Only the Daily Mash can do this:
Wednesday, 25 January 2012
Courtesy from Bitter Wallet comes the news that if you have a phone running on the O2 network, such as Giff Gaff or, er, O2, and you visit a website (or indeed open an email) via your phone, O2 helpfully gives YOUR PHONE NUMBER to the people you are visiting.
Nice, isn’t it?
If you are browsing this on a phone, check this link to see your number displayed.
Now you have to be wary of phone calls from phishers.
Tuesday, 24 January 2012
So, the lazy, feckless, baby-popping Jeremy Kyle fans are getting worried now. Their benefits (that are being paid for by those of us in work) are going to be capped at £26,000 a year.
Oh woe is fucking me. Seriously.
I started work in 1992 and earned £12,500 to start with.
And these bastards expect me, and you, my loyal reader, to cough up all the money to them to keep them in popcorn, big tellies and fags? Obviously no condoms, because they get extra cash for each unwanted feral offspring they pop out. Now that’d be interfering with their right to breed like rats.
“Oh but we need to keep little Chardonnie and Thyleeza in their local school, otherwise they might get a bad education and not achieve in life”, they say.
Well, they probably said “Wha? Fackin’ cahnt! Whars me fags, innit?” but I think we get the point.
And why are they living in places that a normal person who is WORKING can’t afford?
What I say is “Fuck you!” to them and their tribes of tracksuit-wearing thieves. Pay them zero. Get your lazy arse to work. Whore yourself if you need to.
THERE IS NO MONEY LEFT, so get a fucking job.
Old Holborn has some erudite comments.
Well, following on from my breast post, and some would say I am taking too keen an interest in all things breast-related, I must say that I am in awe, yes awe, at the breast implant professional association.
What are they called again?
Ah yes, the British Association of Aesthetic Plastic Surgeons.
Oh, I do like nice baps.
Wednesday, 18 January 2012
Well, we all are to certain parts, aren’t we? If our life capsizes what do we do? Rush for the lifeboats, leaving our dependents on the ship, or do we stay with our ship which is sinking?
Is there a medium?
For me, my lifeboat was my girlfriend who didn’t judge and who loves me on who I am now and who I will become. I was welcomed onto her lifeboat without any preconceptions, without any history. This, I have welcomed with outreached arms; in love; in pure happiness.
For years I never knew what I could do; what I should do; what I was; or what I could be…. All I knew is that I was so full of love and had nowhere to give it to. I knew that was the same for so many years – maybe I didn’t want to admit it. But….
Then I found my Clare. She can take all I want to give her, and she gives back just as much, if not more. Much more.
I have found two things:
- love; and
I never thought I would find those.
Monday, 9 January 2012
So, how do you feel about having to stump up your cash to bail out some vain women who have had silicone implants which have gone, so sorry, tits up?
Well, me, if you are rich enough to afford fake boobs (which look horrible if you ask me) with the corresponding scars, nipples that have been cut off and re-stitched somewhere else (forehead?) etc, then you can bloody well pay for them to be fixed yourself.
You didn’t qualify to get them done on the NHS so it’s your bloody bad luck you went with Dave’s Fantastic Tits – Cheap at Half The Price, isn’t it?
Why should the taxpayer pick up the bill? All these talks of “cuts” (of which there aren’t any… – seen the debt clock recently?), do you really want to pay for vacuous bimbos to have their boobs mended over the poor orphans, hungry pensioners and one-legged lesbian basketball enthusiasts? Well?
And for the rest of the plastic surgery nightmares…. pick up the fixme tab yourself, you sad people:
(WARNING : NOT NICE!)
How crass, embarrassing and downright third world is that?
I mean, come on.
Our so-called Leaders (which they aren’t, as they just rubber stamp what vomits from the EUSSR while stealing as much stuff on expenses as possible), sitting around looking like the gormless chimps that they are.
Saturday, 7 January 2012
Well, they are a bunch of twonks, aren’t they? Cameron, with his non-existent veto of something he couldn’t have had a veto over because there was nothing to veto. And in the fabulous house of commons he never used the word veto, did he? No, because by doing so would be a lie. And they don’t like that.
So, in the words of the famous Clar Ni Broin, celebrated philosopher, tall girl and very beautiful, I need to vote for somebody. Or was that John? Er. I think it was John. Anyway, what’s the point of voting for somebody who is the least bad alternative? I’d rather staple my balls to a diving board.
This country is so disenfranchised it is unbelievable. Of course the politicians don’t care as long as some bunch or saps vote them in so they can claim for duck houses, moats, sister’s bedroom or vomitarium.
If I don’t see anybody worth voting for on the ballot paper, I will write a rude word in the spaces available.
Well, according to google stats things, the most visited post is related to A Woman Doing A Poo In A Supermarket.
410 views in the last few days. Out of my grand total of 7700 since I started.
So, I have decided that all of my next 20 posts will be to do with either WOMEN, POOS or SUPERMARKETS.
Well, I’m lost for words now so I think I will start ranting about something else.
For the one who has departed, remember the joy, the laughs, the funny looks, the fur, the wake-ups early in the morning, the nibbles. Her running away from people, and her appreciating things, people, tickles and strokes. Everything. Remember her as a baby. As a teen. As a grumpy old girl. As your friend.
She hasn’t and won’t forget you. She looks down upon you now.
Snoozing on a cushion.
Wednesday, 4 January 2012
OMG! Hot on the trail of the woman who did a pee in a shop, you’d think they couldn’t go any further, didn’t you?
Well, think again!
Une femme fait caca dans un rayon de supermarché by Spi0n
I do like the way she sort of shakes her bum at the end to make sure all the poo has come out.
However, she didn’t wipe her arse.
So no bum-fun for her hubby tonight, the dirty girl! Or maybe he’s on for it, maybe being French it is ok. She’s probably got a big bushy arse too!
Sunday, 1 January 2012
A generic HNY message to everybody out there. I’m watching the fireworks along the Thames from Clare’s building, sipping champagne from top quality Waitrose plastic wine glasses!
Can’t think of a better place to be, welcoming in 2012 with the girl I love.