Category Archives: viz


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.

poison the well

Perhaps one of the greatest pleasures in life is taking a bloody good shit whilst reading Viz. I’ve tried it with motorcycle magazines, books, newspapers… No. It has to be Viz and it has to be one of those turds that fall out of one following a gentle contraction, similar to the inertia of pushing a small child down a hill on a sledge, and allowing gravity to take control.

This delight was the antithesis of what occurred this morning. I have a hangover, entirely my fault, met Frank last night for a few and fell into a bottle of wine which inspired an OCD episode that perpetuated more wine, which beget OCD, at the time it’s a wonderful vicious circle. I usually wake up to find all my furniture has been slightly adjusted for ergonomic / aesthetic purposes, that I’ve made radical decisions, minutiae to the untrained eye but to me essential progressive developments in the living space. Obviously the following day the previous nights concerns aren’t as valid as they were at the time, but I always appreciate what my drunk OCD self has done with the place, it’s rather like realising one is fucking unhinged.

Anyway, back to the shit. I woke up late after failing to hear the radio click on at the designated time, deaf in my right ear again, and hurriedly rushed to get dressed, get the tooth poo out of my mouth and gulp down life affirming water. I vetoed the decision to fucking cycle or drive, I wanted to ride, and it was just as I about to fasten the strap on my crash helmet when I felt a twinge in my botty and the dead weight of a few pounds of masticated pasta, sausage, onion, broccoli in a parsley and garlic sauce with two pints of Fosters a bottle of Beaujolais and a handful each of cheese balls and onion rings drop into the back of my plumbing.

Like some lunatic stripper I discarded a mountain of clothing in 20 seconds, drop gloves, helmet off, rucksack down, bike jacket flung, roll down heavy duty trousers over boots, this is particularly hassley, though vital unless one wants to shit with one knees together, sexy little panties off and before back skin had touched chod bin I was farting through a rip curl of effluvia. I’d not eaten any peppers yet this jet of misery was boiling fucking hot, ouch, actually. It was only when I was sat there following the decision to not read Viz as the circumstances were incorrect that I noticed my nose was running and that, over and above the hangover, I felt fucking ill.

So that’s it. I’m with another cold, not content with living in my face it’s also made home in my arsehole, I’m on my 4th bloody plops today, the last 3 have had to be undertaken at work. It’s one thing to have what can politely be described as a ‘tummy upset’ at home where hound of the baskerville growls and barks just occur for ones amusement, and another to be sat feet away from colleagues separated only by a flimsy door and sounding like Iraq.

I’ve tried laying tissue paper over the water to dull the sound but I’m just firing right through it, the distraction cough isn’t of any use, apart from increasing the pressure of the shit-jet, I actually fired over the trench an hour ago, it’s impossible to follow the complex patterns of sound. Instead I’m using the ignition method, one is switching ones engine off and on using a well-honed muscle, when running the engine is backfiring somewhat.

One of the best bassists in the business, I’m off to empty my back.

going down the pub

In the pub last night Frank cracked the bubo question. ‘Blocked sweat glands’ he mused convincingly, it all made sense. It’s only recently been warm enough to sweat; in addition I’ve been making more of an effort to make the cycle in proper exercise rather than just laboured transport, I wear a bandana that covers the lower half of my ear and my hair is long. Problem solved, worry over etc.,

Frank and I stayed for 3 pints, the Bombardier was off so we had to settle for Tribute and Deuchars, both a little tart and orangey for my taste but they slipped down nonetheless. I wobbled off home and took a bath.

I’d had a long day, not entirely unproductive, I managed to get closer to seeing the fucking project off, pointless relying on others to help, and at lunch took a trip to fucking Hersham, home of Sham 69 to pick up my Transit, which following the failure of it’s MOT had remained in the garage until the necessary issues had been ironed out. The bill was fucking £235.

The journey there was utterly unremarkable save for one incident. On the train from Wimbledon to Hersham I sat in front of a tall skinhead sort of wearing a suit, I’d say he was 19 or so. As soon as the train pulled away I knew he was a clicker. He whistled, beeped, whooshed and mimicked most of the passing sounds as we rattled through the suburban woo. At some point he got a call from what I could ascertain was his girlfriend, they chatted away and at one point he said ‘shut-up’, I heard her question him, ‘nah, don’t worry’ he said ‘wasn’t me, you know how it is…’

We got off the train and he asked me for a light, ‘don’t worry about the noises’, he said ‘bit mental ain’t I’.
‘You have Tourette’s mate, not your problem…’ I said, the lad seemed genuinely pleased at my identification of what is now a well-documented disorder.
‘Driving me mental it is, just off to the docs now to get some more meds, these ain’t working…’
He gave me directions to the garage and I bid him farewell. Some time ago I wrote about Tourette’s in WWM (link right). After my encounter with the lad on the train I can’t say I feel too proud of how I conducted myself on the website, however funny the disorder may appear to be. The reality of day-to-day life was clearly getting to him, it was written in his eyes, his brow, his sheepish smile…he didn’t swear once by the way.

When I got home last night Hot Fuzz was waiting for me. I decided after the bath, some roast chicken (breast wrapped in bacon with steamed courgettes and peas, lots of seasoning and a handful of freshly grated mature cheddar, no effort to make and it tastes fucking ace) and Big Brother which is becoming more and more chaotic, I’d give the film a shot. The wine left over from Wednesday (just over half a bottle) was sat partially in my glass and partially in my veins. Incidentally, with regard to breaking any rules about drinking wine alone, I feel exonerated, if I hadn’t have drunk it last night it would be vinegar by now…

A month ago I could’ve drunk 4 pints in the pub, downed a bottle of Fitou and still been able to, just about, focus on a film. After 3 pints and a glass I was pissed to the point of not being able to focus on the film to such a degree I gave up. I was also exhausted; I’ve been going to bed before midnight lately, this would have been fucking unheard of a few weeks ago. It would seem that my body is adjusting to my new, (slightly) healthier lifestyle.

I woke up with a mild hangover this morning, the bubo had burst in the night and had dried spume all over it, it felt like someone had glued a Monster Munch behind my lobe. I was up in time to shave, do some laundry and enjoy a good 15-minute shit with Viz and Today on radio 4.

On my cycle in this morning I saw that fat bastard I’d called a ‘fat cunt’ a few days ago. He passed me on the towpath without a word; in fact, he made a conscious effort to not look at me at all… So I gave him a hearty ‘good morning’ for the hell of it. Then I saw massive fucking crow picking at the guts of a mutilated dead rat

It’s a portent of doom, kids.

Have nice weekends; be careful, for fucks sake…

I went to a house party with Jimmy Percy once… he’s a bit of a tit