Mostly Bollogs, I'm afraid

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

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.