Category Archives: ozzy osbourne

fatcher

I noticed some footage of Mrs Thatcher on the television on Friday shot during her ‘glory’ days when she sold off all our national assets, destroyed trade unions, fired on retreating ships and completely and utterly fucked up my education by making so many cuts I wound up being taught the wrong syllabus in three separate subjects in a freezing warehouse by actual criminals and perverts. I kid you not, the deputy headmaster of my school went down for burglary and the PE teacher went to prison for, well, fiddling with nippers.

Senile dementia is a funny old thing. Like cancer, the common cold, the shits, it is a random assassin, similarly, the severity and the effect it has on its targets is entirely undirected –some people become benignly childlike and gently confused, others became immensely distressed and scream at cups of tea for hours on end before having a 24 carat fit and attacking anything with a face.

In 2002 Thatcher became patron of the Alzheimer’s Research Trust primarily because she’s riddled with it (self serving old fucker anyone?). What I’d like to know is why aren’t we privy to 24 hour rolling footage of her going about her daily business as we were in her heyday? I feel we’re being denied our rights as subjects to her wilfulness when she was prime minister. It only seems fair that all the individuals, and their families and friends of those that suffered at the hands of this dreadful crone, should be allowed to see her pissing herself in an armchair, for example, or walking about with handfuls of her own excretion (or someone else’s, I’m not fussy) or just crying herself to sleep because she’s forgotten where she left her Golly.

My weekend was quiet, it contained all the right elements of what constitutes ‘a weekend’, drinks with friends, shopping trips for food, lots of cooking and what have you, but made unique because of the killer bike ride I had yesterday. The Black Bitch is like a new machine after its service, this has been mentioned before but I’d not had a chance to properly test it on A roads. Yesterday I did, I even managed to frighten myself testing lean angles on my new stickier-than-Bostik tyres and blasting away from junctions with such ferocity I though my bollocks were going to burst. By the time I arrived at my folks I was physically shaking with my IQ reduced to Peter and Jane, it felt sublime. As I parked up my dad came running from the house, ‘quick!’ he said, ‘the World Superbikes have just started…’ I rolled back my head in ecstasy, he may as well have informed me that Sarah Beaney was lying prone upstairs all a-froth insisting I sate her lascivious libido prior to going down to the pub for a month.

The first race of the season heralds the dawn of spring and, for me, the New Year. Dad and I watched reverently as young men put themselves in abject danger for the sake of victory and for our viewing pleasure, you come off one of these a bit wonky and you’re not going to break your leg a little bit like a footballer might, your head can come off. After a few minor tweaks to my machine, with dad’s help, I rode home feeling alive and victorious, almost as if I’d conquered the winter single handedly.

When I got home, as I was preparing supper, Myfwt popped downstairs to get something from the car when she bumped into Cunt. Apparently he began to apologise profusely for his selfish and unreasonable behaviour with regards to making a fucking racket by gitishlessly twanking his strungs and crakeing like an amplified Scrub Bird. He wasn’t pissed, he wasn’t in the grip of some psychotic episode… Myfwt said it was genuine enough… I’m not buying it for a second.

Is it Metal Monday already?

Classic post-Ozzy Sabbath… turn it up

Advertisements

ages of cock

This week the 7 ages of rock not only managed to make more of a pigs ear than that of the punk program, it also managed to get facts wrong, actually incorrect. I’m fucking livid…

Whilst Black Sabbath did invent heavy metal we didn’t need to know the rest of Ozzy’s career as it’s not pertinent to the genre. To even discuss Motley Crue is an insult, especially when ‘glam’ was invented by the Finnish ban Hanoi Rocks in the early 80’s, despite being told by Julian Rhind-Tutt (what sort of a fucking name is that) the Crue influenced Hanoi! Fucking unbelievable! I’ll tell you this, a little bit of info they didn’t mention, Vince Neil, the fat Crue frontman, killed Hanoi’s drummer Razzle in a drink driving incident… That’s the only way Crue influenced anyone.

The Judas Priest stuff was barely relevant outside of the duel lead guitar stuff and maybe the idiocies that surrounded the prosecution for subliminal lyrics that resulted in the death of what Bill Hicks called the last garage attendants in the world. Metallica were featured but they didn’t kick the genre off by any means, Venom, even Motorhead, were way before Metallica ever got a record deal. To not mention at least one is ignorant, to not mention fucking either has prompted me to write a letter to the BBC.

I’m not going to write a list of who should’ve been mentioned but it’s worth noting that no attention was paid at all to nu-metal. Kick started when rap and thrash collided it prompted a seismic shift in how ‘metal’ was perceived and encouraged an entirely fresh fan base. Nor did it mention any of the crucial sub-genres, death metal, grindcore, battlemetal… the programme was a fucking disgrace, an insult to fan and musician alike.

The Moto GP yesterday was the reverse, some of the best racing I’ve ever, ever seen. You didn’t see it, you missed out. Stunning.

The weekend was very busy, a few beers with a mate form work in a walled beer garden in Tooting on Friday followed by a few cans and food in front of the box, namely Big Brother, a review in Watch With Mothers (link right of the page awaits you). Saturday I food shopped and started playing Tomb Raider in the afternoon, and here marks the beginning of the end of my summer. It’s fantastic, addictive and will serve me well this week when I have an alcohol free. I decided to spend Saturday in with Lara, made a pile of food, spoke to Myfwt, smoked skunk, more beer cans (I’m still saying off the wine and generally drinking less) and watched a ridiculous film, The Butterfly Effect, which I enjoyed way more than I should.

Yesterday morning I got up, burped the worm, ate a kipper before getting into my van to drive in to Soho. It was a blisteringly hot day, humid to boot and the last place I wanted to be was in the cabin of a vehicle stick firstly in Tooting, then Vauxhall, then the West End prior to getting fucking pissed about by roadwork’s and one-way street signs as I attempted to crack Greek Street. I was driving around, or rather, being sucked through London in a giant grid-lock, every option in my repertoire of navigation was halted by circumstance until I took the decision to illegally drive up Oxford Street and dive down Dean to finally meet my brother. I’d been screaming at him down the phone as I’d become increasingly incensed by having to spend my Sunday driving around tiny streets in a fucking van (I wanted to be on Box Hill with my black bitch) nonetheless he was pleased I’d finally arrived.

Me, him and his missus loaded a bunch of furniture into the guts of my van and I drove them back to Clapham, we unloaded the bloody van and I fucked off to my folks. The MOT on the white sod is due Friday, my dad is going to sort it for me which is fucking ace of him. It’d better pass; I need the bloody thing for Glastonbury in 10 days.

I took the train and bus back to Clapham where I finally met my bro in our usual Sunday boozer. He was a little flat initially but perked up eventually, we had 3 pints and a chaser and went our merry way. It was a glorious evening, the proper summer stuff and I was feeling quite pissed. The cutting back on drinking is making getting pissed more overt. This can only be a good thing?