(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!

What's half Italian, a quarter Indian, a quarter English and 100% American?

Chicken Fucking Tikka Pizza!

Is it multiculturalism? Maybe it's an imaginative fusion of international components to create a contemporary formula for a diverse, yet distinctly identifiable mélange of piquancy, favourable to all palates? Or is it, bung this lot together and let those gullible twats line our pockets?

Whatever it is, it conjures up 'fucking minging' to me.

Jeremy Fucking Clarkson

Some say he has Jeremy Clarksoned his way to becoming Jeremy Clarkson. And that  his Jeremy Clarkson was once, well let's just say, Jeremy Clarksoned.  No, seriously. Jeremy Clarkson is the Jeremy Clarkson of Jeremy Clarksoness. It is without doubt that not even Jeremy Clarkson himself could out Jeremy Clarkson himself. He is that Jeremy Clarkson.

It would be quite un-Jeremy Clarkson to suggest otherwise, unless, of course, you are Jeremy Clarkson, which you are, probably, not. Put it this way. Jeremy Clarkson is as Jeremy Clarkson as Jeremy Clarkson would be to a... Yes, you've guessed, Jeremy Clarkson.

I know what I mean? Jeremy Clarkson would too, because being Jeremy Clarkson, he would, wouldn't he. In conclusion, as Jeremy Clarkson would, probably, say, "Yes! Jeremy Clarkson is Jeremy Clarkson!"

Oh and don't forget the other two. Whoever they are.


Fuck off Clarkson!