Category Archives: bruce willis

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Apologies for my lateness with today’s instalment of crap.

Feel free to read this first, something I wrote on Banksy

I awoke this morning unable to move so I lowered myself out of my pit, yelling a bit, and transferred myself to the floor where I remained until my fucking back had re-aligned to it’s default position. I did a few rudimentary exercises and am now mobile to a certain extent, enough to come into the office anyway. Don’t expect any cartwheels.

Last night wasn’t dissimilar to the previous, I headed up to town on the tube, a journey I actually enjoy these days because it gives me time to absorb myself in my book, and met up with Harry in the pub on Monmouth Street. He and I then took ourselves to the Charlotte street Hotel to meet Bob who was over from Paris on a shoot. I chuckled when a group of tourists asked me to take their photo with Bob stood next to me, obviously I offered him the gig, he politely refused, he’d been at it all day photographing lingerie models the poor sod, one of which was Bruce Willis latest squeeze –he’s having dinner with him and her tonight.

Harry, Bob his entourage of stylists, make-up artists and assistants and yours truly went off to Busaba on Store Street for dinner. After a short queue we were in, we ordered and ate. The food here is exceptional, though not in gut tearing quantities and we picked around each other’s plates chatting away. Bob kindly took care of bill and after a bunch of farewells I was sitting on a packed tube heading south.

There must have been something in the water last night. In addition to being packed solid at 11.20pm on a Thursday night it was rammed full of less than attractive couples eager to get home and fuck each other. To my right a bubble-faced twat was flirting with her estate agent looking twit of a boyfriend seated opposite, she was kicking her chubby legs up and writhing and giggling and pouting all erotic like, he reciprocated by waggling his tongue at her and winking like he’d a fucking tick, I glared at him with violent intensity for acting in a manner not befitting an English gentleman and he deceased his prick-led idiocy at once. To my left some dreadful harridan was stood with her gunt inches from my head chewing the face off some teenage Johnny, every so often she’d pause to hiss bedroom words into his shell-like ear, I could practically hear her fallopian tubes flapping.

Right, the very edited Friday list -its getting worse I swear- and a popular tune, Oh, before I go the Moto GP starts this weekend, I’m pathetically exited about it so I hope, like me, you’ll all be tuning in on Sunday afternoon to cheer James Toseland to victory on his debut…



Bugger, they’ve all gone.

cormack mccarthy 2
“bombardier bb3” 2
nun paris brand 2
vorderman’s boobs 2
big pennis sex 2
kings road in the 80’s 2
youtube ducati 1098 in monaco 2
eskimo 2
nigella lawson is a twat 3
chickpea spinach gratin 2
grey’s .redheads .butchers .hatch 2


With more than a degree of trepidation, I opened the door to the pub.

Instantly my nose was filled with the lofty fumes of urea and disinfectant, it was utterly revolting. I could see clearly from one side of the bar to the other and the place was half full of sanctimonious old cunts slowly eating burgers with cutlery, an air of imperious victory rested over them like their vast napkins. These people hadn’t been to a fucking pub since Mr. Hitler turned up his toes.

Frank and I went to the back of the bar, both of us automatically scanning for ashtrays, both realising there was no point and sitting down confused with our Welton’s. Already a succession of, frankly, unwell looking gentlemen were passing us to gain access to the beer garden where the landlord had kindly set out umbrellas and tables for the crushed smoking community. Frank intended to hold out for a cigarette, I decided to wait until I’d downed the pint before having one, forcing Frank to do the same. We were both drinking faster than usual.

After 3 pints and 5 fags we headed off. It was odd, it didn’t feel as if we’d actually had our usual pint, felt more like an encounter in a branch of Little Chef. To make the matters worse the heaven’s opened and I actually got soaked to the skin on the way back home. Balls.

As I’d had a booze free Sunday, and because I’d got soaked, AND because, I decided to have a wine. The fucking wine box on the fridge (a survivor from Glastonbury) has a dribble in it, I figured I do that and call it a day. I poured one and prepared a disappointing supper of breaded Pollack (hey, that rhymes with a rude, fucking tastes like it too) and broccoli with a mustard sauce (seasoned cucumber mayo on the side with paprika) following a hastily organised bath that was more of a follow-on from my earlier drenching.

Wine boxes are very strange things. Even when they’re lighter than one of Joanna Lumley’s guffs they still vomit forth gallons of produce. I was working on the ‘well, this is the last drop’ basis. I was working on this basis for most of the evening. It wasn’t a sensible basis on which to work.

I wanted to watch Die Hard 2 but because a bunch of fanatics had taken it upon themselves to set fire to a car and themselves (self-immolation is so 60’s don’t you think) they cancelled it. The fucking cunts! What possible justification have ITV got for cancelling a film because some wanker misread a book and told all his mates… I mean what if that was their goal? Not to disrupt the rail, road and airport infrastructure of the UK, but to get ITV to cancel Die Hard 2 because they don’t like how much balder Bruce Willis’ has got since the first film. It means they’ve won doesn’t it.

I got in work late today due to my fucking back. At some point last night I sneezed hard and felt a twang in my lower back, I was half expecting it to be bad today, so at least I didn’t disappoint myself.