Category Archives: David Cameron

road to wellsville

It’s the morning after the day before. I feel as if someone has punched me in my kidneys and filled my intestines with bleach. Despite going to bed relatively early I managed to wake up at fucking 5am and worry for three hours about nothing before going back to sleep for 10 mins, and getting up with the intention of going to work.

Yesterday was as if it didn’t exist, the entire fruits of my being, the only evidence I was actually on the planet I vomited into WordPress, I didn’t go out, I barely moved from one room to the other. Apart from a minor surge in my utility bills I may as well not have been here. It was dead dull.

I managed to eat twice, in both instances soup and dry white toast. I thought it best to ‘take in nourishment’ over ‘eating a meal’; I really didn’t fancy spending another 24 hours up to my eyeballs in sick and formless plop. The first incarnation of food was touch and go, it hit my pea sized stomach with a roar and for a moment I wasn’t entirely sure if I’d pushed my luck or not, an appetite appeared a few minutes after and I stuffed the rest down like one might see in one of those black and white war films when a POW gets food for the first time in a while. Obviously afterwards I felt sick again and my system slowly crunched into life. As I type this a solid turd is but mere fancy.

By the time I was ready for my second food incident I was actually quite hungry, I increased the quantity of bread which for some strange reason gave me a panic attack, fuck knows where that came from. I wasn’t too fussed though, I was beyond care and it couldn’t be bothered and slunk off.

The only thing of note about yesterday, aside from the turd reference, was that, despite drinking gallons of water and endless cups of tea, I didn’t actually do a wee wee through my front cock. I had my last dumpeesh at around 2 pm and that was the last time I visited the chod bin…

Anyway, back at work feeling ravaged.

Look, being ill has effected my music taste, ahem


I caught some of that programme on the Tories last night which I watched as lazily as possible in order to prevent an aneurysm. Obviously I had to switch off when Michael Howard appeared, I actually found it hard to type his name just then and not calmly approach a colleague and furiously urinate in his/her face and if Kenneth Baker (FUCKING CUNT) was depicted in anyway shape or form the part of my brain that deals with shock ushered the image/mention of his Most Disgustingness into a small cerebral room where upon it was shot in the back of the head with a Browning 9mm pistol.

It was a nasty show but a timely reminder of how this current government came to be after Thatcher and how the Tories subsequently (mercifully) lost their way, especially tactically in terms of leadership in the face of the fledgling New Labour government. From William Hague hilariously claiming to drink 14 pints a day (actual quote: “I was the driver’s mate, delivering the bottles and beer around South Yorkshire. We used to have a pint at every stop – well the driver’s mate did, not the driver, thankfully – and we used to have about 10 stops in a day. You worked so hard you didn’t feel you’d drunk 10 pints by four o’clock, you used to sweat so much. But then you had to lift all the empties off the lorry. It’s probably horrifying but we used to do that then go home for tea and then go out in the evening to the pub.” What a fucking lying turd) to whispering buffoon Duncan wotsisface and finally their ridiculous current Fuhrer, David Cameron, the bumbling dough-faced Hooray Henry with aspirations of genocide.

But I have to be fair here and mention (old) Labour in less than glowing circles. Neil Kinnock’s dreadful performance at the 1992 Labour Party Rally in Sheffield lost them the general election (attended by 10,000 people, costing £100,000 to stage, Kinnock was flown in by helicopter where upon he actually bounded up to the podium and said ‘well alright, well aright’ (in an American accent I hasten to add) and then ‘we better get some serious talking done here’ after being paraded from the back of the venue to the front frenetically shaking hands, hugging, and kissing babies and women etc., the ginger Welsh prick, sorry) and, lets be frank here, I’m sure Old Labour Party are single handedly responsible for causing men of a certain class to dress like their sons, there was some footage of the Labour cabinet circa 1975 enjoying a few ales, not one of them looked under 70 for fucks sake yet none of them were a day over 30 -I’ve seen more style growing out of potato.

Still, give me Old Labour any day…

Yesterday was a slog in the office; my email buddy has been away so I’ve been left to my own devices, it’s utterly dull. Last night was very nice though, met up with Frank for a few ales prior to making Nigel Slater’s Chickpea and Spinach Gratin that I lifted out of Sunday’s Food Monthly supplement in The Observer. It was, as one would expect, a taste sensation though Myfwt said I’d over-cheesed the top, I agreed verbally but within I knew I’d done good.

This song appeared in the background in last night’s Tory documentary, not my usual fare but I like it enough to put it on here, right now.


When I went to bed last night I could hear Cunt snoring. I said to Myfwt, a Cunt like that has no right to sleep so soundly, on account of the fact he’s a fucking cunt –then the thought that I was speaking of him in such invidiousness tones whilst I could hear the little dog-dollop snoring below began to do my head in. Surely that must be the limit, actually hearing the sound of the person you despise more than David Cameron soundly sleeping.

Still, at least he was asleep and more importantly quiet, despite his somnolent honkings. For the past few evening we’ve been treated to the second-hand sounds of him ‘entertaining’ some poor cow, this includes plying her with Piat D’Or and Black Tower (I see the evidence of this in the communal Recycle Bin) playing dance music over which he shouts in a way best described as ‘special’ and of course, whooping like some witless post-pubescent hick whose just discovered how to make his perpetually ossified cock go all floppy.

I’m in one of those dreadful moods this morning; I’m not hungover despite a few ales with Frank and his missus last night, and two glasses of wine when I got in, it’s a lovely day today and my black bitch and I are one again, no one has died, everyone is well actually… I’m just feeling, well disgruntled. This morning I nearly bit my toothbrush in half on hearing that the government are planning to legislates against cut-price booze in Supermarkets…

Oh where to start with his one. Firstly, cut-price booze is freely available in just about every corner shop in the UK, and I can assure you underage kids/winoes don’t go shopping in Waitrose to spend 40p on their 2 litre bottles of White Tinkle. 8 Ace in Viz is funny because it’s true, for example… So we have an agenda, I smell tax revenue of course and it won’t be the jobless wankers that sit about all day in vicious rows necking plastic bottles of liquid cirrhosis that will feel the pinch. No, it will be the middle class middle-income types that foot the bill for this, as bloody per.

But that wasn’t that part of the news that caused me to pinch one of my own pills in horror; it was hearing a Tesco spunkspitter altruistically announcing it was ‘willing to work with the government’.

Well how fucking kind, how benevolent of you Tesco, yes, you’ll ‘reluctantly’ hike up your booze prices to help the British Medical Councils government driven incentive to help themselves to more tax whilst you add to your disgusting portfolio of property acquisition and profits, as, even as I type this, that cunt Dame Shirley Porter, (described by Nicholas Lezard as “…the most corrupt British political figure in living memory, with the possible exception of Robert Maxwell”) the heir to Tesco’s fortunes languishes in opulence after committing the heinous crime of corrupting the democratic system of voting in her home for votes scandal and getting away with it scott free.

Having said that, I’d still have Porter and Cameron over for sex tea rather than live above a creature I wouldn’t trust to sit on a loo the right way round.