Postman Pat And His Big Swag Bag

Last night's Channel 4 programme Dispatches was an investigation by two undercover journos working as agency workers for the Royal Mail. And if I say so myself, it showed that the Royal Mail is full of stupid, lazy thieves and other general types of sticky-fingered fuckwits.
The journos were shown how to avoid security cameras so that they could help themselves to the contents of letters and packages. The programme showed workers sleeping on the job, skivving, thieving, pissing about and generally not giving a flying fuck. It showed totally inept managers, agency workers who couldn't speak or read English, workers who showed total disregard for mail and lots and lots of other examples of your average tosspot who 'works' for the Royal Mail.
I've had a go at the posties before, because, in my own experience, the Royal Mail and its employees are wankers who need a good fucking size 10 in the nuts. I mean, can't the fucking cunt who delivers my mail maybe manage to put the mail through the letterbox and not sticking out for some other cunt to come along and nick it? And whoever helped themselves to the DVDs I bought from Amazon - I hope you die of cancer.Postman Pat and his manky sidekick having a laugh, the robbing shits. Not content with hiding the fact that they're on the rob, Pat has pimped up his van with the proceeds of his blagging. And if you look closely you can see the DVDs he nicked. The ones I bought from Amazon. Bastard.

It's Like Living In The Future

Not content with the shitty old-fashioned method of crossing water by boat, Shitebank and its surroundings has declared its intentions of being the world leader in possibly fatal river crossing techniques with the introduction of the James Bondesque or even something a fruitcake dreamed up but nevertheless 21st century Amfibus:The Amfibus, an amphibeo...amphabei...a floating bus, invented by the wacky baccy tooting Dutch. Designed to drown...er...ferry 50 people at a time across dangerous waterways, the Banana Bus Of Death can do away with dozens of bingo-going oldies at a time.
Having decided to scrap the 500 year old Renfrew Ferry - which runs between Yoker and Renfrew - and introduce the Banana Bus Of Watery Doom service between Shitebank - with its hoardes of druggies, fat single mums and manky weans - and Braehead - with its shiny shopping centre and big but ultimately fucking annoying Ikea (other purveyors of flat-packed shit and other types of pointless rubbish are available) - the prospect of having busloads of Manky Bankies coming over the River Clyde every 15 minutes to shoplift their way through the virgin territories of Braehead must have the security staff shitting themselves blind

He's Not The First Minister, He's A Very Naughty Boy

Scotland's First Minister Alec 'Are You Going To Eat That?' Salmond and Health Minister Nicola 'Eat As Much As You Like It's On The Taxpayer' Sturgeon are being investigated by the Scottish Parly for whoring themselves out as raffle prizes in a 'Fight Your Way To The Buffet' style shootout. Or, for £9000 (for Fatty Salmond) and £2000 (for The Napkin Thief. True. I saw her in Starbucks once and she was nicking a fucking big wodge of napkins) you get to dine with these dodgy bastards - at the taxpayers expense, of course, with the proceeds going into the SNP's coffers.
Some old duffer at the Parly said that the actions of the First Minister and the Minister for Health was akin to a couple of fat old hoors flogging their tired and flabby fannies (or arses. Or both) down at Leith Docks.
Personally, because they're indirectly using our money to pay for their party's election costs, I'd prefer to call them dodgy bastards. Hold on, I've already done that.

Who in their right mind would pay nine grand for a meal with Fatty Salmond? He'd eat all the pies.

Typical fucking politicians, though. What's that name you call greedy, grasping, lying, fiddling cheats and robbers?

Oh yes...

Meow...A couple of overweight felines. No doubt these rotund moggies got so gross because they robbed all the other little kitties and used their ill-gotten gains to feed their own fat arses.

Guest Of The Month

After last month's successful article on assisted suicide by Nathan Drake from Uncharted, this month's topic is the Oscar nominations, and my guest is the Cookie Monster:The Cookie Monster, Sesame Street's resident biscuit fiend. Mr Cookie is famous for passing out on national TV after the infamous 'five packs of Hob Nobs' incident, and the phrase 'being Nobbed out of your mind' has come to describe the act of being raped up the arse by a rugby team. Nothing to do with cookies, but I'm not a fucking linguist.

Hello. Wow, I'm really happy to talk about this year's nominations. I'm a big movie fan - as well as the cookies - ha ha ha ha. Anyway, I'm really looking forward to the showdown for best movie between Catherine Bigelow and James Cameron, and I predict a big fucking bitch fight on the night with Catherine giving Jim Boy a good fucking going over for his stupid fucking movie. Big blue monsters my fucking arse. My vote goes to The Hurt Locker. Who in their right mind would watch anything with big blue monsters in it, for fuck's sake - that's just nonsense. I mean, it's totally unbelievable bullshit, all those big blue monsters with...hold on...er...COOKIES!!! Fuck you! Fuck you! Yeah! And Fuck you, Honey Monster, you fucking rip-off!

A Blast From The Past

I met someone today from my past life as a nurse. She is a relative of someone who lived in a home for adults with learning disabilities which I managed. This woman was one of those people who, despite knowing fuck all about nursing, learning disabilities or how to manage a care home, thought that she knew best about fucking everything. The sort of peson who would tell a fucking fireman how to piss on a fire. A real pain in the fucking arse.
To be honest I can't remember anything specific that this interfering cow did. I can remember that she spent an awful lot of her time wasting my time with her continual moaning, complaining and telling me and everyone else how to do their job.
I'm glad I clocked her and more or less instantly remembered who she is, and although I didn't think she'd remember me (I was in disguise today), she fucking well did, the cow. Anyway, here's how our conversation panned out:
Her: I thought it was you! How are you?
Me: Fuck off.
Lovely. If only every day gave me the same opportunity to tell someone from my past who's got on my tits in some way to fuck off, I'd be a happier person.

Hurry Up Dad I Want To Go To Disneyworld

Looks like there's a lot of support in the UK for the idea of assisted suicide to be decriminalised. Baldy Gandalf lookalike and Alzheimer's sufferer Terry 'I've Wet Myself' Pratchett, author of all those books I've never read or even know about, has been on the BBC news all day looking all sage and wizardy with his big white beard and his floppy wizard's hat saying such wise things like, 'Sim! Sim! Sala Bim!' and 'Abracadabra! I want to die!'

Maybe not the best person to front the campaign for legal assisted suicide. First of all, he's got dementia. He'll probably change his mind or kid on he's forgot as soon as his missus gives him a revolver with one bullet. Mind you, he's been on the bloody telly all day telling everyone he wants to cop it. If I was Mrs Wizard I'd push the senile old twat down the stairs and tell everyone he jumped.

And then there's the notion that it's assisted suicide. Surely it wouldn't be suicide if someone helped you? I think there should be a new name for it. We should have a big competition, like the sort of crap Blue Peter does for the poor weans in Haiti, only, if you win you get to help your grannie 'fall off a bus'.

Some baldy guy being plugged...er...assisted with suicide. You can tell by the smile on his face that he's happy because he's in terrible pain and going on to a better place. Not many friends would help like this, blowing your poor buddy's brains out all over the kitchen and getting bits of his skull and brain down the back of the fridge.

We Don't Have To Win At A Game We Invented

So what if Scotland's number one son and lanky Hallowe'en cake-faced tennis uberloser Andy 'The Midwife Slapped His Face By Mistake' Murray lost to some Swiss (and the less said about those Nazi lovers and surrender monkeys the better) floppy-haired nancy boy at a pointless game we invented anyway? Yes, we Scots invented tennis. Just some crappy game to keep the rest of the planet amused while we went about inventing some more stuff. Andy 'Stop Calling Me The Bogey Man' Murray looks forlornly at some tennis thing he didn't win in Melbourne today. (Yes. You're right. We invented Australia too.) Winner Roger 'Welease Woger the Wobber and Wapist' Federererer stands triumphant in the foreground, but I cropped out his smug face, the Swiss tosspot.

Bollocks to the tennis crap Andy. It's not important because you're Scottish and therefore don't have to prove yourself to anyone. Yes, because we invented everything. If it wasn't for the Scots the rest of the fucking planet would still be living in caves and chucking pointy sticks at hairy-arsed cows.