours and hours and who will laugh while they tell you about things which would have finished you off.

Who are funny and daft and see the good in everything.

And when you hear that one of those is very ill you wonder why it isn't someone else, or even yourself.

If tears could make someone better she'd be better already.

Thinking of you, Cydara.

Love, Pengy


Tuesday, 31 July 2012


I work my arse off. Today, I am asked "have you finished all that coding yet?"

I think "hey! funny man."

He is serious. He has given me a job to do, which is supposed to be finished today, when I have spent most of my waking hours driving or working on this piece of shit, specified by some fuckwit of a salesman, realised by some arsecock of a project manager, and inserted, rusty end first, up a sub-contractor, via Microsoft Project (spits). The salesman has got a bonus by selling used underpants to the customer, who is a fuckwit anyway, at a saving of around 4/6½d, thus incurring about 4 weeks of shit work at roughly a pittance a week.

That is all I can say. I might give summat away. But anyway, sod them. Tomorrow I regroup. Watch this space.

Thursday, 26 July 2012


I've just been to my local. I don't go there much now, but as it's warm I thought I'd pop in.

Nobody I know was there. I had a pint and a fag outside.

The table next to me was occupied by a man and his woman.

The rest is bizarre.

Him: "What are you looking at?"

Me: *drinks cider*

Him: "Oi."

Me "Eh? Me?"

Him: "What are you looking at?""

Me: *thinks* here we bloody well go. "Er, I'm not sure I get your meaning."

Him: "I'm trying to have a quiet drink with my wife."

Me: "Oh."

Him: "So what are you looking at?"

Me: "Don't, Really, don't."

Him: "I don't like you."

Me: "You've been watching the scene from Star Wars, haven't you?" *grins*

Him: "What's your problem?"

Me: "Oh dear. Oh fucking dear. Look, it's hot, I've been at work all day, I'm sure you have too. We all feel angry in the sun, don't we? But hold on, you started this, fuckface, and I'm not in the cunting mood, so if you'd just like to let me finish my drink in peace, that'll be lovely. Alternatively, we can do it here, if you like, because I'm hot, I'm knackered, and I have a fucking death wish. Choice is yours. I don't give a shit. But if you're trying to impress the bird, you've lost already, and I'm pretty sure she'd be up for it anyway cos she ain't all that. Your turn."

Him: "Fuck off."

Me: "Fuck off yourself."

And THAT, my friends, was that. What is WRONG with people?

Wednesday, 25 July 2012


Unions (Trades Unions) were born before me, which is surprising. In the days of Dickens, when children were sent up chimneys.

They served a purpose then, just as women chaining themselves to railings did. It made them look big and clever.

Because the blokes in top hats said "you work 96 hours a day or we fire you," they did. Until the unions. The unions meant that they could say "fuck you," and they were duly fucked.

This was 18-oh-something. It's 2012 now. There are more people than jobs. But the Unions are now capitalised. Their leaders are on more than the Prime Minister. They are people like Bob Crow, thick as planks but not as thick as their workers.

I don't blame Bob Crow. He's too stupid to tie his own shoelaces. But the workers, too thick to know, will go with him and shout "brothers."

Go for it, society. Make me proud. You utter,utter, sheep.



The thoughts of Chairman Pengy.

Before you shout racist, please listen.

Multiculturalism. Briilliant. I smoke skunk, I like sitar music, I love Indian food, Spanish drinks, Flamenco, Cuban riffs, Moroccan spices, and Brazilians. Especially Brazilians.

Because of air travel, I can find those things in Jamaica, India, Spain, South America and North Africa.

I have no objection to anyone who wants to come to England, obey the laws we have (as stupid as they are), and promotes culture like that. I've driven 1000 miles to see Fito y Fitipaldis who are awesome, and when he came here he hardly filled the foyer at Hammersmith.

I don't like Sharia law, cross-amputation, banning everything, and Female Genital Mutilation.

People who want to come to England and try to instil that culture here should be sent away tout de suite, as they say in Germany.

So. If you'd like to call me a racist to my face, do let me know where and when. I travel well. Bring a bat and a couple of mates.

Now shut up, and ACCEPT that there is not only a difference, but whoever thought that England was a melting pot for all and sundry was a complete prick.



You know when you sort of know someone, like you don't really, but you do? Online, and the odd phone call? And you think they're actually awesome?

And they disappear, and you're worried about them?

And you have no way of telling them?

If you do, tell me what to do.


Tuesday, 24 July 2012


I understand Gawky said that paying your milkman in cash is deplorable.

This is why it isn't.

I WANT to be corrected so I can join the ranks of taxpaying tossers who seem to think it's the way forward. But I don't understand.

All figures approximate but not far wrong.

I earn £100 a day. After meagre allowances which just about pays for razor blades, I get £50 of that, the rest is swallowed up in tax and NI.

I can't spend the other £50. It's been taken from me.

In that day, I spend £12 on diesel, of which £10 is tax.

That leaves £38.

I buy a packet of fags for £8. £6 of that is tax.

That leaves £30.

I go to the pub and buy a pint, for £3. £2 of that is tax.

I have another one. That leaves £24.

I get some potatoes and onions and bits to make dinner, and stuff for my sandwiches tomorrow. No tax (much).

I have £20 left and today I need to have a puncture mended.

I can pay the chap £20 to have it mended, balanced, new valve. OR I can pay him £10 cash and have £10 of my £100 left.

What should I do?

If I thought that the tax (£70 so far) went to making a strong and vibrant and happy society. I might not have to ask.

PS, the remaining tenner went on my kids who got a fiver each to go to some party or other. If you have a problem with that feel free to let me know, and bring a bat. I resent paying for Mandy, 15, mother of two from fucking Wellingborough to sit in Costa all day at my expense.

But I am asking. Tell me. Lefties? Communists? Complete fucking retards? Tell me.

Wednesday, 18 July 2012


Let me describe a certain kind of person to you, and you guess who it is.

Mainly blokes, who ring you, and call you "mate", and say "sounds cool" quite a lot. They wear suits, although they don't know why they do, as they never see clients or victims.

Average age: 19. Average height: 5'8". Average colour: white. Average intelligence: akin to that of a mollusc which doesn't quite understand why it hasn't evolved since a million years BC.

Hungry for money. Cares not a jot about its job; its client; its victims. Calls himself by his first name, which is invariable Tom, Chris, Wayne or Darren, is cagey about telling you about the "client" for whom he is prostituting himself.

Knows little, if anything, about that of which he speaks. Thinks quickly on his feet though, and fools the client, yet not the victim.

Ladies and gentlemen, I gave you "THE JOB AGENT."

I intend to make ONE MILLION POUNDS from this industry this year. I need some help, preferably a) from the inside; b) from someone who, like me and like them has no moral scruples; c) feels the same as me about the industry. Advantages would include being supremely confident, full of shit, and balls the size of Belgium.

I have someone in mind. She might not be up for it as she is is Greek. Another is Antipodean and may, again not be interested.

Ah well. Offers in the comments, please. I'm serious.

Tuesday, 17 July 2012


My brother, who is a pretty useless specimen, although I love him dearly, has identified his next business venture.

He will be a foster parent.

He will get £400 a week, tax free, for one kid.

"Right, no problem," you say.

I say this. I have two of needing all my money age. So, to give them £400 a week, I need to earn £800. AFTER tax. So that's £1600, near as damn it.

And I then pay tax of £800, a week. And half of that pays for my brother to sit on his arse.

And if you can't see what's wrong with that, you're beyond stupid.

Thanks for reading.

Thursday, 5 July 2012

The wires. Those coming in the top are as thick as a man's leg.

The Amps.

The brains.

The Power.

The Penguin.

That was my day. How was your day?

Tuesday, 3 July 2012

What did you do today?

I drove 90 miles to arrive here.

 Then I went inside here and programmed the brain in it.

And the same in here.

Which makes this thing turn,

Inside this thing

And pumps water out of this thing. At four cubic metres a second.

And makes these people very happy.

I love my job.

What did you do today?

Wednesday, 27 June 2012


I was born.

Long time ago, I know. I was a kid, we did stuff. We got education. We grew up.

Some of us became engineers. Some musicians, ma'am. Some work in TESCO.

Some went to public skool and became politicians and made law. Some went to public skool and became barristers and lawyers and made money out of law.

Some became judges and they're pretty much useless cunts.

My point is this:

I was a kid, I grew up. What right do these turds have to decide my life?

I think this:


Tuesday, 26 June 2012

To Her Most Gracious Majesty Queen Elizabeth II

Your most gracious Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II,

Forgive my impudence as I crave your attention to my most humble blog.

I was a very young copper in 1974, walking the beat in the mid evening in Guildford with my Sergeant.

As we walked down from the top of North Street, through a passageway, discussing the weather, as one does, there was a terrific explosion. We rushed in the direction of the noise to discover confused, bleeding people rushing from the Horse and Groom pub. The scene was covered in broken glass shards from the windows, and quite a lot of blood. Young and useless as I was, I was directed to the road junction several yards down the hill to direct traffic away from the scene. A short while later, another explosion followed and I was greeted by various body parts flying past, which I later discovered were from another pub in the passageway opposite, the Seven Stars.

Suffice to say, Your Majesty, that this was imprinted indelibly and in perpetuity upon my memory. I was detailed later to pick up any debris in order to make clear the scene, this debris including a lady's dress shoe containing part of her foot.

The deed was perpetrated by the IRA.

Your Majesty, I have nightmares to this day. I shall spare your Majesty from more detail, but I implore, nay, beseech you, not to shake the hand of that animal tomorrow.

This is my most humble plea, and I commend it to your Majesty's attention with my unfailing loyalty and respect.

Sincerely, Pengy
(name available on request)

Thursday, 21 June 2012



I was going to stop there, but no. Look at this, by 27b/6.

The Chinese have been doing this since forever. No creativity, they rob everything. Sue me.

Google, the tiny, insignificant market force with a turnover not exceeding the GNP of fucking Thailand, tried to break into the market by launching Google Plus, and if the hell that can't beat facebook, there is no hope.

But Louise Mensch, a lady for whom I have the utmost personal respect, and career-wise would not give the steam off my shit, thinks that she can beat that.

Lady. Wrong. You know, I know, that I, personally, got you 100+ votes, which probably got you in. Deny it if you like.

You know what? Give them a sniff of power, and they're the same as the rest.

Louise, please. Come back. Be you again.

Tuesday, 29 May 2012

Monday, 28 May 2012


An open letter to Lord Prescott.

Dear John

I liked you. Before the election, we had some banter. When you lost the election, you blocked me. You were smarting from the defeat suffered at the hands of whom we now know to be worse, possibly than your lot, which really is saying something.

You know I don't like politicos. I see them as a carbuncle on the backside of humanity. But you were a bit of fun. Along with Skinner, The Beast, and a few others.

But you remember me well enough to know I can't abide hypocrisy. You said this:

"Well done to everyone who campaigned against #pastytax. Showed how out of touch the Tories are. Now let's slap that VAT on caviar!"

Come on, John. You're not thick. Your tribal lefty followers are, but I'm not partisan.I can't stand the public-school tossers either (although your leader Mr Blair, you know, the one backing you as police chief?) was. Is.

John. Vermin in Ermine, you said once. THAT was funny. Like the Beatles giving back their OBEs but accepting one quietly round the back?

PLEASE. Give the real people a bit of credit. I KNOW all you have to say is Camoron, start a daft hashtag game, and all the pond life on the planet will go with you. Such is fame, fortune (at my expense) and tribalism.

I liked the punch. I supported that. Would have done the same if someone had egged me. I have the picture, I also have the one of Pauline with the bog on her head, it's hanging in my loo. Brilliant.

Please be yourself again. Tony's a tosser, I think you secretly know that. You've got enough money. Make a name for yourself by being a proper, ordinary bloke who hasn't forgotten his roots.



Tuesday, 17 April 2012

Trig and shit

There's an old, old saying
That some people have curly brown hair
Til painted black, it stays that way
And I think it's only fair
To justify this bollocks
Cos I learnt this shit at school
It's the way you used to remember
Not to look a proper tool

These days it's SOHCAHTOA
It means the absolute same.
It sounds like an old volcano
But it's only in the name
I'm a helping you to learn now
How to work out what bollocks is what
So there's Trig and Geometry nailed
And you won't need to swot.

We used to have a base then
And you have adjacent instead
And we had perpendicular
Your opposite's over my head
But the hypowotsit's constant
The one on which we all agrees.
It's the one with all the angles
That adds up to 90 degrees.

So the base and adjacent are sim'lar
The one by the right angle true.
The opposite's right at the other end
My perpendicular too.
So the basis of what I am saying
Is the Cosine of Base over thing
Is the same as adjacent divided by that
And it's that which I will sing.

And the Sine's the same old story
Perpendicular carved up by that
'potenuse or in your modern parlance
Divide it into that.
And the tangent ain't too much to cope with
It's the vertical over the base.
Or the Opposite over adjacent
That truly is the case.

Friday, 13 April 2012

Lola's Homecoming Appeal

I haven't met her in a bar down in old Soho, where they drink champagne and it tastes just like Cherry Cola.

L O L A Lola. @Lola_Peaches on Twitter.

And that, folks, is because she's not IN Soho. She's being help prisoner in a faraway land where there be dragons, and Orcs. I know this, because I've seen Lord of The Rings.

Probably most old beardy, be-sandalled folk would love to be there, miles from civilisation. Guess I would, and I haven't even GOT a beard. But I'd get fed up.

She's fed up too. She's a teen and wants some fun and actual proper people to mingle with.

So do a favour. If you have a spare couple of quid, do pop it into her pot and help her to come back to dear old Blighty. I might even do so myself, if and when I get a job of some sort.

Go on. You know you want to. Make a youngster happy. She's promised me that she'll definitely behave.

Right. Here's the thing you click.

Wednesday, 4 April 2012


I am seeking a job.

An "agent" sent me an email last Friday at 17.30. I looked at the job description and I am a 100% fit for this postition. I rang him. He had gone home. Not unreasonable.

I sent him my CV.

I rang him on Monday. Five times. Ten times on Tuesday. I emailed him three times. I rang him again today (Wednesday). I have had no reply. I know he's in.

I find this rude, and I do not see how he is doing his best for his customer.

I shall link this to the Contracts Director at the firm concerned, if I receive a satisfactory reply from him I might not add to this the name of the company in question.

Do comment if you think that I'm being unreasonable. I can do unreasonable, but it's a bit early so far.

Tuesday, 3 April 2012


Cool. I pay a lot of money every month for a service, whereby I can use, and resell, internet services.

I don't use it much but when I do I just expect it to work.

So, today I uploaded a crock of stuff to demonstrate some HTML5/CSS3/AJAX etc, with a Perl backend. And because I'm looking for a new contract I touted it around some agents and suchlike. Then I looked and it didn't work. My homepage wouldn't even load.

I rang the ISP who "fixed" it. When I say "fixed" it, I mean moved it to another server which didn't have Perl installed correctly, or at all, so instead of executing a script it just dumped the source on to the user's screen, so all my code, passwords etc. were there for all to see. So now not only do all my contacts have all my passwords, but also I look a complete idiot.

An hour and a few phone calls later all was again well, assuming it's still working. Actually, I've just had a look. It isn't.

The response was more like "Oh" than "Hell, we'd better credit your account with a few months of service charges.

My question is this: should I say who the company is? Or is this abysmal level of service acceptable these days. Do leave a comment, please.

Monday, 26 March 2012

Gis a Job

Not me. This is for someone else.

She's in Glasgow. Only reason I'm doing this is cos the girl tries like fuck. She's talented as hell but will do anything within reason, cash would be nice. Anything considered.

So, if you, or anyone you know, is in.near Glasgow and wants stuff, for FUCK'S SAKE say so.

Because, and I mean this, this girl has applied for EVERYTHING, and job sites and job agencies and jobcentre plus are ALL CUNTS.

Jesus. If you could get marks for trying, she'd already be Prime Minister.

So, anything from washing up to playing piano for your party, folks. PLEASE.

The Penguin is asking. You know what to do.

How to get a job

I haven't tried to get a job in eons. Jobs have always come to me.

I have huge experience and a CV the size of Belgium.

There are jobs about, they are advertised daily. They are all through agencies.

You send the agency the CV.

You ring the agent. He's on the phone.

You ring the agent. He's on the phone.

You ring the agent. He's on the phone.

You ring the agent. He's on the phone.

You ring the agent. He's on the phone.

You ring the agent. He's on the phone.

You ring the agent. He's on the phone.

You ring the agent. He's on the phone.

You ring the agent. He's on the phone.

You ring the agent. He's on the phone.

You ring the agent. He's on the phone.

You ring the agent. He's on the phone.

You ring the agent. He's on the phone.

You ring the agent. He's on the phone.

You ring the agent. He's on the phone.

You ring the agent. He's on the phone.

You ring the agent. He's on the phone.

You ring the agent. He's OFF THE PHONE!

You explain to him that you can do the job, because he is about six, and understands neither the requirements not your skills.

You assume that when he says he's sent your CV to the customer, that he has. because he won't tell you who it is.

You chase him on a daily basis. He says the customer hasn't come back to him. On a daily basis.

You think, quite rightly, that these agencies are all competing for the same business, badly, and they are entirely staffed by cunts.

You seriously consider burning down their offices.

More as it happens ...

Wednesday, 21 March 2012


When still Chancellor, Alastair Darling got a bill passed. It was this.

It says that the government borrowing must decrease year on year, by law.

Now then. Lefties. Stop moaning about this budget. Because it was YOUR lot who imposed it.

Nuff said?


Tuesday, 20 March 2012


Maggie Thatcher once said "There is no society. There are individual men and women, and there are families." She was so wrong.

There are politicians. There are those such as Prescott, a Cruise Ship lackey (he avoided National Service by joining the Merchant Navy and worked as a steward and waiter), there are those such as Tony Blair (a more educated man who managed three terms as Prime Minister and left just before the shit hit the fan) and his hapless successor, the bigoted monocular Gordon Brown, son of the Manse, and predictably Scottish bloke trying to better himself by telling the English what to do. Then there is Mandelson (spits). And Campbell. Cunt.

There are people. They are like you, or me. They sit there and work their bunnies off, trying to make ends meet, until the politicians want more money (and don't start about the bloody debt, that can be addressed) so they simply get more money through this TAX thing. Random.

WHY do you stupid bastards go "left" and "right"? Do you not understand they're all the bloody same? What the FUCK is wrong with you people?

Maggie gave you a clue. There IS no society. In a way, she was right. There are individual men and women, and there are families. IN ADDITION, there is an oligarchy, an insidious undercurrent of upcoming politic-fodder. It can join one of the established parties, and often does, or one of the "lesser" ones, such as UKIP.

What I know is that I don't have a choice. I can vote for someone whose entire raison d'etre is to steal my cash and feather their own nest. Then try to win votes with the rest.

I find this offensive.

So I stroll on to Twitter, and read about PMQs, football, or worse. Big fucking Brother. If that doesn't work, they'll cow out a thing about fat gypsys and weddings or some shit.

I'm sorry you wasted your time following me. Either I am, or you are, stupid. I don't want to deal with that.

I made some great friends on Twitter.

If you're one of them, you have my email or my phone number, or you know someone who does.

Night, folks.



I see a job vacancy. It asks for a minimum of three years experience of NINETEEN different disciplines.

I have all of them. For thirteen years. Some, for much more than this.

In addition I have a dozen or so other skills.

The CUNTING AGENT will not put me forward to the FUCKING CUSTOMER because he says they want 100% what the JOB TITLE IS. As in he does NOT WANT the OTHER DOZEN SKILLS.



Give me three reasons why I should not go to his office and set fire to it, with him in it. Apart from the obvious arson one.



I don't know why Dennis hit Rula, nor do you. I guess they both do.

A while back my now ex wife drank too much, we had an argument. She locked the door so I couldn't walk away. She punched me, kicked me in the legs and the face, threw an ashtray at my head and broke a chair over my back. I had a broken collar bone and finger, and much bleeding

I phoned the police and asked them to arrest me so she wouldn't get hurt. I sometimes wish I'd just twatted the bitch.

Now shut the fuck up about your bad boy Dennis Waterman, let's have a campaign, shit.

Thursday, 15 March 2012

Fuck off, Max

Dear Max

I am sorely disappointed that, despite my suitability for the role for which I applied over a week ago, you have not even managed to put me in contact with your client, let alone arranged an interview.

It is clear to me that you understand neither the client's requirement nor my CV. In fact, I would venture to suggest that you are acting parasitically and are of no benefit to either party in this matter.

Accordingly, I am binning this prospect and shall not contemplate using your agency ever again.

I shall pursue other avenues even though I was extremely keen on this particular position, as you know.

What I'm actually trying to say is fuck off. There.


25 minutes later I got an interview arranged.

The lion and the mouse

There's an old fable about a lion in the jungle, and a mouse. The lion gets a thorn stuck in its foot, and the mouse takes it out. I don't know if lions eat mice, but they might. Anyway, the lion doesn't eat this one. And one day some time later, the mouse is about to be eaten by something that DOES eat mice, and the lion turns up at the right time and scares the other animal away.

Some time ago when I had a job, there was an engineer who was supposed to turn up to fix something. He didn't turn up. My boss was livid and, being a bit of an arse, got on to the guy's head office and demanded his head on a plate. I, in the meantime, texted the engineer, and was answered by his girlfriend who said he'd had a dizzy attack, so I fixed the broken thing myself and explained to the boss that he was, in fact, being an arse and he should back off. The engineer found out about this and thinks I'm brilliant. Which I'm not.

Anyway, I'm off for an interview for a job with the firm that this engineer works at.

I think I'll get it.

Unless it's the story about the mouse and the lion where the mouse meets the lion a year later and says hello, and the lion eats the mouse. It was the wrong lion.

*fingers crossed*

Friday, 24 February 2012


Agile. Scrum.

Correct me if I'm fucking wrong here.

I have dumped a turdload of jobs because they want Agile and Scrum. Particularly banks.

It doesn't fucking exist, does it?

It's a methodology (which is the wrong fucking word anyway because they mean method, or way) whereby you split a fucking job up into smaller jobs, isn't it? That's ALL it fucking is. And a fucking poster for your fucking WALL. Isn't it?

It's the way anyone who isn't a complete cunt has ALWAYS fucking worked, given a name by a beardy cunt, isn't it?

Tell me I'm right.

Also bring me the head of said beardy cunt because I want to do untold beardy cunty things TO the said beardy cunt. I have my own tools.


Thursday, 16 February 2012


7. What possibly unintentional behaviour is exhibited in the following code and how would you correct it?

function buildItems() { var i, arr = []; for (i = 0; i < 20; i++) {
arr.push({ item: create(i), kill: function() {
remove(i); }
}); } return arr;
} buildItems()[10].kill();

Wednesday, 15 February 2012

Ye of little faith

“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?

“And why do you worry about clothes? See how the flowers of the field grow. They do not labour or spin. Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you—you of little faith? So do not worry, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’

“For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.


Monday, 13 February 2012


I promised you but now I can't think of anything for my boos
Don't know any country and I don't know any rhythm and blues
P'rhaps I'll just talk bollocks all night
I'm pretty sure y'all thought that I might
Six beers down my neck and here's another big pile of shit.


I promised you but now I can't think of anything for my boos
Don't know any country and I don't know any rhythm and blues
P'rhaps I'll just talk bollocks all night
I'm pretty sure y'all thought that I might
Six beers down my neck and here's another big pile of shit.

Thursday, 2 February 2012


I understand an MP has found it offensive that a beer, an ale, has found its way into the House of Commons Bar which goes by the name of "Top Totty".

The tap has a bunny girl on it. Big deal.

The same MP, elected by her constituents, has managed to, at great effort and presumably expenditure of time, remove said beer.


Yup. Here are a few things which I find offensive.

  • The House of Commons has a bar.
  • That bar is subsidised by people who do proper work.
  • An MP has nothing better to do.
  • That Gordon Brown sold off the gold reserves of this once-great country, in which the building-up he had no hand, for ten cents on the dollar.
  • That the government bailed out a couple of banks.
  • That my kids are now up shit creek without a paddle because of the hubris of a handful of the political class.
  • That half of what i might earn is being taken from me at gunpoint to spunk up the wall in any way the political class deem fit.
  • That I am now a European.
I can't be arsed. What I will say is that if the lady in question did not look as they she was catapult-fed from birth she might have chosen to embrace her sexuality, rather than to try to rebel against it.

Louise Mensch has my phone number, and she knows where I live. The MP in question has only to ask, I give Louise my full permission to divulge those details.

I hope she sues me. I hope, from deep within my black heart that she does so.

Please, if you read this folks, I have no idea what the woman's name is. Do pass this on.


Wednesday, 25 January 2012


I see that people are fretting somewhat because the government we have are doing what they can to stop us drowning in the mire of debt in which we have found ourselves.

Whatever this coalition does gets stopped anyway, so no harm done, eh? We'll just run the debt up ad infinitum.

Don't blame the coalition. They're just a bunch of incompetents who've spent a lot of money on discrediting the last lot and managed to form a disparate government by virtue of the fact that Clegg hated Brown more than Cameron. Blair was truly a media creation, and look at him now. Brown was just a buffoon. Still is. Mandelson was evil. Still is. Sue me.

Look. There isn't any more money. Not in the whole wide world. Live with it. Suffer a bit. Most of you don't know any different, you were born in the EU and you have NO IDEA what went on before about the mid-eighties. You're all Fabians.

 Of COURSE you know. You read history.

Churchill said "History will be kind to me, for I shall write it." And so he did.

A couple of years ago the mainstream media airbrushed the cigar out of his mouth.

Trust me, you know NOTHING. And no, I'm not patronising you.

As was famously said, recently: "You weren't there, man".

I'd like to hear from some oldies other than I, I really would.

Wednesday, 18 January 2012


I am accustomed to not having work. Happens to me every so many years, usually when someone has found out that I'm taking money off them for basically sitting around on my arse waiting for things to go wrong.

Anyway. There's a slump on, apparently. Don't know, don't care.

Now. I need to sort out some work. This involves getting in my car which is fortunately taxed at the moment, and going to see someone a way away.

This means I need fuel for the car. Or train fare and exorbitant car parking charges, so car it is.

£40 worth of diesel.

I know that most of this is £40 is yummy tax for the government. And I know that they will spend it wisely, perhaps on living allowance for a disabled person, perhaps to give someone who's really hard-up some money for food.

Anything else they spend it on is bollocks. A high-speed train, yacht for Her Maj, salary for themselves, contribution to the EU, help for the starving in Africa. All bollocks.

Because *I* need it. Not want, need.

And I'm not buying fags/beer/cleaning services/stationery with it. This is not a luxury. I don't take for granted the heated office I come into each day, paid for by taxpayers, and the allowances you MPs get. None of that.

So Africa, the EU, MPs, the Queen and the train can all fuck right off. Then come back, so they can fuck off again.

And so, I'm afraid, can the poor and the disabled. Because right now, *I* need it. And you're not having it.

And that, friends, is how the fuck it is.

I'm off to rob a petrol station.

Fuck you. And no, I'm not reducing myself to claiming "benefits", as you laughing call it. I'll die first.


Tuesday, 17 January 2012


I'm reading Twitter, all about the DDA this time. The Disability Discrimination Act.

Here is my opinion, and mine only.

I'm an old fart. When I was young we used to call black lads Sam, short for Sambo, which is a term of endearment for blackamoor or golliwog.

We also used to call disabled people spastics.

Yellower people were called chinks or wogs, depending.

Bus conductors were called Chalkie, I was called a four-eyed twat, my brother was known as Ratlegs, and homosexual chaps were called poofs or poofters.

It's the way it was. To be frank, there wasn't any racism from me, nor homophobia. It's just that poofs were wrong, and shouldn't have been poofs. And black people were meant to be bus conductors.

Education. I have learnt far too recently that poofs can't actually help being poofs, and black people were mostly born here these days. Just that nobody bothered to tell anyone.

What we don't need is an act. An act alienates people. You can't MAKE people think a thing, you can make them shut up about it for fear of retribution from the long, and often wrong, arm of the law, but you can't make people accept stuff that they don't believe.

That's what's wrong with the world. Let people believe what they want. Educate them though. Don't legislate.

Fucking idiots.



If you go from the M6 to the A14 you have to go down the slip road. Because it is a balls-up, all the lanes go into one at the end.

A BMW, driven by a suit, who was obviously really important, decided this morning to make another lane especially for BMWs. Unfortunately the lorry in the correct lane didn't realise this, nor did the other lorry coming the other way. He should have had his "I AM VERY IMPORTANT" sign on.

Anyway, he got sandwiched between the two and bounced up and down until enough bits had fallen off for him to carry on through the gap.


Anyone want to buy some BMW bits, like wing mirrors, wing, door handles etc? I can tell you where there are some. Slightly damaged.


Tuesday, 10 January 2012


I'm not. Yet.

I may be, one day. At the moment I can walk and drink and do all sorts of things.

I'm making the most of it.

If I were disabled in any way I'd like to think that I would still talk about other things. I like norks, but I still talk about other things, now and again.

I also know that if I were disabled I would probably put that somewhere near the front of my experiences.

But what I wouldn't do, I am sure, is have such a short memory that I would blame the coalition (bunch of self-serving tits that they are) for everything. I'd blame the last lot (bunch of self-serving tits that they are) equally.

But then I'm not disabled. Yet. I hope I never am.

Please. Disabled people. Black people. Yellow people. Tiger trainers. Women. Everyone.

Please recognise that you have one, and only one, enemy. It is the political class, the one that's shagging you up the arse with a rusty pole, in order to feather their own nest.

If you can't see this, yet, please seek out some help.


Monday, 9 January 2012

Chilli con Carne

You will need

½lb minced beef
1 tin tomatoes
1 tin kidney beans
a little oil
a big coat

First, take the minced beef. It's easier in the pre-packed section, and comes double-sealed so you can slide it into a side-pocket.

Chillies and peppers are to be found in the fresh vegetable section. The chillies fit neatly in a back pocket of your jeans. Peppers are more of a problem so don't take more than you need. If you have a hat then a couple of peppers should fit neatly underneath - a "Blues Brothers" style pork-pie hat is ideal.

Check the price of the tomatoes and kidney beans. The tomatoes should be cheaper, so put them in the basket, and the kidney beans under the coat. It may help to tighten your belt around them so that they don't fall out when passing the checkout.

If you have no oil at home, then simply borrow a small cupful from a neighbour or your local police station.

Cook the ingredients and serve.