Mostly Bollogs, I'm afraid

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

Monday, 13 June 2011



Pissed off. Of course things happen. Of course they do. Sometimes they happen more than once. Usually cos you don't learn. But hold on. I'm getting right jacked off with this. As many of you know, my daughter, Melanie, died of fucking cancer. That was shit. And I've had another couple of mates who have.

And here's another one. A Twitter friend. Great lass. NEVER moans. Unlike some people who haven't got a problem and don't even know what a problem is. Like me, for instance.

Does good stuff, she does. Likes animals. Not like Miss World "Oooh I like animals and I want to do some good."

No. Like will make Christmas if she is REALLY lucky but it isn't likely. Like that.

I've had enough of this bollocks. I really have. Let's give it to the sodding banks, India, Pakistan, wherever people are dying of diarrhoea. We can't cure the common cold. We can't sort out cancer without killing the patient half the time.

Let's all extol the virtues of Bill Fucking Gates who's ripped the poor punters off since the eighties with half-baked shit, who has billions of quid he can't spend, and then bungs it on some arse vaccination to some Africans who will now have kids who grow up to be old enough to overpopulate somewhere else. Brilliant. Thanks, Bill, you four-eyed inadequate twat. Thanks you big pharma wankers who've been ripping us off for 95p in the pound since FOREVER.

Thanks God. or whoever the fuck invented cancer.  Thank you Church, for having more money and land and everything else than you fucking know what to do with.

I have a plan. Let's have the bloody lot. Let's shove it into sorting out this pile of festering shite. Let's stop bunging it into a country that's still spear-chucking (and those are Prince Philip's fucking words, not mine). And let's cut the shit. And the suits.

Pengy says let's get stuck in and sort it. None of this retire at 50 and have two hours for lunch bollocks. And meetings. Just fucking DO IT.

Now. Argue. You know you want to. Be offensive. I'll ignore you if you're not.


Captain Ranty said...

You dozy cunt.

For every single ailment under the sun there is a natural, already existing, cure.

As it happens, the same goes for cancer. It has always existed. Yin and Yang. Balance. The earth gives, and the earth takes away.

In this case the answer is B17 Laetrile.

Research it. Then tell everyone you know.

It's found in a huge variety of things like apple pips and apricot pips. Big Pharma now have control of natural remedies thanks to them forcing through Codex Alimentarus.

No fucking money in natures remedies, see?

Insulting enough for you, twat?


Anonymous said...

Don't get me wrong, the NHS is bloody brilliant, I have major health problems that affect every aspect of my life. If it wasn't for them I'd have been brown bread at age 24. It doesn't help knowing that there are treatments available that would mean I might even be able to get back out there and make more of a contribution to society - but until the NHS look deep into finances and commit to chucking out the dead wood, I'll just have to be content to sit on the internet being a bit of a cunt when the mood takes me and accept that I'm to become more etiolate as time goes on. It's not going to stop me from helping others in my situation and it's definitely not going to stop me from doing everything I can to improve on what I've got, put it to the back of my mind and be happy. I'm fucked if I'm bothered about broken nails or dramas of the hair hairdryer/fuse type. I don't have time or head-space for people who who bleat and then attack you for telling them (nicely) that it's really not the end of the world if they can't afford a Mulberry handbag or if their favourite shirt is still in the washing machine, despite only having worn it for an hour two days ago. My ex-husband was increasingly like that as time went on. He'd actually cry if his boss asked him to work the weekend or go into a stroppy sulk if I was five minutes late when we were going out to the supermarket. Don't get me started on why someone would want to bury their face in a bowl of tomato soup because they didn't like the song that just started playing on the radio. Time is far too short if you don't have the same sense of perspective as those around you.

My lovely mum died 20 months, 1 week and 6 days ago. Granted, she was 74 but not everyone who has cancer is. Chances are, if mum had had the treatment that suited her cancer, she'd still be here today with her children and grandchildren. From age 14 to 41, I didn't have a mum, she disappeared out of our lives and reappeared right at the end. As an adult, I only had 18 months with my mum and I spent that watching her die. So don't tell me that some NHS manager-type deserves his fucking six-figure fucking half yearly fucking bonus, because we sure has hell don't fucking need surplus wankers like that. Before anyone shouts at me that I don't work for the NHS so how would I know, I've worked 20+ years in many offices with thousands of people - both private companies and Government agencies. There are cunts like that everywhere and you don't need a degree in phycology to spot them. Those who seem oblivious to the fact there's actually work to be done and spend the day trying to look like they know what they're doing. What makes it worse, 99 times out of 100, the higher management seem to overlook the fact that these planks spend more time designing their fucking business cards and playing Farmville than they do actually working, and generally speaking, they're usually making up for their inadequacy in the working arena by making some poor overworked and underpaid secretary's life a misery.

By now you've either lost interest, fallen asleep or decided I have terminal logorrhea. If you haven't, and you think I might actually be talking sense, look me up - it's always lovely to meet new people to share a good conversation/problem/laugh/cry with.