Give Us Your Fuckin' Money, Now!

It has been reported that Simon Cowell is organising a charity single to raise money for the Haiti Appeal. Stars linked with the event include Rod Stewart, Paul McCartney, Leona Lewis, Robbie Williams, Coldplay and Take That.

Meanwhile, George Clooney is organising a global Telethon headlined by Beyonce and Madonna. Other stars pencilled in to take part in concerts based in London and New York include Jay-Z, Rhianna, U2's Bono, The Edge, Wyclef Jean, Bruce Springsteen Jennifer Hudson, Mary J Blige, Shakira and Sting.

The estimated combined wealth of these stars is approximately £1,727,000,000 ($2,784,750,580). That's nearly TWO BILLION QUID! Now if this handful of so called charitable superstars were to donate just ten percent of their wealth they would raise around £170 million.

For Simon Cowell alone that would mean handing over a measly £11 million, which would still leave him with over a hundred million in the bank. I'm pretty sure his donation would have absolutely no impact on his lifestyle whatsoever and besides, I doubt it would take him long to earn that small amount back. He could just write out a cheque and hand it over or even BACS it. Even if the administration fees were a grand, most of the money would get to its destination.

To organise a star studded appeal with concerts on both sides of the big pond would cost an absolute fortune, probably millions. The production and distribution costs of making a cheesy charity record would eat a big chunk into its value and leave maybe 20 or 30% of the total cost, less administration. I doubt whether a telethon or cheesy record would raise as much as a few mega-wealthy stars could by just dipping into their vulgar bank accounts and handing over what would be fuck all to them.

So they can bollocks. I'd rather send a bag of old clothes, a few tins of beans or a couple of quid to a local appeal than donate a penny to their self important Telethon and I won't be supporting their cheese to make them feel as if they are being the charitable ones. Fuck 'em!

GIZZA JOB!

Tonight I've been for an interview for the part time post of Assistant Youth Worker. I applied for the job with the sole intention of putting a bit of me back into the local community. My creativity, knowledge, experiences and social attributes. That's all I have to offer really.

I went prepared with nothing more than myself. No list of qualifications, youth work experience, skills, training or anything. I did have my passport in my back pocket for I.D. purposes.

When I arrived an interview was already in progress so I just stood and observed a load of kids being kids. A couple of lads sat playing on a computer console while a bunch of girls sat around a table playing scrabble. It seemed quite staid, if I'm to be honest, and it did feel kind of strange really as I haven't been in a kid environment for a few years now, but I instantly felt I could mingle in, become a part of this and give these kids something a little more interesting or imaginative to occupy their minds. It needed a bit of Tiswas, Ant and Dec or Fiddy Cent.

Anyway, the previous interview ended and I was invited in to meet Lorraine and an old guy. Probably my age(ish), but looked older. Can't remember his name. Introductions passed and I was given the opportunity to explain why I felt I would be the ideal candidate for the job, so I told them some history. Sinfinite to the core, done this, done that, been good and bad, expert in kids etc blah blah.

Then the questions....

"How would you assess, evaluate, report and record situations?"

"What are your views on equality?"

"What do you see as problems in youth society?"

"What would you do if...?"

Erm? I'm fucked if I know. I haven't studied, learned or trained about stuff like that, but if a situation arises I'm sure I could work it out. I usually do. Mr Probably my age(ish) made me feel uneasy as he ticked, or more likely crossed, his boxes. Lorraine seemed to comprehend me, but her job is her job and regulations are rules and required.

I did assure them that I would piss a CRB check with an absolute clean sheet because I've never been caught for any wrong doings. I'm not sure it went too well.

In conclusion, it's doubtful that I'm the right person for the job because I probably didn't say 'tick' when 'tick' was the answer. If...if I'm not to the required requirements (qualified enough) there was the suggestion of a possible voluntary position that would give me the opportunity to learn stuff and possibly gain an NVQ (whatever that is). Well, If a NVQ is what is needed then I'm up for it, but I hate being tested.

I left wondering. 

Unfunny Poof!

On the very last day of 2009 I contracted my first fucking cold of the year and found myself tucked up in bed by 9:30 p.m. feeling as rough as a Kerry Katona's nostrils. Perfect end to a shitty year I thought, but no, just to rub salt into the wounds of my wretchedness, I was awoken by the crack of fireworks as midnight struck and a voice on the TV that grates through me like a a plough through sand. Alan Fucking Carr.

What is supposed to be funny about him? I personally can't spot anything that makes me want to guffaw like his disillusioned audience. He can't tell jokes, isn't witty and doesn't seem to have punch-lines to his stories. Alan Carr is nothing more than just camp and to me, simply being camp is not funny. There is and have been some excellent camp comedians from Julian Clary, Larry Grayson, Kenneth Williams, John Inman and not forgetting the greatest of all, Frankie Howerd. They were brilliant because they knew how to be funny, whether it was from telling jokes, stories or just fantastic comedic timing. Alan Carr seems to rely on nothing put mincing about on stage being effeminate and talking shite. He calls himself 'Chatty Man', which in my opinion is all he does. Chat fucking inane unfunny rubbish.

No, I'm not homophobic. I have no problem with gays whatsoever, as long as they don't stick their parts in any of my orifices, and I don't mind camp either, but just being a poof isn't comedy in my eyes. What would make me laugh with Alan Carr though, would be to see him commit the ultimate in self-pleasure and piss off up his own arse.

And he looks like that twat out of the Banana Splits.

Proud to be British?

Anjem Choudary was born and raised on British soil and educated within our system. As a qualified lawyer he has reaped the benefits of our democracy that allows equality and freedom and he has enjoyed it to the full. It is well documented that as a young man he enjoyed the pleasures of alcohol, drugs, gambling and according to friends, indulged in sex with white Christian girls, which under 'his' perception of Sharia law should be punishable by being stoned to death. His beliefs are beyond hypocritical. He lives, reportedly in relative luxury, off the state. The state that he wants to convert to his extremist state where women would be treated no better than dogs.

What the fuck is up with this country and our supposed leaders? The planned protest rally through Wooton Bassett by Choudary and his terrorist movement should never have even made the news. As soon as extremist Choudary announced this disgraceful parade of disrespect towards our nation he should have been bundled into the back of a van by government agents, stuck on a Hercules and dropped into the middle of some middle eastern desert, preferably without a parachute. Nobody would have been any wiser.

Instead, he is allowed to spit on the graves of war heroes. Not just those returning in body bags at Wooton Bassett, but every man woman and child who gave their lives for our so called modern democracy. 

I really don't feel so proud to be British these days.

(fucking) asda price

Three packs of 15  (440 ml) cans of Carling lager at (fucking) asda for twenty quid. Less a £1.00 off voucher for each pack equals £17.00 for 45 cans or approximately 34 pints. Thirty four pints in the local boozer, at £2.70 a pint, equates to £91.80, which means you pay nearly £75.00 more for the same amount of booze. Yes, seventy five quid for £17.00 worth of booze.

No wonder the pub trade's going down the fucking pan!

Annus Horribilis!

When I first heard the Latin phrase annus horribilis, I imagined a horrible arse ailment. Call me puerile if you want, but, annus does have an anal ring to it and horribilis sounds pretty damned unpleasant. Oddly, the real meaning fits very well with my perception, which is exactly how I feel. It's been a horrible year and a pain in the arse.

In brief. Fucking recession, fucking business, fucking money and fucking teenager! 

Anyway, Christmas is a time for celebration, although I really don't have a clue as to what we're supposed to be celebrating. It used to be a religious festival in commemoration of the birth of Jesus Christ, but that has become so diluted that it just hangs on the fringes of Christmas spirit these days. I'll admit I'm sceptical about the whole Christianity thing anyway, but it gives Christmas a purpose, irrespective of whether it's true or not. The soul of Christmas is slowly disappearing and an obsessive compulsion to spunk as much money as possible has replaced it.

Christmas has become nothing more than a total indulgence of Spend, spend fucking spend. We're dictated to via advertising and virtually ordered to consume Christmas materialism. The gullible go for it like rats lured by the Pied Piper. This week, supermarkets will be congested by trollies overloaded with gratuitous amounts of fuck all and precincts will be heaving with shoppers parting with huge sums of money, that in many cases doesn't even belong to them, in their quests to prove how generous they are. It's all bollocks really.

To top it all, even before it actually begins we are being bombarded by our dictators to spend more as soon as the day itself is over. Last night, adverts appeared on the TV for holidays and the sales. It'll be Cadbury's cream eggs next. Give us a fucking break!


So, partly down to our annus horribilis, which has ended with 'eight' late payments, and the fact that I am absolutely pissed off with Christmas being rammed down my throat, I haven't bought one single present. 


Bah fucking humbug, my arse!


Merry Christmas!

I hate the X-Factor

I was forced to watch the X-Factor by an old army mate a few weeks ago. Yes, forced. He plied me with alcohol and made me sit in front of his enormous TV to watch his favourite programme. I didn't want to, but sort of got hooked.

Normally I view the whole concept of the show as fake as plastic mink and I just want to throw a fucking something at the telly. I've got nothing against Simon Cowell personally apart from his too smug smugness, but I can't be arsed with the shit he plans so intricately and the pseudo-hysteria that surrounds it. It's celebrity centred bollocks and the acts just play second fiddle.

Jedward rocked the boat, which made the X-Factor slightly interesting, but it raged against the machine and Simon made the decision to choose the final loser. I hear he fucked up tonight and was beaten to number one by facebook and...er...some group I've never heard of.

I've had it up to here with fucking kids!

Our nineteen year old, the only one of our five boys still at home, is driving us fucking nuts! He seems to have unevolved into a basic life form. Amoebic almost. He is literally a cardboard cut out of his former self and has lost the ability to move forward without a boot up the arse. Sometimes I wonder if he may inadvertently discover time travel because if he goes any slower, he'll actually start going back in time. He is closer to doing absolutely nothing than plankton and his enthusiasm for finding a job is T-minus something.

Anyway, my wife and I found him a vacancy on a 'JOB' website and he has managed to get an interview. This morning he has a second interview. We had to get him up, sort out anything we could find that might be used as I.D (because he has lost or destroyed any he did have), give him bus fare and make sure he left on time.

I'm cautious about him getting the job, if I'm to be honest, because I can see me having to do the fucking job for him.

Fucking Virgin!

Dear Mr Branson

Or may I call you Dick?

I pay your company forty quid ($65) a month for "TWENTY" megashites of  broadband. At that speed you'd imagine that I could surf the net faster than something that is not as fast. Like 'ONE' smegabyte.

The site I want should appear before I can even take my finger off the return key and the full length porn movie I want to watch should download quicker than a premature ejaculation. Instead, I end up hitting the return key with my fist and routing in the loft for an old magazine.

The snapshot above is the actual speed of my broadband this afternoon. Zero point two meg (0.2 Mb). That's a fifth slower than one meg (1 Mb). Or a HUNDRED times slower than forty quids worth. In fact it is only 40 pence worth (65 ¢).

I'm paying for your Ferrari while I drive around in a fucking Lada! One day I hope to bump into you. At 60 mph!

Kind regards and love to the family.

Tom

I don't want super poking, friend hugging, sketching, kidnapping or being fucking owned by anyone.

I don't care about my horoscope, tarot reading, whether I have good karma, want a guardian angel, a soul mate or what my fucking name is in Japanese.

I have absolutely no interest in sending hearts, smileys, angels, flowers, drinks or collecting ribbons, lollipops, kisses and cuddly fucking teddy bears.

I can't be arsed to play mafia wars, mob wars, dragon wars, vampire wars, space wars or the fucking Dot Game.

I have no use for a a virtual farm, zoo, theme park, fish tank or fucking pet puppy.

And I haven't got the time for flinging food, a water gun fight, a pillow fight or launching a fucking sheep.

Right, fuck off, I'm busy!