Wolf Disguised As Monk

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…

Seven years since Blueprint 2: The Gift & The Curse and six years after his final, last ever retirement album, Jay -Z drops Blueprint 3, the final part of the Blueprint Trilogy (Always intended it to be a trilogy, did you, Hov? Or are you just stuck for ideas for album titles?).

Shoes based on a guest vocalist, yesterday

So what’s here? All the usual rap staples? Guest artists? Check: a bewildering array of guest artists ranging from a born-again Christian once famous for singing the line “If I was a girl I’d wear a mini-skirt into town.”, to a Brummie universally derided by the UK music press.
Disses? Check: The Game, taken care of in Thank You, Joe Budden in Reminder, see also Dame Dash, Rush Limaugh, Jaz-O and assorted others.
Grandiose statements? Check, check and double check: Every track on this album deals with how pant wettingly awesome the Jigga man is. And it’s a fair boast. Eleven studio albums in and he shows no sign of flagging, going from strength to strength and other cliches.

As Hova obviously knows where it’s at, one can only refer to this as his “Birmingham” album. Although it would probably fairer not to. Perhaps you could refer to it as his “Kanye” album, taking production credits on roughly half the tracks. But does it sound like a Kanye West album? No, it doesn’t. The Neptunes track obviously sounds like The Neptunes, because it seems to be the only style they are capable of, The Timbaland tracks sound like Timbaland, the Swizz Beatz track sounds like Swizz Beatz but Kanye has really stepped up his game (which he does consistently) and lays down some really interesting, diverse sounds.

Whilst there is not a bad track on the album, one track is a little bit awkward; Young Forever with the aforementioned Birmingham connection, Mr Hudson (ostensibly an utterly baffling choice of vocalist, was Beyonce shopping? Only when you realise that Kanye West has taken him under his wing and he also features on his new joint does it fall into place. Still a bit weird. I just can’t imagine how they met.). Whereas other singers on the album, Rihanna and Alicia Keys add a vast scope and depth to the tracks they contribute to, Mr Hudson makes it sound a bit like 10CC. The track is built around Forever Young by Alphaville. I know what you’re thinking - Amazing. Well yeah, it works, but only just. The irritating thing is that it’s the last track, so despite hearing tracks the quality of D.O.A, Run This Town, Empire State Of Mind and Hate, it’s the comedy track at the end that sticks in your head.

Hip-hop

Basically, this album is fucking ace. Any other review of it that disagrees with this one is wrong, but we don’t give a fidduk, we off that.

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

This right here is the official version of what happened at the Face Of Office competition. I think you will agree that my version is much, much better.

Anyway, here’s a little video of some ladies walking on a platform.

Be seeing you…

As those of you who follow this blog website religiously (which should be all of you and all of your friends) will know, my girlfriend was in a modeling competition for Office shoes the other day and I went along because I had nothing else to do and it was all paid for. In case you can’t be bothered to read this all (it’s nearly two and a half thousand (2500) words long so I’ve broken it up a bit for you.), she didn’t win.

I don’t like London, or rather, I don’t really see what all the fuss is about. Just a city, innit? But what I really hate is the people who live in London because every last one of them is an arrogant, pretentious, self important cunt. Every. Last. One. And I’m jealous.

The long and the short of it is that I had to spend nearly six (6) hours on my own in England’s capital with a broken iPod (which has stopped working due to the upsettingly obvious built in obsolescence inherent in all Apple products, fig.1 The iPhone), finding various ways to amuse and entertain myself. Below is a pop song called Adventuring by a pop band called Calories which is basically what I was doing all day long. There’s a better version of the song on their Myspace. I thought that to relieve the monotony somewhat I would twitter it (follow me here, if you want. I very rarely update although I do find Twitter like cocaine - pointless and everycunt in the media is on it.) but due to my mobile phone being two steps up from a tin can with a bit of string hanging out of the back, I can’t access Twitter. I can access Facebook, though, which gave me a little more room to manouvre, letterwise, because I updated it on there. Therefore if you are one of my Facebook friends (which you probably are) all I am doing now is pointlessly expanding on something that was pointless in the first place. Hurrah for me!

Let us begin…

I’m in Soho. London disappoints every time. 9.13
Having dropped Brid at a big tower near a big gold Freddie Mercury, I wondered along Oxford Street for a bit before nipping into “vibrant” Soho. Not at quarter past nine in the morning, it’s not. As I stepped over a man in motorcycle leathers sleeping on the pavement I began to wish that I had brought my camera with me. This is a thought that would return to haunt me many times throughout the day.
As hunger pangs hit me, I looked for a cafe and chose one purely on the grounds that it had my current favourite joke on a blackboard outside. I went in and paid one million (1,000,000) pounds for a cooked breakfast and then paid one million (1,000,000) pounds more for a mug of tea which for some reason was not included in the million (1,000,000) pound price tag of the breakfast. Cunts, the lot of them.

Freddie Mercury with a cat, yesterday

Outside the polish embassy now- joined the queue for something to do. Millions of them. 10.00
Bloody nice bit of London, this. Bit of a cunts trick, though. “Cooh, eh Vladimir (I don’t know any Polish people and have thus fallen back on lazy, wrong and potentially racist stereotyping. I know Vladimir is more Russian, but it’s all basically the same, isn’t it?), I think I’m going to like it in London. Do you reckon they’ll give us a house on this side of the street or the other?” Bang ‘em in Tower Hamlets.

(Can’t use twitter on my phone, thus…) Just climbed a fence. Heading for zoo to liberate animals. Hate smell of grass. 10.09
I got to a park of some description. Possibly Regent’s. I looked and looked and couldn’t find the fucking zoo anywhere. Lot’s of clover in the grass which I am led to believe is a bad thing, especially when it’s so thick that it messes up ones mulching mower. The grass in general was overly manicured and I didn’t like it much. Wished I had my camera. Over all the park put me in mind of Spooks, and thus…

I got sick of looking for the zoo so kicked a bottletop at a swan in frustration. Now playing ’spies’ in the park. Spotted and am following a frenchman (possible enemy agent)… 10.29
I could tell that he was French as he was reading a French language newspaper. Or he could be not French, and just reading it to show off his skill with languages. Either way, clearly the villain of the piece. I watched him (wishing that I had my camera) for a while, peeping through my newspaper like I was in a Raymond Chandler novel until he got up. Casually I tucked my paper under my arm and followed him at a discreet distance.

I accidentally found zoo after losing Frenchman in hedge. Refuse to pay nearly 20 quid to stare disinterestedly at wildlife. Heading back to Soho to get blowie from a prossie for same money. Left cryptic message on front cover of Independent and left on a bench for another spy to find. 10.44
Too discreet, as it transpired. He turned into a hedge (by which I obviously don’t mean he literally turned into a hedge, but he turned a corner around a hedge) and by the time I got there he was long gone. Probably for the best. He was doing a certain amount of nervous glancing over his shoulder and I was prepared to fashion a Millwall Brick from my paper, like Jason Bourne would, and bludgeon him to death, screaming “Where’s Kropotkin!?” Imagine my surprise when I inadvertently stumbled across London Zoo. Imagine my greater surprise when I saw that the robdogs wanted eighteen (18) pounds and fifty (50) pence from me just to get in. I turned on my heel and walked away, warning families as I went.
Pondering my predicament I wrote a random string of numbers and letters across the foreheads of the freed spies (or so called “journalists”) in Korea and left it on a bench.

Has just done a roly-poly on a bit of grass. 10.49
Self explanatory, but below you will see video footage of basically exactly the roly poly I did.

Has just seen a tiny infant with a gun shooting at a barefooted jogger in a suit and tie and an old man with a pram full of cough drops. Regent’s park is like Salvador Dali-land. 11.02
This is probably when I wished most that I had my camera. I was so startled by this that I paid one (1) pound fifty (50) for a bottle of water that had clearly been filled from a tap. It was around this point that I saw someone in a Jade Goody t-shirt. Brilliant.

I am at a bit of a loose end now, after such am eventful morning. 11.49
I wrote this, perched on a bollard, wondering if I could have some lunch yet, despite not being hungry. As I was writing it, Martin Freeman from the Office and some other shitter stuff walked past me in massive shorts, a t-shirt and a courier bag. He was really short. So short that is basically a disability. About two (2) foot six (6), if I had to guess. And you can see just how action packed my day was, because that didn’t even make it into the live updates. The bit about the roly poly did, though.

Martin Freeman, pretty much actual size, yesterday

I just walked past Sebastian Horsley’s house which, incidentally, smells of piss. He wasn’t in. 12.01
As it goes, I walked past it twice. Didn’t realise I was on Mearde Street the first time. Despite it being Shit Street, it smelt strongly of piss. In case anyone else wants to try and get artists they have never met out to play, his door has got a sign on it saying that it is not a brothel.

I just went into American Apparel. Good grief, won’t be making that mistake again. Rammed to absolute cunting point with absolute cunts. Perhaps there is some sort of cunt convention going on that I don’t know about? Or perhaps it’s just London. Also, almost got an 8 quid haircut, was glad I didn’t when I spotted a 6 quid one. Didn’t get that either, holding out for a 4 quid one. 12.52
Right, for those of you who don’t know, which is probably none of you, American Apparel is basically a self-consciously edgy version of the underwear section of H & M, except they stick a zero on the end of all the H & M prices. And in response to one of the responses I got to that there update, I was in fact mortally offended that I didn’t get an invite to the cunt convention. I have since called them and it seems that my invite got lost in the post.

I passed a massive shop that just sells old stamps. Seriously, how do they stay in business? And hummous restaurant. 13.33
True. Both true. Again, I wished that I had my camera. I know that some stamps are dead expensive, I’ve seen Brewster’s Millions, but they can’t shift that many of them, can they? I think this is the hummous restaurant. See, I told you. Apparently it’s nice, but really, hummous?

Is going into a building to look at girls and the law can’t touch me for it this time. 14.23
My tedium is nearly at an end and I composed this message outside the building as a gang of utter cunts were hanging around. Inevitably, I followed them in. The event was on the thirty-first (31st) floor. How do you think I got up there? What’s that? Got in a lift and pressed thirty-one (31)? Yeah, you’d think so, wouldn’t you? No. Not in that London, it wasn’t quite as simple as that. Here there were four (4) lifts which were arranged in what can only be described as an insultingly arbitrary manner. A certain lift took you to certain floors and certain floors only and rather than pressing the call button, you had to look up the name of the company you were after. Irritating is not the word…

Feel a bit underdressed and a bit over butch, of all things. 14.30
I was wearing a vest (a grown man, in a vest), a cardigan and some jeans. I felt like Stig of the Dump, despite the fact that every single item was purchased when I had a bit of cash to chuck about and was thus massively expensive (which is to say, overpriced). Also, if you know me you will know that despite being incredibly hard, tough and fit, I don’t carry it well. I look about as manly as a carrier-bag full of sick in a dress. Here, I was Atlas himself. Needless to say, I felt a little out of place. I was also the only person in the room sporting a full beard. Little did I know but blessed release was just about to present itself to me in the form of a free bar.

Have just realised it’s a free bar. Result. Drink as much as possible, as quickly as possible, humiliate myself in front of strangers, fuck up Brid’s chances. 14.46
And right here, is where it all goes a bit hazy.

Is 5 mojito’s in. 14.50
In about five (5) minutes. Hooray for me. Free bars and straws are the way forward. As you can see by my drink of choice, I was doing my utmost to assert my manlyness. Yeah, they didn’t have any strawberry bellinis.

Have just spotted a massive black guy with an eyepatch on. I’m going to speak to him in a bit. 14.54
An eyepatch!
I was advised, foolishly to spill his drink. I didn’t. He gave me a dirty look as I started to apply nail-varnish from the goody bags (I’m so wacky and zany!!!!!)

Catwalk over. Now to threaten judges. Got told off by a woman for the flash on my camera. I picked up multiple goody bags. 15.20
Some girls done a walk on a platform. Contents of goody bag: Red nail polish (started applying then stopped.), Glittery eye pen thing (drew on my hand a bit with it.), gay necklace (put it on straight away, obv.), Tony and Guy hair shine spray (sprayed it on me thinking it was a perfume thing. Didn’t realise until Brid commented that I smelled of all hair products. I thought it was a nice unisex scent and have been using it as such ever since.), false eyelashes (did not put on), lip gloss stick (drew on hand again). Did NOT contain, anything of either use, or value. So I picked up loads of them. I looked like a posh tourist in Selfridges, what with all the bags. I felt very pleased with myself until…

Just got bollocked for having about a dozen goody bags. Had to put them back. Kept two. Working on retrieving the others. 15.23
Never did get around to collecting them up but I did notice a girl walk off with loads spilling out of her arms, the thief! I was intending to give one of them to my daughter for her twenty-first (21st) birthday and the rest I was going to give away to you, gentle viewer.

Boo! Brid was a runner-up. The winner was amazing, though. Anyway, getting shitfaced now, and looking for things to nick. 15.46
In a rare moment of magnanimity I revel that I didn’t really want Brid to win, anyway, and congratulate the victor. Stood at the bar drinking before I took a serious, if drunken look at the view. Beechawowah, that is a looooooong fucking drop. Whilst looking out of this fucking window I missed my chance to dazzle, impress and shine before my most favourite of all the Sugababes ever, Siobhan Donaghy. Gutted.

Siobhan Donaghy, yesterday

Have drunk tons of mojito’s and am thus, drunk. Apparently the barfolk can’t just give me a couple of bottles of rum to save time. So they are making me steal it. 16.17
And so began a time consuming and ultimately fruitless charade whereby I would subtly move a bottle nearer to me and the bar staff would, less subtly shift it back. About twenty (20) minutes of my life were wasted this way. After a visit to a toilet where I supported myself by my face so I could look out of the window, and piss at the same time, we left and I carried literally every possession that we own between us on my shoulders all the way to fucking Caaaaaaaaaaaamden. So we could go to a Chinese takeaway place that had a branch about a hundred (100) meters from where we were on Oxford Street.

When we got home I cried. My feet hurt.
Be seeing you…