It must be hard being a TV executive.

Like, really hard.

In an atomised digital age where there’s a channel for every niche (I’m sure Guinea Pig TV isn’t far off), trying to keep hold of viewers on broad church channels like ITV and C4 must be tough. I imagine the executives must sit on space hoppers somewhere brainstorming like mad to come up with new ideas to keep the ratings up and the ad revenues a-flowing:

Executive 1: Like, Muslims are in the news a lot lately.
Other Execs: Umm, yeah. Keep going, man!
Exec 1: (concentrating real hard) And celebs are always good for ratings…
Other Execs: Yeah, Tarquin, you’re almost there baby!
Exec 1: Why not have a programme that combines the two… We could have a Z-list celeb giving a beginner’s guide to Islam!
Other execs: (jump off spacehoppers and run over and perform a group air slam dunk over the basketball ring)
Exec 1: Wait, wait, I’m not done. I’ve got the ideal presenter…. Peaches Geldof!!! (runs over and performs solo air slam dunk)
Other execs: That’s almost as good as your Love Island idea.
Exec 1: We’re done. Let’s get the marching powder back out again.

I would have thought an Islamic scholar with a bit of charisma would be better able to explain the subtleties of concepts such as Jihad etc., but that’s why I’m not a TV exec. I would have just patronised the audience and been totally out of touch with the zeitgeist. I wouldn’t have realised that relatives of low-grade celebs is where it’s at right now.

Er, Tarquin: any chance of a line?

http://uk.news.yahoo.com/27072006/344/peaches-geldof-islam-show.html

As everyone seems to be going through a phase of revealing personal information about themselves at the moment, I thought I’d join the club and officially out myself as being… Welsh.

So after three months of blogging and some tentative moves I’ve finally admitted it, and I have to say I feel completely emasculated emancipated now I’ve stepped out of the Cymraeg closet.

So, boyo, what’s it like being born and brought up in a country ‘the size of Wales’? Well it’s a non-stop journey through the land of my fathers nationalistic stereotypes. Hearing your country being most commonly used as a form of shorthand geographical measurement (‘an area twice the size of Wales’) perhaps is some indication of the less than respectful regard that Wales is held in. For the record, I do not play rugby, I’ve never met the Manic Street Preachers, and the closest I’ve got to a sheep is when I’ve been spreading mint sauce on it for my Sunday dinner. Yes, I agree that Charlotte Church is a gobby cow, Gavin Henson looks like the Tango Man with a mullet and Huw Edwards sounds like a bit of a prick.

I have not walked around Snowdonia with Sir Anthony Hopkins, I don’t know what (insert random Welsh town name here) is like and no I can’t pronounce Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch (translation: The Church of St Mary in the hollow of the white hazel near the rapid whirlpool and the church of St Tysilio near a red cave), although I do make a similar noise when I’m being sick.

I have read a fair bit of Dylan Thomas, but the inspiration I took from him was to move from Swansea and hang around the Fitzroy Tavern getting pissed.

So now I’ve emerged from the closet and coughed to my guilty secret, let’s never speak of it again...

As any Londoner without a chauffeur driven Bentley knows, travelling to and from work on public transport in the summer is something of an olfactory hell. It’s like the urban equivalent of Glastonbury when it rains, the main difference being you actually have to have a ticket to get into Glasters.

At my wits end this morning with my low-grade slumming I decided to throw caution to the wind and sneak into the first class carriage for my inward journey. While all the plebs sweated like pigs in their standard carriage pens, I rode into work in style. On stepping into the carriage and the doors closing behind me in Enterprise fashion I was greeted by a beautiful train assistant (BTA) who I handed my bowler hat, briefcase and umbrella to and then was shown to my seat.

The first thing I noticed was I had leg room (leg room in a train carriage – unbelievable!). The second thing I noticed was that my seat was in an air-conditioned carriage (and by that I don’t mean the windows were open and we were going quite fast), which meant that even when the train stopped for its obligatory 10 minute pause directly under the sun while waiting for a platform for the passengers to alight on, my cool demeanour remained. The third thing I noticed was that I was the only person in the carriage – who needs a Bentley when you have your own train carriage?!

The service was remarkable. Not only did the BTA turn the pages of my Guardian for me when I reached the bottom of each page, but she also helped out with a couple of the answers for the crossword, and made the piquant observation as I idled through the sport pages of how the hell corruption in Italian football is going to end based on the successful appeals of the guilty fixing four.

I was quite disappointed when the train pulled in and was only 10 minutes late for its scheduled arrival time at King’s Cross. The BTA handed me my back my briefcase, umbrella and bowler hand and handed me an ice-chilled bottle of Evian. Stepping off the train I couldn’t help but notice the searing heat that my other less fortunate passengers had had to endure on their standard class journey. Poor bastards. That kind of heat can really play tricks on the brain when you’ve had to endure it over long periods…

Just to confirm, Fruitbowl is in the middle.

About ten years ago a couple of friends of mine were going through a period of Beavis and Butthead-esque rivalry, where each was determined to try to goad the other into embarking on some daredevil activity which would leave the other in traction for a few months. Most of the time it’d be pretty puerile stuff, but occasionally the dares would be inspired, such as the time when friend B challenged friend A to run up a downwards escalator.

WARNING: I really, really do not advise you to try it. Although I do totally recommend watching after getting someone else to do it.

Friend A thought this dare would be straightforward enough, so walked about eight steps down the escalator then span around and started trying to run up the stairs. Just one big problem:

He wasn’t going anywhere.

He was just about going fast enough not to go downwards, but not quick enough to beat the pace of the escalator. Now watching someone running quite fast but not actually moving off the spot is pretty funny, and Friend B and myself were pissing ourselves laughing at Friend A’s lack of progress. This angered the great man, who really started to step up the pace. Just one problem:

He still wasn’t really going anywhere.

However, when he did finally pick up enough speed to start climbing the escalator, this caused another unexpected problem. When he managed to get up the steps and reach the level part at the top of the escalator, this flat stretch took his momentum and catapulted him in the direction of an expensive-looking display unit.

I didn’t think the news of parents having died would have stopped myself and Friend B from laughing at this point, but Friend A’s collision course with the display unit did just that. I think both of us thought we’d hit the motherlode at this point, but to our eventual dismay relief, Friend A managed to sidestep the display and collide with a fellow shopper instead (must have been all that rugby training for the Scarlets that saved him). As Beavis and Butthead themselves would have said if they’d been watching:

‘that was pretty cool’.

I’m starting to empathise with those mad Yanks who take a gun into their place of work and send a few of their colleagues into the next life before joining them in the big open-plan office in the sky.

I am most definitely not a morning person, and added to that it’s something of an understatement to say I’m not coping well with the London heat.

The journey into work was hellish thanks to GNER’s delightful habit of laying on a twelve carriage sauna for the short journey (in miles if not in actual subjective experience) into work. To make things worse a moth decided to attack me and only me (I knew I shouldn’t have worn a white shirt today) whenever we went into a tunnel.

My working week (and also my neck) was then almost cut short by a workman who decided to drop his industrial tape measure from his spot on top of the channel tunnel rail-link by King’s Cross.

Negotiating this Indiana Jones deathtrap I made it into work, but after switching my PC on I found my mouse had stopped working, and after a couple of minutes of my technological handiwork it most definitely was not going to work again.

Then the bookclub guy dropped off his new selection of books and took the old ones back (I’m going to miss Robbie Fowler’s autobiography) and left the customary fluffy toy. This time it was a toy dog that mimes very badly to a recording of ‘close to you’ that's located somewhere in its posterior. I am a dog lover, but I will rip that dog’s head off before 11 a.m. if someone gets it singing again.

To add to my black mood this God bothering twat has just turned up in my office and is insisting on having a coffee and talking a lot:

So to try and cheer myself up I’ve just emailed a friend and managed to convince him that a friend’s mother we met last night wants to meet him again for ‘coffee’. Now this woman has smoked so many cigarettes that her teeth look like the road after the grit lorry has been around. The best thing is that the silly sod is readying his range of excuses to avoid meeting up with his ‘date’.

That has almost made up for my awful start to the day, and I do believe the sun has gone behind a rather large cloud. Maybe it won’t be so such a bad day after all.

I was recently fortunate enough to interview former cock-on-sock wearer Anthony Kiedis from funky ex-junkies, Red Hot Chilli Peppers.

TKK: Yo, Kiedis! What’s happening, blud?
AK: I am Sir Psycho Sexy!
TKK: Er… (shoots PR person a questioning look).
PR Person: If you have to ask…
AK: You'll never know!
TKK: Ok… A lot of your songs have a very high degree of sexual content – would you say your music is essentially a load of cock?
AK: Every man has certain needs…
TKK: Uh, huh.
AK: Talkin' 'bout them dirty deeds.
TKK: But your tumescence does come up in a lot in your lyrics.
AK: There are no monks in my band.
TKK: Although a couple of you have endured some rather bad habits…
PR Person (in falsetto): Under the bridge downtown…
AK: Is where I drew some blud!
PR Person & TKK (falsetto in unison): Under the bridge downtown…
AK I could not get enough!
TKK: So while we’re on that topic, your autobiography, Scar Tissue, was published recently. What’s it’s central theme?
AK: Californicatshunn!
TKK: So we’re talkin’ cock again?
AK: I'm a low brow but I rock a little know how!
TKK: Do you have any plans to go back into the movies again? I really liked that bit in Point Break where you were shot in the foot.
AK: Dream of silver screen quotations…
TKK: You do?
AK: And if you want these kind of dreams…
TKK: Uh, huh.
AK: It’s Californicatshunn!
TKK: Hmm. That’s something of a recurrent theme with you. Now due to your inexplicably popular status amongst the stupid young, you must be rolling in dollar bills. So what do you do with all your money now you’ve quit the smack?
AK: Give it away, give it away, give it away, now!
TKK: Admirable. So how ‘bout punting some of your inexplicably earned millions my way, blud?
AK: Suck my kiss!
TK: *reaches for gun and shoots Kiedis in foot *
You know, they really should make a sequel to Point Break…
AK: *writhes around the floor in agony*

The next TKK interview will be with Mr. Phil Collins, but ,wait a second, there’s some activity from the fax machine… Phil Collins has just faxed to divorce cancel our interview for next week. You just can’t beat the personal touch.

As if it wasn't bad enough for the planet's future that Geri dropped a sprog a few months ago, it turns out that Syed from the Apprentice has got Series 2 winner Michelle up the duff:

http://uk.news.yahoo.com/21072006/344/apprentice-star-pregnant-rival.html

I think Sir Alan Stalin's decision to make Michelle the winner should now be declared null and void. Would you allow your business to be run by someone who would let Syed impregnate her? Me neither. How he shagged her I don't know, considering this twat couldn't sell shit to a shovel.

I do know this means making Ruth Badger the victor, and that is a ghastly prospect, but at least you know the Badger could be relied upon to not allow Syed to get her in the club. Or anyone else for that matter.

It’s an engineering fact that a space shuttle consists of around two million separate parts and it only takes a miniscule amount of them to malfunction for a tragedy to occur.

A relationship of mine imploded in a similar fashion when a tiny little cog came loose from its fixing, and before I knew it it was a definite case of, "Houston: we have a problem here”.

I'd secured free tickets for a theatrical production at the King's Head on Upper Street, the play being a one-woman solo performance of ‘Sylvia Plath’ (supposedly) during her last few hours, before she got confused and put her head in the oven instead of a nice pie for Ted’s tea. Ghoulish, melodramatic, vomit-inducingly self-obsessed - and that was just the audience. Pretty much all were paid-up members of the Poor Sylvia, Bastard Ted Club, so it was probably the wrong setting for me to unleash my inner Mr. Hughes.

During the interval my girlfriend and I started arguing about something that failed to end with the interval’s close. I thought we were being quiet, although not quiet enough for the couple in front of us whose reprimand led to my hissing "will you shut the fuck up". This brought our quarrel to a larger audience. Like a flashback from my school days I heard an especially loud and theatrical voice throwing down the verbal gauntlet that is "Would you like to share it with the rest of the class?"

I look up and ‘Sylvia’ is stood at the edge of the stage and glaring daggers at me. Unfortunately, challenging me in front of an audience (as many teachers found) is a counter-productive strategy, and having warmed up my argumentative nature during the interval, ‘Sylvia’s’ challenge simply allowed me to complete my metamorphosis into ‘Ted’ and enter from stage left.

After a couple of minutes unscripted eloquence, if I do say so myself, I felt we had the audience in the palm of our hands. I was ready to get up on stage and only my girlfriend’s sharp exit towards the wings led to me taking my bow, although not without the departing line of “we all know how this ends, so why not save us 30 more minutes of melodrama and get on with it”.

Was it effective? Well it was in at least in one respect: it ended the argument I’d been having with my girlfriend.

When dates go wrong...

Does the above bring back any memories you thought you'd long repressed? Have you turned your relationship break-up into a public performance? Have you ever unleashed your inner Ted or Sylvia? If so, share your dating tragedies with Time Killing Kid. And for the record: he doesn't have red hair, nor does he eat men like air.

To steal a Bill Hicks line, but I am not a lizard. Can we lose the subtropical climate and return to London as I prefer it: a bit dull, a bit grey and mild.

And nicking another Bill Hicks line (or should that be 'stolen from Bill Hicks!!!'), but it sucks seeing all my cool jackets hanging up in the wardrobe, and then having to select 'summerwear' from the especially thin summer-range of the TKK line. Now what shirt will I sweat through all day today? I know, I'll choose the Johnny Cash black number and absorb all of the sun's rays for the good of mankind.

And what can you do in the summer except sit around all day and groan from time to time, lacking the energy to do anything more productive. I'll have plenty of time to function like this when I'm old and arthritic, so would prefer not to to feel like this during the busted flush days of my youth.

So before we get this rain-dance going, a little song:

"I don't care what the weatherman says,
When the weatherman says it's raining,
You'll never hear me complaining..."

Well it had to happen at some point. Finally, a late night visitor to my lurrvepad. It was somewhat unexpected and took me by surprise, especially when she was so quick to get down on all fours before me (and we’d barely been introduced).

But obviously, and congruent with my current drought, the pussy in question was the type that likes Kitty Cat and bringing dead animals into the house. I was halfway through watching The Hitcher when I was diverted from a psychotic Rutger Heuer by a big black cat sneaking its way past the ajar front door of my flat. Now I can’t stand cats, and to make things worse the little bugger was in the process of spraying over my chair until I scooped the walking furball up and threw it out the window handed him back to his owner, the yelping dog of a girlfriend of the guy who lives in the flat above.

To make things worse, they (the humans) later decided to rub my face in it (not literally, thank God) by having one of their loud shagfests about an hour later. I’ve no idea what the cat did while this went on, but I am considering ringing the RSPCA if it means an end to their late night screwing.

Definitely needs spaying. And I ain’t talkin’ bout the pussy.

A couple of days ago I received a message about something I’ve dreaded happening for some time. Rather than my perpetual fear of the bank writing to me and insisting I clear my overdraft, it was notification of a proposed secondary school reunion.

Fuck.

I had thought that as it’s been fifteen years since I left I was going to be excused this painful ritual of adult life.

Not a hope.

Apparently, arrangements are being made even as I type this entry.

Now my secondary school was a bit of a nightmare. For one thing it was a Catholic school, except there weren’t enough Catholics to fill it to capacity. Rather than what would probably be the case today, where middle-class parents would be fighting at the altar to take communion first in order to get their kids into a better school, to make up the numbers we tended to take in a number of ‘problem’ pupils that had been excluded from other schools in the area.

This gave the pupil composition a lively makeup. But coupled with this was the seething resentment of the non-Catholic teachers who knew they’d never get promoted for the obvious gap in their CV (A lesson in life of what happens when you choose the wrong god). So the five years there meant attempting to survive the constant danger of catching a clout from the Scyllas of failed career ambition on one side, or getting Tippex shoved in your eye by sociopathic short-trouser wearing Charybdises on the other.

On this theme I’ve just been swapping in the office a couple of first class tales of ritual pupil humiliation, but I thought this one was worthy of an award of some kind. In the fifth year, a particularly rowdy pupil from a lower set/stream was sent into our class as their teacher (Mrs ‘Piggy’ Reed) in the adjoining room couldn’t keep order.

Aptly, the lesson was RE so our teacher was able to come up with a suitably medieval form of punishment. The fiendish bit of public humiliation set for this young man was that he had to balance a blackboard duster against the blackboard. With his nose. To add to the pressure of his fellow pupils willing him to drop it, our teacher gave him one final part of laconic instruction:

“Drop it and you’re dead.”

Still, A few years later I heard news that this unfortunate chap had lost a hand after an industrial accident at work. So based on the balancing act he’d been forced to perform that day, I suppose he could reflect that at least one thing he'd been taught in school would be of use to him in adult life.

Having got over the early morning sublimation of my sexual urges, or running as it's more healthily known, I couldn't help but notice how my early a.m. run had been spolit by another organised event in Finsbury Park. A week ago it was hurdle the debris from the Rise Festival (or Arise! as would have been more appropriate for some people that morning), and for some reason this morning Nike had colonised the park to sell more shoes lay on a public event out of the goodness of their corporate hearts.

Nike's attempt to make itself synonymous with fitness and wellbeing has always raised a smirk from me, as can only be done by a firm that turns sportswear into 'leisurewear' and allows its franchisees to exploit so ruthlessly the people forced hired to make their shoes. If there's anything Nike is synonymous with then it's uber-Capitalism, if you compare the amount Phil Knight gets paid to those stitched up stitching up his firm's products.

So rather than the earthly parklife of fornicating squirrels to catch the eye there's Nike swooshes on placards (in a disgusting orange and black combination) and semantically confusing slogans such as 'I will run a year' ('I will run once a year'?), plus the kilometre signs in the wrong order (I think you'd run the second km before the third, otherwise you're most definitely cheating).

I would describe the massive outdoor tent selling Nike footwear, but that would make it all look like a big cynical event organised just to push expensive footwear at people (NikePark, anyone?).

It was enough to make me want to throw my running shoes into the duck pond and thud like Zola Budd for the rest of the run. That way I could have joined all the others left this morning with their 'soles' on fire.

The honours list is always something of a depressing read (can someone explain why being a backbench MP in a safe seat for 20+ years automatically merits a knighthood?), and no more so than when Tom Jones became Sir Tom. Whether this was in response to the recently knighted Sir Mick is unclear, but there’s no doubts in the opinion of this valley boy that they gonged the wrong Welshman. The person they should have knighted was… *starts up drumroll*

Shakin’ Stevens.

Some may consider this a surprise choice, although for a man who sang such pop gems as Green Door or This Ole House, he’s long overdue the critical recognition his career deserves. But Shaky deserves a knighthood not for his outstanding contribution to the music industry but simply because he achieved something I’ve wanted to do (and thousands of others) for some time: he managed to stick one on Richard Madeley. In the pantheon of violence inflicted on celebrities it’s not quite on a par with Jay Kay being headbutted by a photographer (the only one of his videos I’ve ever enjoyed watching), but Madeley had it coming for some time, and it fills my chest with nationalistic pride to know it was a Welshman who stuck one on the shoplifting wanker.

Arise Sir Shaky, and if I ever see you out on Wind Street in Swansea, the Felinfoel ale is on me.

And if you fancy shakin’ it like the great man himself (I mean by twatting Madeley - hip movements like Shaky does should be left to professionals), I’d recommend the following link:

www.urban75.com/Punch/richjudy.html

"It's hard, You know it's hard."

Indeed it is.

And not only that but phrases such as "I'm in heaven when you smile", which should be best left on Van Morrison albums, start infiltrating the brain all because of catching sight of a certain young woman. By a certain photocopier.

And "when the world seems to shine like you've had too much wine", then that's amore.

All because of a certain young woman. Standing by the photocopier. And all that happened was:

I looked at you
You looked me
I smiled at you
You smiled at me
And we're on our way
No we can't turn back, babe
Yeah, we're on our way
And we can't turn back
'Cause it's too late
Too late, too late
Too late, too late

I'm off for a cigarette, where all the non-healthy lasses hang out. I really need to quit for my health. And by that I mean photocopying, natch.

A few years back there was something of a kerfuffle between Jonathan Franzen and Oprah Winfrey after the former had bitched about Oprah’s logo appearing on his magnum opus The Corrections.

And with good reason. If I’d spent years working on the latest Great American Novel, the last thing I’d want is Brand Oprah hitching a free ride and having her corporate logo stamped across the cover of my book.

But say what you like, Oprah’s stamp of approval shifts volumes of books off shelves, and it was only a matter of time before the success of Oprah’s book club meant an ersatz UK version would be launched.

Which is why we ended up with Richard and Judy’s Bookclub.

Is there not anyone else’s synergenic brand they could have used other than these tossers? When I see the gruesome twosome flappin’ about during ‘grab a grand’ it’s hard to think of them sitting around in a comfy chair in R&J Towers, reading some Proust while logs burned on the fire. Judy’s Gin Club I could have some faith in. Richard’s Shoplifting Society I’d probably want to join. But Richard & Judy’s Bookclub???

Apart from the unnecessary promotion that a batch of middle to lowbrow books would already get (e.g. Chris Heath’s biog of Robbie Williams), it means having to endure their logo stamped on books that may actually be worth the read. I was reading Andrew Smith’s Moondust on the tube before realising their dreaded corporate logo was stamped in the top right corner. I tried to peel the bastard off but it was actually incorporated into the cover photo (a picture of a rocket taking off). They could have at least made it look like a cloud or something!

The only shame is that R&J weren’t around a century ago. Apart from the fact it would have meant our existences not having crossed timelines, I would give anything for Richard’s in-depth interview with Dostoevsky, as Madeley considered whether he might want to do a sequel to Crime & Punishment, and how he felt similar parallels with Raskolnikov after his experience with a shopping cart in Ye Olde Victorian Curiosity Tesco Shop.

And for a selected highlight of gems from the mouth of Madeley I’d recommended going here:

http://www.richardmadeley.net/

I really love Tuesdays. Why so, TKK? Well, Tuesdays are the day the God squad visits our humble office. Now these God fearin’ folks are led by the saintly Father Bert, picture below:

Now, as I’ve said before, Mr. Shiny Shoes is an annoying cunt, so it’s appropriate that his little entourage are cut from the same ‘cloth’. The trainee priest is far too easy a target, simply because it’s hard to believe a trainee priest would wear a red pullover after Father Ted:

He’s obviously not a fan.

But better than the men are God’s groupies. Whenever I look at a Young Female Christian’s style choices I ask the same question I ask myself whenever I see someone with a particularly tacky tattoo: what was going through your head when you allowed that to happen? In respect to tattoos, it seems strange that someone would choose a ‘sacred’ Celtic or Indian sign and then have it tattooed just above their butt. I’m sure it’s exactly what the Indians had in mind for their symbolism: Let the White man take our lands and heritage and tattoo our signs on his butt. Or on Robbie Williams.

Similarly, when I see a YFC I wonder why allow such a haircut to happen? It’s either a Victoria Wood special or lank brown collar length hair with the most appalling fringe. Saving yourself for marriage? Reckon you’re gonna be saving yourself for a lot longer than that unless you ditch the wedge and the brown corduroy.

As the song almost went, ‘Then I saw her face, now I’m an unbeliever.'

'I couldn’t divorce her if I tried.'

Let The Lord have mercy on my soul…

As Sociopath74 Quintonopath is away on holiday I thought I'd do my blog entry this morning 'in the style of' Mr. Sweary Bollocks himself:

"Was woken from the middle of a bastard sweet dream (Lorraine Kelly and Anthea Turner in chef hats and nothing else) by the bastard cuntin’ clock (bleedin’ six ‘o clock already), or was it the bin men trashin’ the front garden again? Bit like asking which came first, the cuntin’ chicken or the bastard egg. Either way, it was like a jackhammer shatterin’ my soddin’ skull and scared off the delightful Ms. Kelly and Ms. Turner.

Staggered out of bed hoping it was going to be a straightforward 10k run followed by a morning nap but realised it was manic fuckin’ Monday and time to earn a mouldy crust. Fookers.

Got up to get breakfast, ‘cept the bastard milk was sourer than Mrs. Oliver’s snatch the day the cunt Jamie the bastard was conceived. Hence, the cuntin’ cereal went down as well as Mother Theresa. Should have ran out to the twattin’ corner shop to buy milk but my bastard manager is fuckin’ back in work so I can’t be cuntin’ late as I won’t get paid.

Tried to get ready while listening to Nicky knobhead Campbell in the hope it would make my bastard arse move a bit faster as it takes me cuntin’ ages to figure out what to bleedin’ wear (so many shirts, so few without a fuckin’ stain on them). Eventually stagger out the front fookin’ door. The binmen have left all the lids off the bins so walkin’ down the bastard street was like some fuckin’ ‘I’m a nobody, get me out of cuntin’ here’ trial.

Head to the station to catch an early bastard train cos I’ve gotta be at fookin’ work by nine. The soddin’ overground train was stuffed full of fellow commuting scum because of the poor sod whose untimely plunge meant him landing the wrong side of the tracks in Higbury and wankin’ Islington. Hence, rammed up against the door for the entire wankin’ duration like I’m being shafted by the entire carriage, sweating almost as much as I'm fuckin' swearing right now.

Arrive at my cuntin’ desk for another week of fookin’ fun. Time: don’t it go so bleedin’ fast when you’re having so much bastard fun?

Wish it was fuckin’ Sunday. My I don’t have to run soddin’ day.

Just another cuntin' bastard manic Monday.

Bastard."

Round the corner from where I live is a barber shop, home to some of the baddest muthafuckers in da Finsbury Park. You won't find no flamin' fags there, uh-huh. The testosterone is of such a high quotient that the chest hair has hair growing on it (assuming it ain't been waxed). Now for a bunch of bad mofos there's an awful lot of poncin' around goin' down, and pharmacy products ain't in short supply, shorty. Of course, these products be of the beautifying sort (gotta look good for the bitches) and is all strictly legal. But a man may want to look his best (gotta look good for the hos), but he don't want no one thinkin' he's gone all homo. So you gotta give your place the right name to rule out any doubts there's fellas sitting around arguing who has the biggest and nicest smelling balls. So this is the hangout's handle:

Am I the only one who thinks the sign says 'fannies'? I've enclosed the number in case anyone wants to ring up and ask for 'fannies'.

Should have expected it really. I've been goin' hard at it for the past week and was bound to run dry at some point.

But what does a blogger do during these dry spells? Maybe cut and paste the jokes from Popbitch? Put my text messages up there? Give a full and unsparingly detailed account of how I scratched my upper thigh while standing by the photocopier waiting for my woman to turn up for the double-sided copying to finish. (I used the three fingers of my left hand and scratched in a circular movement just above the knee cap).

Or maybe I should just put those blogging tissues away and wait a while. Wait until something more potentially arousing comes up. Then I’ll use all the fingers of my left hand in a circular motion and 'upload' something more substantial over the screen.

*reaches for his blogging tissues*

You are out of the World Cup. You were knocked out in the quarter finals. Again.

I know some of you are finding this hard to adjust to, but you are most definitely out. I checked the names of the teams in the final and one had five letters and the other had six, so you’re definitely not in there. I even rang Sepp Blatter and he confirmed it for me, before then trying to sell me some of his ticket allocation for Portgual vs. Germany.

And not only were you knocked out, but despite a cushy draw (more Garden of Eden than group of death) England failed to show the kind of form required to reach a final. It was incredible listening to England fans phoning in to Radio 5Live phone-ins after the Italy vs. Germany game and coming out with such bullshit as ‘after watching the game tonight I thought: yeah, if we were still in it we could have beat either Italy or Germany’ (the key phrase being ‘if we were still in it’). I know being a fan of anyone requires a certain amount of self-delusion, but I was waiting for someone to ring in saying ‘Hi, I’m Elvis. England could have put three or four past the Italians. And my new album is out next week.’

And it’s somewhat hypocritical to hear some English fans whining on about gamesmanship on the field while showing a distinct lack of sportsmanship off it. Before you start getting your Christiano Ronaldo effigies ready for next season, isn’t losing with good grace supposed to be a part of sporting behaviour?

And it’s not like you haven’t had the practice.

Did you hear the one about the right-wing borderline racist comedian who was declared bankrupt after failing to meet the payments for his £1.4 million tax bill? It was me!”

I never thought I’d laugh at anything Davidson said, but the following quote proved me wrong:

“The tax man has, for reasons best known to himself, pulled the rug out from under my feet. I am still pretty solvent. I just can't pay £700,000 right now.”

Jimbo, I reckon the reasons he decided to humour us all by declaring you bankrupt are pretty obvious...

Anyone fancy having a whipround for Jim to help him out? Thought not.

Nick-nick!

And if you want to kick (or punch) a man when he's down, I'd recommend the following link:

http://www.urban75.com/Punch/davidson.html

Wanker!