Mostly Bollogs, I'm afraid

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

Monday, 28 April 2014


A weird thing happened to me at the weekend.

I was standing at my car outside a hotel in a silly little town in Belgium, waiting for Mr Hotel to come out with a key for the parking, trying to ensure Mr Plod didn't come first and tow me away.

Anyway, a chap came rushing up, swinging a handbag. A lady was screaming "voleur" or something similar, which I believe means "thief", and luckily she didn't shout it in Flemish, or I'd assume she just wanted a drink, and I assumed chap had snatched her bag. Like a twat, I lurched in front of said chap and sort of got in his way, I think. So he dropped the bag.

"Brilliant," I thought to myself, "now he'll run away and she can have her bag back." Like you do.

So chap pulls out a knife. I laugh. I laugh because I think I've probably shat myself and the only thing you can do when you've probably shat yourself is to laugh. It wasn't such a big knife, to be honest, I've eaten an apple with a bigger one than that.

So, chap puts on his best "grrrr" expression, I put on my best deathwish face and ask "do you speak English?"

He nods. I assume, as he was quite white, that nod meant "yes", as opposed to in these strange countries where it means "no", and that as he responded at all he understood the question.

"You've got one go," said I, because I'm brilliant at saying the right thing. Then I take a deep breath, wonder what it's like being properly dead, and another chap comes up behind knife-wielder and clonks him on the head, whereupon he falls down and the new arrival sits on his head, accompanied by two of his mates, and the Plod are two minutes behind. Bird gets her bag back and all is well. Plod don't want to interview me, presumably because they're Belgian.

So I park the car.

Then I go to the pub.

Does that make me a hero? Does it fuck. It makes me stupid. I suspect that if the opportunity arises I won't do it again. Not unless I've got spare pants.

Wednesday, 2 April 2014


So, you get up at 5. Every fucking day. You go and do a job, which you happen to like.

You get quite a lot of money.

Nearly all of it goes. Nearly all of it. You pay it to the HMRC, or the ex, and no fucker deserves it. It doesn't pay for anything useful. It is robbed off you.

Once I though the kids would get the house. The ex goes to the fucking gym, looking like a twat, for what reason I have no idea. The kids sit around the house doing fuck all, watching telly, pissing about on the iPhone thingies.

I can't get any sense out of any of them.

Fuck this. It's pointless.

Pointless. Fuck this.


Nick Clegg, bloke who wanted power, who batted off Cameron and Brown those years ago, and sided with the one who wanted it more.

Nigel Farage, ornery bloke who likes beer and fags. Is an EU MP.

Neither do anything for me.

They had a debate. I think Nick is a bigger cunt.

Tomorrow, I will wake up at 5 a.m., so I can go to work, and most of what I get will be taken off me by the ex, the government, the EU. So they can spunk it on the feckless, the wasters.

In the evening, I will come back and tweet, then go to bed early, then do the same again. And again.

Which one of them won the debate?

I know not. I care not. I feel like dumping the ex, the kids, telling everyone to fuck off, and being actually quite well off, which I should be, earning what I do.

You know what? I don't give a fuck what you think. Not a flying fuck. Fuck it.


Here we go. Another example of what happens when you employ children and offshore IT.

EE offer a package on PAYG where you can buy a "pack". You text (e.g.) Smart25 (to buy a £25 pack) to 441.

They THEN tell you that in 30 days they will automatically take another £25 off you.

Being the crafty penguin that I am, I will NOT leave £25 credit there for them to take at the drop of a hat.

At the end of the 30 days, they text you to say that in 2 days they will take the £25. This is fine. I then forget to credit it with £25, so when they try to take it, they can't, and then they text you saying "we were unable to take the £25. Please top up and text Smart25 to 441".

So I credit it. And text Smart25 to 441.

I then get a message saying I can't do that (even though that's what they told me to do) because I already have one.

You can't ring them. They charge you to ring them.

So, instead, I write this on my blog. Then I post it all over Twitter and wait until they look really, really stupid.

Hello, EE. Any comments?

Tuesday, 1 April 2014


She's not here to date but she's willing to chat, so I'll try not to rib her or act like a twat.

I'm crap at photography - all comes out grey - and my taste in music would ruin your day.

Fashion to me is like buffing a turd, but fun's where it's at, yes, folks, that's right, you heard.

So, she's not a fool, though it's April the first, have a happy one Sally ...

OK. I did my worst.

Happy birthday @sallyinsussex