Mostly Bollogs, I'm afraid

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

Thursday, 28 November 2013


I don't care if you read this.


Tuesday, 12 November 2013


I wonder about a tweet I had in response to a comment I made about the ubiquitous "bedroom tax". I more than wonder. I fret. Nay, not even fret. I am INCENSED.

I was not offensive. I have issue with the term "bedroom tax", as it isn't a tax, and it's a paradigm whereby left-leaning folk stir up hatred of the governing parties.

@RealPengy I say your obsession with semantic pedantry outweighs any compassion you might have and in real life you’re probably revolting

There was said response. It came from a Mr Owen Jones, who has made a career out of writing inflammatory leftist propaganda, who has a large following of what might be termed "partisan fuckwits", and who looks like he was fed with a catapult as a child. And not too competently, either.

He blocks everyone who doesn't agree with his views, viz. that the state owns yo' ass, and that anything you do, think or say is rightly from the state itself. Hallelujah.

To this I respond thus:

Owen, you Welsh fuckwit, you carbuncle on the backside of humanity, you pathetic excuse for one of God's own children, if you ever, EVER, badmouth me, my goats or my children again, you'd better make sure I don't know where you live.


Tuesday, 22 October 2013



Know C, C++ C# for Windoze and embedded C for Microchip Micros (incl dsPICs and PIC32s), SQL, shit like that?

Know your way round an oscilloscope, Eagle CAD (6 layer stuff), basic electronics (nothing scary), bit of maths like simple algebra and basic calculus?

Want a job in Nottingham, permanent or contract?

Trans folk, poofs, women, wogs, muslims etc all welcome. English is the first language.

No lefties or others who think the world owes them a living. No bullshitters, you will be found out in minutes. No agents.

£30 p/h to start rising rapidly (or you get sacked) depending on performance.

Ping @realPengy if you want more info.

Monday, 7 October 2013


I don't tell stuff like this. But I'm going to.

I were brought up to have some morals. No idea what. Mainly to do with not getting involved with hard drugs, such as LSD, which was a bit shit TBH. Shagging one's sister was frowned upon, that kind of thing.

When I were a lad pooves were fair game. We'd call them pooves. As you do. I still do. I don't like the word "homosexual" much.

I don't have a problem with pooves. Many folk who are my friends, and pooves, will attest to that.

But, in a Max Bygraves stylee, I want to tell you a story.

I was 17. I worked in Woolies (the shop), part time. One of the managers (and in those days it was like being a supervisor in Maccie D's) said we should go out for a drink.

So we went out for a drink. He was a bit older than me. Probably 40. Good-looking chap. We went to a pub and I said I'd have a cider. He got me a big fuckoff Bloody Mary. Must have had ten vodkas in it.

Anyway, I was 17, as I have just said (listening?) and he was significantly older, like 40 (listening?).

So, he then started the stuff that you'd expect from someone who was 40 when you're 17, and I was a good boy and was sick all over the seat of his car, which I then stole, and broke the diff box off, and he became angry. I then puked all over him, as well, and luckily at that point the landlord came out of the pub that I'd managed to "park" the car in, and called the police.

There is nothing wrong with consenting sex between two adults.

17 year old boys do not fall into the latter category.

That's what I think.

Wind in thy neck.

Sunday, 6 October 2013


It appears that I am a twat. This has not come as news to me; however, it appears that someone (in fact a couple of someones) have thought I was referring to them when I mentioned recently an old denizen of Twitter, one Lord Credo.

I wasn't referring to them. Lord Credo, real name forgotten in the mists of time, billed himself on Twitter as "a government comms guy" in the Tory thingy, so it can't have been that long ago. He was a likeable fellow; I thought so anyway.

He was a con artist. I met him once or twice in Olde London Town, where he would regale his fans with stories of derring-do, and give them snippets of insight into the government. Or not, as he was actually an unemployed con man.

He never had any money on him. So he never bought a round. This, I thought, was pretty clever. He also never worked for the government. He also never had any snippets of information.

If he'd stuck with taking the complete piss out of the kind of people who like to hang around the famous and important (which I would hate to do), he'd have been a bit of a hero.

Unfortunately, he didn't stop there. He conned his way into one lady's affections, and another lady's wallet, which makes him a cunt.

Shame. He'd have been up there with Ponzi, Bernie Madoff and 100 Nigerians if he'd stuck to what he was good at. Heroes all, playing on people's greed and stupidity. What's not to like about that?

Anyway, for the record. The penguin offers its sincerest apologies to anyone who was properly hurt by the Credo. Truly sorry. If either of his real victims would like me to tweet their name and that it wasn't directed at them in any way, please do so. I wouldn't mention them by name otherwise. I like both of them.

*Continues to laugh like a drain at those wannabee hangers-on who thought he was the fame and fortune they were looking for. Bwahaha..*

Thursday, 26 September 2013


This close to shoving the radio in the bin. I haven't had a telly for ten years or more.

All I have heard today is bollocks about mental Halloween costumes.

I know nothing of mental illness. I don't know what it is nor what defines it. I suspect it is "not normal", and I'd like to see what "normal" is. I know I'm desperately pissed off by politics, and people who seem to think that one or other camp of politics is good/bad, etc. So I live outside it.

I have two friends who are mentally ill, as in the definition of mentally ill that someone decided is not normal.

One is psychotic. I don't know what that means. All I know is that the idiot stayed at my gaff for a week and we had loads of fun and nobody got killed.

The other has PTSD which is because the cunt was sent to shoot brown folk somewhere foreign and I know that would do my head in too.

So, the psychotic (whatever that is) one gets grassed up by do-gooders and all they need is leaving alone to get on.

The PTSD one is a complete cunt but doesn't do stuff I wouldn't do. He's fucking sound. And bright too.

However, the people that do the grassing up are control freaks, tossers, and the kind of people who advocate stuff like gay marriage, which I think is more bonkers than the other folk, because I really don't think that an alternative to a nice wet pussy is a teenage boy's bottom.

So. That's what I think.

I don't care what you think. Just don't tell me what I should think.

I might buy one of those "mental" costumes. It's either going to be jeans and a t-shirt or jeans and a t-shirt. That's all I ever see the real nutjobs in.


Thursday, 19 September 2013


This is about Social Mobility.

I have no idea what it means but I think, from listening to the short-arsed sponging twat Blears earlier, it means this:

Folk from "lower class" (her words) backgrounds do not have the same start in life as those from "middle class" (again, her words) backgrounds.

And to that, I say, "THAT'S BOLLOCKS."

Read my blog. I wasn't born with a silver spoon. We had no silver, not even pewter, nor even a pot in which to piss. I learnt to eat fast so I got most. I now eat incredibly slowly.

My old man, who is ace, had about 47265 jobs before I got to secondary school. I passed the 11+, which was a stupid thing designed to put the non-thick in a different place from the thick. They must have got the results mixed up. So, anyway, I went to "public" skool, because there wasn't a "normal" "grammar" skool anywhere near. I was there six months. I was expelled for setting fire to a prefect. Stupid me, fancy picking one who was going to grass me up.

Having been thrown out, my old man winged his way into a job by bullshit and nadgering his way in. He bought the first house we "owned" (banks owned it). I was, and still am, a cunt. I took O levels, most of which I failed with flying colours, then A levels (same as), passed music brilliantly, failed the rest. It was the worst skool in the country bar none. Ben Elton went to it. Wanker.

I went for a job and got it because I am full of shit, and set fire to the governor's Jag in the first week. By dint of having bollocks the size of coconuts and blaming some other poor sod, I was kept on.

I knew already that there were more people than jobs. I didn't want to end up like I used to be. So I licked arse, sucked cock, and generally, when asked to jump, asked "how high, Sir?"

And now, DESPITE fucking job agents, I'm doing pretty well.

I still lick arse. I still suck cock. And I see people, daily, who don't, and who don't last.

NO politician put me where I am, nor could they.

YOU make of life what YOU want to make of it. I'm not bright. I'm not even cunning, like a fox who's been to the University of Cunning, Cunningsville. I've just been where I don't want to be, and I ain't going there again.

So, Hazel, fuck off.

Tuesday, 17 September 2013


This is about School Dinners.

When I were a lad, we were skint. Proper skint. My old man, who is the most awesome bloke on the planet, left the RAF to bail out his old man's butchery business. Didn't work. Both of them went bankrupt.

My grandad did well originally, self-made man, had a factory. The government compulsorily purchased it in the war. Well, I say purchased, gave him fuck all for it, knocked it down, used it as a tank park to protect the South-West entrances to the UK, which nobody ever invaded, and without as much as a "fuck you" reduced him to a potless wreck.

Anyway. my old man did OK in the end. Through lashings of bullshit and winging it.

In the meantime, we had the dinner tickets, so we had a different colour ticket from the folk that could afford it. Ours were beige.

One day in the dinner queue, a chap who turned out to be head boy later on had forgotten his ticket. I lent him one of my dinner tickets.

"Oh, no," said Mick (for that was his name), "you don't want to get into that kind of thing." So he went without dinner. I sneaked some chips out for him in a serviette after.

Anyway. MANY years later I went to a school reunion. Mick (now Michael) made a beeline for me. I asked how he was doing, because he was DEAD CLEVER at school. I said "I bet you went to Oxford or Cambridge." He told me that he'd been to both, did some bollocksy politics thing, and had a life-changing thingy one day. Apparently he realised it was all shite and remembered the poor boy (nobody ;loves him) from a poor family (sharing his wife for some pork sausages, Bizmillah) who'd offered his dinner ticket one day, and he jacked it all in, and joined a Jesus Commune in Northampton where they make sandwiches to sell to local shops to make ends meet.

So there you go. Weird story but all true.

Pink custard.

Friday, 13 September 2013


I'be been listening to Mr Balls, the Shadow Chancellor, on economics.

I have to conclude he's got a point.

Let a and b be equal numbers, such as a trillion pounds.


Multiply by a:


Subtract b²:




Divide by (a-b):


As a=b, substitute:




Divide by b:


And that is why economics is Balls.

Tuesday, 3 September 2013


I see Nokia have been taken over.

Shame. Nokia made the best phones ever. Unfortunately people wouldn't buy a phone unless it had a GPS, touch screen, accelerometer, stereo speakers, toaster and an app to flash their tits at someone built-in, with the option to play Angry Birds and flatten the batteries in half a day.

So Nokia tried to keep up with pathetic half-baked phones that also did a bit of that. That's why they're fucked.

And now I can't buy a phone which works like a phone, gets a signal anywhere, is virtually waterproof, unbreakable, lasts for ten days on one charge, and goes da-da-da-da da-da-da-da da-da-da-da daaaa so I think it's mine ringing when the pictures is about to start.

You bastards.

Tuesday, 13 August 2013


A new piece.

Tuesday, 6 August 2013


I went to a restaurant in Berlin with some folk.

It is called Nocti Vagus. It is (apparently) Latin and means "dark wanderer".

It is the second most bizarre thing I've ever done, most of the things I do most people find bizarre, and the most bizarre thing is top secret.

It is dark. Not dark as in nighttime dark, not dark as in shut your eyes dark, not even dark as in Darth Vader's helmet after filling the coal bunker dark. It's dark. Dark as in there is absolutely no light at all. You have to go through a delighting chamber to get in so there is never any light. If you have a phone you have to turn it off, not just put it on silent. No lighters. No luminous watches.

It's dark. You don't get accustomed to the darkness, there isn't a chink of light. After not long you either panic and leave, or shut your eyes because they're totally redundant.

I chose the "surprise" menu. They don't tell you what it will be, nor do they tell you what you had afterwards.

So. You go into the delighting chamber. The door closes. The inner door opens and the waitress, Sylvia, says hello. You put your hand on her shoulder, everyone else puts their hands on yours, and so on, like a dark conga. And she "shows" you to your table.

She gets you as far as the chair and you're on your own. You fall over, drop most of the cutlery on the floor, and listen to the sound of glasses and bottles falling off the table onto the floor. Sylvia arrives with a basket of bread with a bowl of dip in it. You have to guess where she's put it. You pour wine by either putting your fingers inside the glass and waiting until they get wet, whilst listening to the other guests go "bollocks" as they tip it straight into their laps, or you do what I did and neck a load from the bottle before passing it on.

The food arrives. You poke it with a fork, then bring the empty fork to your mouth a few times before shoving your hand in it to try to feel what it is. Nobody can see you so you either grab a handful of it and nom it, or starve.

You chat. Mainly about it being dark. I asked Sylvia how she manages. She said she found it weird at first but got used to it after only a week or so.

Starter was probably sauerkraut with some gubbins. Main course, I call "Steak a la Main et les Doigts". Pudding had jelly in it, and sorbet, and ice cream, and that shirt is going straight in the bin.

When she offered coffee I chickened out and went back to the bar. You go into the delighting chamber, she closes the inner door, opens the outer one, and you are in dim light.

You then see Sylvia for the first time. "Hello, Sylvia!" I say. "Bugger me, you're blind!" You can tell blind people usually, their eyes are sort of not seeing, kind of thing.

Sylvia informs me that she isn't quite blind. She can see some shapes. And that's why she got used to it after a week. I never would. Some of the waiting staff are totally blind, some not quite. I was totally reliant on blind people for a couple of hours. And she was serving 31 other people in there as well, I found out later. Humbling.

Next time you see a blind person, spare a thought. Maybe offer to help them across the road? You've got a hell of an advantage.

Thursday, 25 July 2013


Microchip are a company who manufacture semiconductors, mainly Programmable Interface Controllers (PICs).

In the old days, they were great.

They are now not. NOBODY in the trade will argue with this.

They have replaced their awesome MPLAB with some devil-spawned open-source Java Netbeans pile of dogvomit written by children in garages which is not fit for purpose.

This is not a problem in itself, us engineers ignore it.

But NOW they've withdrawn the awesome product in favour of said dogvomit.

It doesn't work. I don't mean some bits of it don't work, I mean it's an unadulterated pile of irredeemable crap which PROPERLY doesn't work.

If you google it, you ONLY get hits ranging from disappointing to dogvomit.

I suspect, nay KNOW, that this once brilliant, innovative company are run by complete fuckwits, money men, and folk who don't give a shit if nobody uses their products any more.

I hate this world because of that.

Monday, 8 July 2013

Women Bishops

I've been accused of being batshit crazy.

I can't argue with that, obviously. Beer or no beer, I talk a lot of shit a lot of the time. Usually I do it to wind people up.

Here's a subject which can't be taken seriously: Women Bishops.

It's a no-brainer. The Church of England, founded by Henry the Eight so he could legally decapitate a few of his wives for only having daughters, is a proud institution. It's ratified by the Royal Family, descended mainly from people we've spent the last 1000 years at war with, and is based upon centuries upon centuries of music with no discernible consecutive fifths, blokes with frocks, lads with their nadgers cut off so as not to ruin their voices, war, guilt, and the alienation of women. To be honest, pretty much like golf or Freemasonry, apart from the nadger thing.

The main anti-women-bishop argument is that the twelve apostles were men.

Let me help with that. The twelve apostles were Jewish. Half of them were fictitious. Three of them could write and one of those was a doctor. One of them (Judas Iscariot) was a bit of a git and would have shagged his own mother for a fiver.

So no, there is no argument for all Bishops being men. If we have Bishops I suggest that they fit the criteria described heretofore, and that all of them are now dead.

HOWEVER. There is no argument for Bishops. The C of E (Henry's club) has more money than the whole of Africa. Jesus said a lot of stuff (mainly obvious things like there's no pockets in a shroud, camels and needle's eyes, mustard seeds, that kind of thing) and there's no doubt at all that if you follow the "teachings" of the bible you'll vote for Ed Miliband and everyone will get a free unicorn.

Jesus never said "let there be huge buildings and please can you go and murder a load of brown people".

There is a God. I think so. You don't have to agree, and if you don't, you're so more than welcome to ignore anything I say, I will think highly of you if you do. But this is just what I think. This.

We live upon a tiny planet on the Western Spiral Arm of this galaxy, the Milky Way (named after a choclit bar, so it must be good). We're in a tiny solar system (where we go round a hot thing we call the sun, look outside and you might see it), of which there are billions, in this galaxy. Billions, like 1,000,000,000 multiplied by quite a lot.

We are one of billions (see above) of those galaxies in the universe. And there may (or may not) be other universes.

Scientists (Stephen Hawkins, Prof Brian Cox, etc.) think (and not like "I'm pissed, I think this" but more "here's a shedload of data, it's bloody likely that this is so" kind of think) that the Big Bang occurred at the beginning of recognisable time and dumped these billions upon billions of things out of another thing about the size of a Bird's Eye garden pea, fresh as the moment that the pod went pop.

That's what I call a bang.

And whatever did that is pretty awesome, and if you want to call it God, then do. I do.

We understand shit. Richard Dawkins understands less shit than that. He couldn't find his own arse with a map, a headtorch and a GPS.

If you don't believe in "God", and I'm not talking about beardy sky fairies, then I reckon your're pretty much up yourself.

Christians, Islamists, and any petty clubmakers may disagree.

See this face?

Thanks for reading.

Thursday, 6 June 2013

996 divided by 12.


Start with the 9. 12 doesn't go into 9, so you get 0. NO times does 12 go into 9. Write 0.


So, keep going, use the 9. 99. 12 goes into 99, definitely, 99 is bigger than 12.

1 12 is 12. 2 12's are 24. Etc. 8 12's are 96. 9 12's are 108, so it's bloody 8. Not 9.

Write 8. After the 0.


Now, 8 12's are 96. So take away that 96 from the 99 you tried to divide it into. 99 take away 96. It is 3.

So replace the 99 (which you already tried) with the 3.

So, instead of the 996, you have 36. Replace the 99 with the 3. 996, replace the 99 with 3. 996, 99(3)6.

Now you have 36.

1 12 is 12, 2 12's are 24, 3 12's are, fuck me, 36! So it's 3. Write it. 3. Write it after the 08.


083 is the same as 00000083 or 83. It's bloody goddamned fucking well 83.


Thursday, 25 April 2013


When I were a lad, we went to pubs.

It was a while back. There were folk there called "skinheads". Their raison d'etre was to start a fight.

You could ignore them. Best thing. Tossers.

But if they wanted "bovver", they'd goad. They'd pick. And wind you up. Until you just got so fucking fed up with it you'd start. Then they'd give you a kicking.

That's not free speech. That's just fucking stupid.

Please, people. Free speech is where you say what you want.

Goading is where you get a bite. And a kicking. And if you want, you can call the Plod.

Fuck's sake.


Wednesday, 24 April 2013

Deport Him

He's a hate-filled bastard. He has a chip on his shoulder.

Apparently he hasn't committed a crime. Well, if anti-semitism isn't a crime, that's a bit daft. Anyone who doesn't agree with his misguided religious beliefs gets ridiculed.

He incites people to civil disobedience.

He singles out minority groups and has a go at them.

So what if he hasn't committed a crime in the UK? That's simply a problem with UK law. Change it.

So send him to Jordan or somewhere. See if I care.

Who mentioned Abu Qatada? I was talking about Old Holborn.


Tuesday, 2 April 2013


Here's a silly little blog.

Disabled folk don't normally choose to be so.

They are up in arms on Twitter because Ian Duncan Smith (IDS) is nicking their bedrooms.

No, he isn't. He's targetting the lazy feckless bastards who could, and don't, work. And good for him. Starve them.

But this is what I hate. SOMEONE, in the opposition (chokes) is calling things the "bedroom tax" and making the disabled folk think they're losing out.

And whatever sick fuck is doing this, to feather their own nest, is an UTTER, UTTER CUNT.

I suspect its the same despicable bastard that murdered Dr David Kelly. Campbell.

Sue me. You'll lose. I'll laugh.

Monday, 18 March 2013


I don't live in Cyprus.

I'm British, not European.

I don't have any Euros.

Therefore I can't get angry reading this.

But hold on. I get to the past paragraph.

"Chancellor George Osborne said the UK would compensate any government employees and military personnel whose bank accounts were affected."

Oh, yes I can.

The UK will compensate? What with? The UK doesn't earn any money. It doesn't own any money. It owns huge debts and threatens me (and you) with prison if we don't pay them for it.

Government Employees? Like who? Like those who are out there taking the piss at my expense on fat salaries paid by me when I've forgotten what sun looks like? Who have money to spare that they've shoved in a bank?

Military Personnel? They're government employees too.

So, Mr Fucking Osborne, you're robbing me to pay for Europe's fuckups? Again?

Oh, OK then.