My Worthless Opinion

A grave, yesterday

And that’s a cunt’s trick to play on someone, isn’t it?

Anyway, I’m back.
Ish.

I’ve been really busy and fuck you guys, anyway. I’ll be back soon with a full and frank description of what I’ve been up to. In the meantime, watch this; it’s basically what I’ve been doing.

Be seeing you…

Ooooooooooh, God.

That was a massive sigh, by the way. I’ve got an event coming up that I’d like you all to come to. If you like. But it’s on Tuesday 13th of October. That’s this Tuesday, viewers! If you are reading it before this Tuesday, anyway. Otherwise it was last Tuesday. Or today. Or… hang on, this is giving me a nosebleed. I know how Marty McFly felt now.

Anyway, the event is that I’m showing two films at The Sunflower Lounge on Smallbrook Queensway in Birmingham City Centre. So come along and you can watch The Life Acquatic With Steve Zisou and Jaws. Two films that aren’t about what you think they are. There will be a comprehension exercise afterwards.

I would like to insist that everyone who attends orders seafood pizza to get right into the spirit of things.

It’s free and there is fuck all else to do on Tuesday. And YOU’RE not doing anything, anyway. It’s not as if you’ve got any fucking plans, is it?

You, the internet, have been fooled somehow. This shark-eyed cunt:

This man hates you.

…is not funny. Not in the least. He’s not clever, witty or incisive. He’s not even a good public speaker. He stutters and stammers and laughs over his every inane proclamation. And he hates you, can’t you tell? While we are at it, Peter Kay, Britain’s favourite pointer out of the fucking obvious isn’t funny, either.

This man is:

Jerry Sadowitz

…and he hates you, too.
With apologies to Ray Peacock and rib-faced-toddler-tickler Ed Gamble.

Be seeing you…

With it’s impenetrable logic and it’s unsettlingly frank depiction of a scat obsessed home life, not dissimilar to A Million Little Pieces by liar and fantasist James Frey, it has made an obscene impact on the lives of all of us. Some more than others. Literally thousands of people, mostly girls have made literally thousands of homemade versions made by all sorts of people, ranging from despicably unfunny twats:

To good old fashioned pricks:

Yes, SC Johnson a Family Company expose the utterly base nature of a culture that can be taken by storm by an advert about a tiny child and his desire to void his bowels.
The story of Charlie Dimmock, her adopted child and his bizarre desire to lay cables at other peoples houses has touched all of our hearts but there are questions that need answering. They are:
Who is this Paul character?
What is so great about his bathroom (note for those of you who live in council houses: a bathroom in a normal house has a toilet in it too. I don’t think they are suggesting that he parks his breakfast in the bathtub.)?
Why is Charlie Dimmock even considering letting her adopted child go to this “Paul’s” for a shit?
Is a massive white monolith stuck to the wall next to the toilet really that much more discreet than a spray?

After extensive research I shall address these in reverse order. Is it more discreet? No. No it’s not. It does look more like some sort of intercom device, yes, but it’s no more discreet than a hand fan and an open window, the simplest and cheapest way of airing ones stool-vapour.
Why is Dimmock letting her child besmirch other peoples lavatories? Two options present themselves here, as the child is clearly adopted, there is no way on Earth it will be loved as much as a proper child. More than likely it will be despised by Dimmock and the act of wiping feces from it’s putrid anus will make her want to puke her fucking guts up. Even after working with that cunt, Titchmarsh. Therefore sending the awful whore-progeny to another persons house and letting someone else wipe it’s arse will be blessed relief (but what sort of person would want to wipe a strange infants buttocks? Hold that thought…) The second option, equally probable to my mind is that Dimmock is getting some sort of kickback for sending the unwanted one to this “Paul’s” house. But whose (Hold that thought too, and put it next to the thought I asked you to hold a minute ago. Keep them safe for a few scant minutes more when all will be revealed and you will be forced to literally drop them both in surprise.)?
What is so great about “Paul’s” bathroom? It can’t just be the Glade Touch n Fresh. There must be more going on. Notice that the orphan has a backpack ‘pon his back. There is the clear implication that he will be staying, at least for one night. In a bathroom? Curiouser and curiouser. What sort of person is this Paul that he not only lets children stay over night in his toilet, he also makes it fun for them?

And this is the conclusion that I have reached, let us ask ourselves again the pertinent questions, who can we think of called Paul who would pay an adoptive (or foster) mother for a leasing of their child and keep him in bathroom giving him “fun” things to do? Put down the idea of Paul Floyd and pick up the two thoughts you held onto earlier for it is none other than…
Tense music…
Paul Gadd, better known as Gary Glitter.

So, the sorry and irrefutable conclusion we must be forced to reach is thus. Charlie Dimmock is more than happy to sell the shark-eyed infant she adopted for nefarious purposes off to Gary Glitter, safe in the knowledge that if he betrays her, she can betray him,  where Glitter will cheerfully watch him defecate onto a glass tabletop whilst feeding him Rolos.

The relevant authorities have been contacted.

I for one will never be buying Glade Touch n Fresh again. Come to think of it, I don’t think I ever have… I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who has, either. Has anyone? This fucking product doesn’t even exist. What the fuck are they trying to pull here? Kindly get in touch if you have ever bought a Glade Touch n Fresh, but not on my personal Facebook page for fucks sake.

Be seeing you…

In an idea inspired by (read: stolen from in it’s entirety) the Exploding Popular Misconceptions section on the Peacock And Gamble Podcast (Mike Tyson is NOT a comedy actor. He’s a convicted rapist.), I have decided to explode a popular misconception. It is this:
Ronnie Biggs is NOT a Robin Hood style folk hero. He’s a fucking murderer who stole the wages of hard working men and women, ‘heroically’ escaped from Wandsworth Prison and ‘manfully’ ran away and hid. He did the honourable thing and returned to England to face his punishment in 2001. Oh yeah, except he returned due to ill health and was treated here.

Ronnie Biggs, penitent, yesterday