Mostly Bollogs, I'm afraid

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

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?