Tag Archive: Empty Souls


The Sunday Roast – A Pirate’s Life for Me.

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September 23, 2012

Avast ye Swabs!

Apparently, last Wednesday was Act Like a Pirate Day.

Well shiver me timbers, I never knew that until I read it in the newspapers later on. I wondered why there were men with eye-patches, all wearing striped shirts, bandannas and drinking rum in the Spicy Chicken Takeaway. I was charged ten doubloons as well, just for a kebab. Sheer piracy in their pricing, methinks.

But I feel as if I’ve missed out now. Pirate Day? I should have taken part. I mean, piracy … what can I do? I know, I’ll go and illegally download and distribute a load of Ben Dover porn films. Titillating.

Q: Why are pirates so funny?

A: Because they just arrrrrrrrrr!

Out and about in the news recently …

I see Peaches Geldof was in the spotlight the other week when her baby buggy overturned, tipping four-month-old Astala (Yeah … I know) onto the pavement. Can’t post a picture of Peaches as it’s no doubt copyrighted. Instead, I’ll just have to improvise.

Anyway, google image search “peaches geldof baby pram” and see what I’m talking about. The horror. I mean, if she’d been more careless, she’d have dropped her mobile phone too. You know, the bloody device glued to her ear that she seemed more concerned hanging onto rather than her poor child.

Idiot.

Quitting … Really?

Celebrity, Peter Andre wants to concentrate on a career of being a TV presenter from now on. He says he’s even ready to give up singing to do so.

Amazing news … Peter Andre is a singer?

Bad taste gone Gaga.

Yes, Lady Gaga is in the news again. She’s been smoking dope on stage in Amsterdam. Way to go. What a plonker but the burning issue of bad taste is … What the hell was she thinking, choosing to wear this?

Had the lights gone in the dressing room? Now that’s what I call being a dope.

Vava-Boom!

I read on Tuesday, that car repair bills have soared and some garages charge over £80 an hour. Now in the past, I’ve generally found places who don’t fleece you. It’s more often than not, the manufacturer doing the piracy.

Ah-haaaaa!

Sorry, still in pirate mode. But anyway, I recall my Renault Espace from a few years back. It was a lovely car until the warranty ran out, then everything conceivable fell apart. It wasn’t the garage which was the problem, the parts were extortionate. All seemed to have to come from France via snail-mail and you were charged about £200 for a wheel-nut.

The good old pirate ship – Espace.

Wiper blades. I remember the days when I could replace my own blades by buying a cheap set from Halfords and doing the job myself. Not Renault. The ones for the Espace, even in 2006, cost over £50 each and needed to be fitted by a mechanic. It was the same when the clutch went. In my old Montego, I just had a new clutch cable fitted. Twenty minute job and about a tenner. Espace? I was told the hydraulics had gone.

Now then … Clutch-cable – Hydraulics. Which of those two do you think sounds the more expensive? Over bloody £200 if I recall with all the labour.

I’m just glad I got shot of the thing. Mind you, I made it good and even stuck a new engine in before I could sell it as the original only lasted 50,000 miles.

Rubbish vehicle in the end. Couldn’t trust it for fear something else would blow. I’m just glad I managed to sell it to that vicar.

Jesus and ‘Her Indoors.’

Apparently, Jesus was married to Mary Magdalene. Scholars have come up with this gem, now. Still, it’s about as credible as the other bullshit in the Bible so why not this?

Catholic priests are going to be a bit peeved though. The theory of Jesus abstaining from women is the reason for celibacy in their church. Still, doesn’t stop them having scores of love children already and if they were allowed to have relations, perhaps they wouldn’t spend so much time abusing kids.

Prick!

That’s the only word to describe the new Tory chief for discipline.

Andrew Mitchell, MP for Sutton Coldfield (great, the knob lives near me) shouted abuse at the police standing guard in Downing Street. He moaned about being told not to ride his bike out of the main security gate. He screamed at the cops to learn their fucking place.

Now what place would that be, Andrew? Would it be the place of being in charge of security and protecting your sorry ass when people want to take a pop at you for making a mess of the country?

What can you say?

Dale Creegan. I’d post a picture of him but an image of dog shit is one I’d find offensive on my site. This piece of scum, blasted two unarmed women cops who were routinely doing their duty. Creegan wants to be famous, or infamous. The thing with dog shit though, you soon forget it once it’s been on your shoe, and that’s where Creegan belongs.

Also, shame on the shits who didn’t report the fact he was flaunting himself about the neighbourhood, days before committing murder. Hope you can live with yourselves.

What a society.

Bit of a boob.

Farmer, Alan Graham, blew his top after allowing pop star, Rhianna to use his field to shoot a video. You remember her? I featured her a week or so back. Here she is, under her umbrella.

Anyway, Bible-basher (Oh dear, now that explains it) Alan Graham, didn’t like it when the pop-star got her breasts out during the shoot.

Christ. Get a life, Alan. They’re nothing to be ashamed of. How do you think your mother fed you as a child?

Bewitched.

Former soccer goalkeeper, Richard Kingson’s loss of form has been blamed on witchcraft.

There he is in 2006, on his arse as Ronaldo beats him to score. Hmmm. Maybe the witchcraft theory is true? Or could it be he’s just a rubbish keeper?

Back on the subject of poo again.

Fake cigarettes containing human poo have been discovered by customs recently. Don’t know what the fuss is about. No different from the other crap they stick in cigarettes.

So we still be playing at being pirates, then?

I’m going to join in the pirate fun, if not a few days late. I’m off to seize a boat and torture a couple of helpless pensioners.

Cheers.

Nick

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The Sunday Roast – Gissa Job?

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September 16, 2012

A New Chapter

For the past 18-months, I have been the full-time carer to my autistic son, David. I quit work to do the role, having combined it and work for many years. However, over those years, the toll was taken and had I continued to do both, I probably wouldn’t be here, roasting away.

Having left work, I’ve lived mostly off my savings but now, things are changing. David has started residential college. I am free to find work again. Easy? Not one bit. Everybody in the same boat, tells me that there are no jobs and soon, I could be as desperate as the famous character from the 1980s TV series – Boys from the Blackstuff.

I guess it’s depressing in the fact that in over thirty years, it appears nothing has changed since the time of Yosser Hughes. It’s been a long while since I was looking for work and I guess I’m a bit sore that the government are happy enough for me to give up my life to be a carer, then offer no help whatsoever when I need to return to work.

So what help is there?

I went to sign on the other day for the first time. God the Walsall Jobcentre is depressing.

Not the nicest of places, full of badly dressed folk of unkempt appearance. How on earth are customers supposed to have a positive outlook when you have Jobcentre staff like that? Still, at least my advisor was decent enough. I’d filled the forms online and received notification that I had an appointment so I strolled in with my CV as requested, expecting to be informed of options but all I got was a conveyor belt and the news it would be two weeks before I saw somebody to discuss work. To be fair, my advisor was very pleasant about it. He even laughed at the irony when I informed him the latest news stated only that only six people had found work in Walsall during August.

So there we have it. I will wait two weeks and see if anything has changed since 20 years ago – the last time I was out of work. Now there’s a story …

My time on the Back to Work programme.

Yes, I was out of work for about two years all that time ago. Back then, if you were unemployed for more than six months, you were put on schemes to help and mine was a Return to Work Course.

The course involved teaching you how to get up in the morning, look in the situations vacant pages of the local press, and then apply for jobs. Great. Now I knew what to do, because obviously I had been pissing about for the previous months.

There is a fantastic parody of this set-up in the show League of Gentlemen where the course leader, Pauline, plays tyrant over the unfortunate subjects in her care, calling them useless and a bunch of work-shy dole scum.

Now the person running my course wasn’t that obnoxious. No, we had a different approach from her. She was unbearably patronising.

Looking the spitting image of Oprah Winfrey, she floated into the room, writing her name on the white-board and proclaiming that we were to treat the experience as an adventure. She went on to say, ‘I know most of you don’t want to be here, but we must get you on the employment ladder. Now don’t be embarrassed, there is no shame in your situation and remember, we are all in the same boat together.’ Horror then dawned before she added, ‘Well, obviously that doesn’t include me, because I have a job and you haven’t.’

Incredible. And so the week went on for us poor unfortunate souls, having to learn the art of writing after a job. One incident involved me volunteering to select people for a mock interview. All of us, including Oprah, filled in the forms and stuck them in an envelope, addressed them and sent them all to a fictional employer – me. I specifically chose Oprah’s first and looking at the envelope, proceeded to throw it out of the window on the basis she hadn’t put (or drawn) a stamp and it wouldn’t get there without one. Her face was unforgettable.

She sought revenge and while completing one module, some of us were … lets say, a bit fractious. Others were completing tasks and five of us were just being plain silly, with Oprah as the target. To combat this, she removed us from the group, took us to another room and had us sitting in a straight line of desks in silence as she sat at the front of the row facing us. It was surreal. I was 29 at the time. I wasn’t going to be treated as if I were a school kid on detention was I? Therefore, I proceeded (and encouraged the others) to put fingers on lips. Oprah didn’t like this and threatened me with expulsion, to be kicked off the course with my benefit stopped.

‘But it’s Friday,’ I exclaimed. ‘The last day. We finish in an hour.’

‘Do you think I care,’ she cried. ‘I run this course, not you and what I say – goes.’

It’s sad to realise these cretins exist and are among us as we speak, wreaking havoc and misery on others. Hopefully, some will get their just rewards but many will simply go on to be Personnel Officers.

Schemes like that are now privatised and it’s criminal that companies like A4E are making millions from folk being unemployed. You go on these courses, get bullied and end up taking jobs on an unpaid, trial basis at crappy shops like Poundland. Now there’s an incentive to sort myself out, quick.

And here’s another job initiative from the past.

At the same time, we had a thing called Job-Club and it was there I was sent when Oprah kicked me off the course and I ended up meeting Mad Pete.

Job-Clubs were supposed to be organisations where people attended to seek help and guidance in getting back to work. They were kitted out with all the latest technology and tools needed to achieve this. Well, that was the theory. The reality was, you had a small room, pens, paper and a copy of the local Yellow Pages. Here you could flick through at your heart’s content and write to any company that took your fancy and politely ask them if they had any jobs going.

It was while I was there, I encountered Mad Pete. Pete was a sacked sales representative and the spitting image of Harry Enfield’s, Scouser character.

Pete was unemployable because of his hyper, over-the-top, aggressive approach, and the fact he frightened all his customers. He had been attending Job-Club for longer than any of the staff who worked there and turned up each day in his crumpled suit and tie from his former sales days.

Pete had no luck whatsoever in finding work for himself, but he was very good at helping other people do what he couldn’t. He would go from one attendee to the other, help, bully and browbeat them into doing what he thought was the right way of getting the correct result.

‘Yow dow effin’ dow it like that, yow tosser – yow dow it like this – and dow it ten times over. Yow dow wanna be here for a nuvver effin’ year, dow yow?’

All the folk attending and having this help thrust upon them had the added incentive to find work. Get a job quick or have the prospect of coming in next week and facing Mad Pete, again.

As I say, each day he wore his old sales suit. Well, apart from one Friday when he strangely arrived in full combat gear. A tad weird and a little bit frightening. He told me it was due to the fact he was in the Territorial Army and due to go on maneuvers that weekend. Now I was really scared. Not only was he to blame for forcing unemployed folk into highly unsuitable careers just to so they could be shot of him, he was also part responsible for our national security.

However, it was a case of good on him in the end. He spent so much time at Job-Club, the organiser gave him a job. Well, a somewhat pretend job but he did get £10 on top of his benefits for doing so. Even so, I still don’t think I’d like to meet him down a dark alley at night in the near future.

So, what next?

Heck, I wonder if Pete still works in my town? Best get my applications out or they’ll send me on a course. Worse still, I could end up working here ….

Arrrgghhh!

Cheers.

 

Nick

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The Sunday Roast – People Buy the Stupidest Things.

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September 9, 2012

Ship Ahoy!

I caught an advert on TV the other day. It’s actually strange for me to do this as having Sky+, I generally zip through and miss them. Anyway, this advert was for one of those part-works magazines and the latest on offer is to make a replica model of the 17th century vessel, Sovereign of the Seas.

Doesn’t it look grand. Now I have been conned by these part-works before and glad I’m not remotely interested in warships. You see, to build the Sovereign of the Seas, it will apparently take you 135 issues to do so (a part comes with each edition) at a cost of £804.65. The thing is, you also have to build it yourself. Jesus, if you’re like me and have a history of glueing your fingers together making Airfix planes as a kid, you’d be pretty miffed to spend nearly a grand only to have a model ship that looked as if it would sink no sooner than launched.

There really should be better control over these magazine companies. Also, even if you are competent, it will still take nearly three years to build which is actually longer than the time taken to construct the real thing back in the days of King Charles I.

And talking of taking ages …

I told the tale, a few weeks back, about my task of clearing the loft. One of the things I came across while I was up there was a battered box containing my old game of Risk.

Yes, there it is. You recall Risk, don’t you? Risk is the military strategy game which was much fun to play. The thing is, you could never actually finish a game. It took ages. I recall playing well into the early hours and then having to note down all the troops and continents they were deployed on in order to start again next day.

You could be years playing bloody Risk. In fact, real wars have started and finished in a shorter space of time than it takes to play a game of Risk. And that set me thinking. What other games were impossible and took forever to play? I know there’s Ker-Plunk, but that was only half an hour to set up for two minutes play. I’m talking Risk-Factor, here. Games you never finished. The one which springs to my mind is a game I never owned, thank heavens. Escape from Colditz.

A friend of mine as a kid, had this one and no bugger ever managed to escape. It was impossible. More people escaped from the real Colditz Castle during the war than completed this daft game.

So there’s the challenge. Give me your brain numbing, crazy games which were so complicated, you needed to crack the enigma code to work them out.

Not so holy an order …

A Taoist Monk was in court this week, charged with cultivating a cannabis farm. Michael Martin says only by smoking weed, can he be fulfilled spiritually. Yeah … Some might call it being dope-head.

Still, he’s a failed monk. Probably been trying to kick the habit for years.

Look, if I hadn’t have said it, someone else, would.

Trying to be too spicy?

Pop group, Girls Aloud are planning something special to mark their 10th anniversary.

Really … Have we had ten years of that drivel?

Singer, Sarah Harding was inspired by the Spice Girls reunion at the Olympic closing ceremony where the old spice crew sang while jumping on a load of taxis.

Sarah says Girls Aloud want to do something similar. Their effort will be called jumping on the bandwagon.

Taking time to decide.

In 1944, the Paterson Evening News said it would award $500 to the first local soldier to set foot on German soil during the Allied landing.

Well, after nearly 70 years deliberation, they decided to award it to 87-year-old Seymour Atkins. However, this was only after the only other candidate, Sidney Bressler, died last year.

Crikey, talk about process of elimination.

Time on their hands?

Latest waste of money by those parasitic leeches at Buck Palace is the job advertised for an official timekeeper. The Queen is looking to appoint somebody on a salary of £30k to look after more than 1000 royal watches and clocks.

1000. How many clocks does one person bloody need?

Southern Fried Mars Bar.

Confectioner – Mars have moaned about chip shops in the UK, deep frying their Mars Bars.

Now I have to agree, nothing sounds more disgusting but hang on … why are they being so sanctimonious? Mars say this practise “Goes against their commitment to promoting a healthy lifestyle.”

What healthy lifestyle is this? Is it the one where you stuff 280 calories down your gob and digest the caramel, syrup, cocoa butter and all the other crap in the thick, thick chocolate of Mars?

A little near to the deadline in finishing this week’s roast.

Had to get up really early today. Needed to mow the lawn, now I’m trying to finish this roast. Talk about last minute. In the bath in a minute, then going to meet up with a few friends and try to finish the game of Risk we’ve been playing since 1975.

Cheers.

Nick

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The Sunday Roast – One Small Step, While the Disabled Face Ten Backwards.

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September 2, 2012

Mooning about at the minute.

So we lost Neil Armstrong this week. Possibly the greatest adventurer of all time … or the most successful at carrying on with a cover-up, ever. Depending on your conspiracy beliefs.

Photo of astronaut on the moon, taken by two passers-by.

I have to say, I’ve been guilty in the past of doubting but as I understand, you can now see good images of tracks, footprints and equipment where it was left all those years ago. It would have been really terrible if it had ever been exposed as a fake but what still amazes me is, how the hell they did it?

These days with all our technology, everything is so complicated yet 40 years ago we were sending men thousands of miles into space in a biscuit tin covered in turkey foil, attached to a giant firework. I mean, who needed fuel for the rocket when the astronauts own bodily gasses would have been enough to power the thing with the amount they’d have been crapping themselves on blast off.

So cheers to Neil Armstrong for being part of the greatest moment in history. And also for creating the basis for one of the quiz questions people get wrong the most.

“What were the first words spoken as the module made contact with the lunar surface?” And no – it wasn’t The Eagle has landed. Answers at the bottom, please.

Magnetic personality … or a shitload of money?

81-year-old, Formula 1 supremo, Bernie Ecclestone has got married again. His new wife is 46 years younger than him. Nothing wrong with that. His fresh missus obviously sees his charm and charisma … or could it be the £4.2billion he has in the bank?

Bernie with new wife, Fabianna. Which one is Fabianna? I don’t think Bernie’s that bothered.

And when you thought the Olympics were over …

We have the Paralympic games on at the moment. As you know, I’m quite at the front in protesting for disability rights, what with my son but even so, I wasn’t too fussed about the main Olympics and neither am I about these. I’ll take a passing interest and wish the athletes well. However …

I didn’t watch the opening ceremony but caught many tweets and updates online and some of the things I saw, irritated me.

First of all, we have smug David Cameron, sitting applauding, saying he is so proud and showing his support as the head of the government. But hang on. Would this be the same government that has spent two years trying to stigmatise the disabled, heading a campaign where they are made to feel worthless when essential services and benefits are cut? Is this the government which is quite happy to lie in bed with the gutter press and whip up a frenzy, accusing the disabled of being scroungers? Yes, I’m afraid it is. Cameron, your son was disabled, you should know how it is. Perhaps living with that silver spoon in your mouth, you never really got to know what it was like to be part of the disability chain?

And then we have Atos – major sponsor of the games.

This is the French company who make money from the disabled by hounding them and sending many back to work when they are in no fit state to do so. Cameron’s government have paid these profiteers over £100million in the hope they will weed out as many as possible to return to work and save the government a little money. I mean, we can’t have the poor and needy taking a share of the cash from the greedy bosses and administrators of this country, can we? Disability benefit fraud is under 0.5%, and most of those cases are found out. Yet again we are hounding the most vulnerable at the same time, Cameron, his cronies and greedy bosses in industry and the banking community, continue to shift billions into offshore accounts in the hope they will swell their own pockets a little more.

Cameron, Atos – Shame on you.

But back to the Paralympic opening ceremony and finally, we had the Queen and other members of her heinous family show up. All of them, sitting while applauding the bravery of the disabled. Just one thing to say to the Queen. Look at this picture.

Yes, it’s your cousin, the one you have never visited in the 70 years since your family shut her and your other (now deceased) cousin in an institution. The good old lovable Queen Mum was their aunt, for Christ’s sake, head of Mencap yet the she and the other royals even tried to declare the women dead in the 196os to hide the stigma.

So – our gracious Queen. Instead of sitting all smug while watching our Olympians, try and do something to help disability by looking closer to home. Your cousin. She still lives, exists – or had you forgotten?

One rule for the famous …

Pop diva, Rhianna uttered the immortal and unforgivable line this week. “Don’t you know who I am?”

She was drunk at a club, danced on the table and broke it, causing damage and potential injury to others. The bouncers stepped in, didn’t recognise her and she began screaming. One of her parasitic friends started yelling, “That’s Rhianna, you idiots.”

The bouncers realised who it was. But this is the best bit. Did she still get ejected? No, they apologised, let her continue her appalling behaviour and gave her and the spongers, free drinks.

She should have been flung out into the gutter on her scrawny arse.

Rhianna … Is there an umbrella big enough to cover your ego?

A little creepy exposure.

At least twice a week, I keep seeing pictures in the tabloids of Michael Jackson’s children. In particular, they seem keen to be publishing cute pictures of pouting teenage daughter, Paris. I can understand there is interest in some quarters. Not quite sure why but keeping on printing pictures of an innocent looking 14-year old girl cannot be right – surely?

However, the kid I feel for is the youngest one – Blanket. Every shot you see of him, he looks so unhappy. Mind you, I’d be pissed off if I was named after an item of bedding.

Well, did you get the answer to the moon question?

If not, look it up. There is still some debate but I’m talking from the point when the module first connected with the surface. Mind you, this is all irrelevant. We all know the real first person on the moon. It was Tintin.

Cheers.

Nick.

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The Sunday Roast – Fresco Woman, Takes to the Road.

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August 26, 2012

Only one place to begin this week …

And that’s in the Sanctuary of the Mercy Church in Zaragosa, Spain.

Yes, childish, I know, but I can’t stop giggling at the fresco ruined by the 80-year-old woman who thought she was helping by attempting to touch up the image of Christ which has been on the wall of the church over 120 years.

Poor old Christ, he once looked like this …

But damp attacking the plaster, rendered him like this …

Enter Cecilia Giménez and her box of acrylic paints. She thought she’d save the church the bother of forking out to restore it by doing the job herself. However, things got a little out of hand and Christ now looks like this …

I don’t know what all the fuss is about. It’s probably a truer interpretation of Christ than the usual inaccurate westernised image we see everywhere. What do you reckon, post modernist or impressionism?

I’m certain the Sanctuary of the Mercy Church will survive this one. I’m not so sure about Cecilia Giménez, though. With all the furore over this, she looks like she needs a little sanctuary, herself but there doesn’t seem to be much mercy shown by this church. Poor Cecilia, she’s now having to run the gauntlet of hate and she was only trying to help. She’s in her 80s. Leave the woman alone before she has a heart attack.

Is Richard III buried under a car park in Leicester?

Do we bloody well care? What the hell is the point of this? It’s taken over 500 years for scholars to come up with the theory that he was taken to a Friary where the Greyfriars Car Park now stands. So what if he was buried there. You going to dig the whole lot up just to prove a point? It ain’t going to bring him back to life so if you want to find out if he really did kill the princes in the tower, you’re not going to find out this way.

Leave him be. It’s bad enough trying to find a parking space in Leicester without ruining a perfectly good car park just to do a bit of grave robbing.

That’s right, Richard. You stay hidden in a car park, or some 80-year-old woman will come along and paint a hump on your back.

Meanwhile, talking of Cecilia Giménez …

Our little old dear escapes the limelight in Zaragosa by taking a trip to Norway and visiting the National Gallery, there.

Shall I scream or will you?

So … what’s the Royal Knob been up to this week?

Now from previous posts, you may have gathered I am not a huge royalist but all this fuss about Harry being photographed unclothed is pathetic.

I mean … Do we really care? And if we do, then there must be little else in our sad lives if this is of public interest.

So Harry is naked. We all are at some point of the day. Also, he was romping with some lass. Big deal.

Sleazy paper, The Sun, decided it was their duty to splash the pic on the front cover the other day. That was after posting a fake version in their previous edition.

There you go. The two side by side. Obviously a mock-up wasn’t enough so they had to come all moral obligation on us. And just to avoid any legal comeback, they explain in very big letters, that people have already seen it on the internet, anyway.

The Sun, News International and all you other Murdoch slimeballs … go and crawl under a stone.

And on the next stage of Cecilia’s road trip …

She takes a trip to The Hauge and the Mauritshuisg Gallery.

Girl with the Very Tacky Earring?

Pot Kettle Black – Iain Duncan Smith

Tory twit – Iain Duncan Smith, this week spouted more of his bullshit when he claimed the BBC were biased against the Conservative party. He says the corporation portrays the news in a gloomy way and it makes his party look bad when all they are trying to do, is make the country better.

No. The BBC don’t make the Conservatives look bad, the politicians make a good job of doing that themselves.

Iain Duncan Smith goes on to say the BBC economics editor had peed over the Tories.

Hmmm … Makes a change from the Tories peeing over the rest of the country.

Shit … Cecilia’s reached Paris now.

Oh No. Poor Mona. Leonardo will be livid.

Can’t see the App-eal, myself.

Two new apps (see … look how with it I am in terms of technology) are being launched soon.

The first will tell your sat-nav, when exactly traffic lights are about to change so you can adjust your speed accordingly. The selling point is, you will never be held up by traffic lights again.

WTF? Yes you will. Whatever speed you go, you’re still not going to get across those lights any quicker, so what’s the point? Also, if you reduce to 5mph and drive like Miss Daisy, I give it two minutes before some plonker doesn’t realise you’re going that slow and rams into the back of you. Ridiculous.

The second device is a text speak translator. Now some might think this a GR8 but I don’t. Instead of a device to get you to understand what it is teenagers are talking about, how about one that lets you understand teenagers – in general.

OMG! OMG! Cecilia’s in New York.

Surely she wouldn’t … Not Starry Night?

Noooooooo! She’s given it cloud cover.

Cecelia. Go back to Zaragosa. All is forgiven. They want you to have another go at Jesus.

Cheers.

Nick

 

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Publication of my Article – The Death of the Struggling Writer.

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August 21, 2012

I have an article in an anthology which is released this Friday. You Are Here by Earlyworks Press is a collection of prize winning journalism and memoir.

Yes, that’s me on the front cover, bottom right, sitting in front of a grave.

My piece: An Endangered Species – The Death of the Struggling Writer is about the constant hurdles faced by beleaguered writers as they try in vain to get their voices heard.

You Are Here can be bought by clicking this link. Or if you know me, just ask and I’ll get one for you.

Cheers.

Nick

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The Sunday Roast – Bye Bye Olympics … and the Rest of Mankind.

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August 19, 2012

Put that light out.

So it’s all over. The torch has been extinguished and GB athletes can hold their heads high. They did the country proud and not only that, we saw a sight I thought I’d never see.

Yes, Andy Murray and the word winner being used in the same sentence.

Apparently there was some big closing ceremony but did I watch the pretentious rolling out of over the hill artists? No, I was too busy chewing my own arm off. It was slightly preferable. The thought of Russell Brand does the Beatles, turned my stomach. Neither did I want to see Annie Lennox and the bloody Pet Shop Boys. I spent most the 80s having them send me to sleep. At least we didn’t get Coldplay.

I say I didn’t watch it but I did catch a couple of clips later on when I couldn’t avoid them on the news. Therefore, I have one thing to say … Queen – hang your heads in shame. I mean, I love Queen but the bit I saw had a recording of Freddie Mercury followed by three minutes of Brian May, wanking on his guitar. Queen were great, but Freddie died twenty years ago. Stop milking it and leave grave robbery to Burke and Hare. Not only that, after Brian’s pretentious electric solo, some karaoke singer walks on to sing We Will Rock You. I ended the clip – just before my evening meal tried to do a u-turn and choke me to death. The only other bit I saw was some guy doing his best disco dad impression while playing songs on a turntable. Obviously he’d lost his way trying to get to Betty and Bert’s Silver Wedding celebration and wandered into the stadium by mistake.

Come on. Since when did playing records constitute live entertainment?

Not only did we have just half of the band, Queen, we didn’t even have a real Queen, either. No, poor Liz must still be shagged out after the parachute jump during the opening ceremony. After the Bond sketch, you think they’d have done a sequel for the closing event. You only try to die twice? Bearing in mind the opening with Bond and all the golds Team GB have won, wouldn’t it have been apt for Daniel Craig to walk into the Olympic stadium and find the Queen, naked and covered in gold paint?

Evolution of man

I read, the other week that a new and ancient species of human has been found from studying fossils in Kenya. This unknown link is thought to have lived about two million years ago.

I always find this fascinating, particularly due to the fact creationists think the world is only a few thousand years old but mostly, the scientists totally forget about the new breed of species already in the here and now.

Yes. These boffins reckon that in millions of years time, the evolutionary ladder will have climbed again with humanity branched into a division of higher elite and lower sub-human. A bit like H G Wells’ The Time Machine.

Thing is, they’ve got it all wrong. The new breed is already here. I mean … have you not watched the Jeremy Kyle Show?

We don’t have to wait for the far future to see what we’ll become. The future is happening now – walking around with baseball caps, wearing bling, hooded tops and sporting socks tucked into tracksuit bottoms.

Ascent of man? I bloody hope not.

You couldn’t invent such crap.

Just when you thought the sleazy world of banking could get no lower, another slimy cretin springs to the surface. New Barclays chairman, Sir David Walker says banks should charge customers for basic accounts. He also blames free banking for the mis-selling scandals, going on to spout bullshit that it was because of this, his poor misunderstood banking colleagues had to look for other ways to rake in the cash.

Bollocks.

The banks are in a mess due to greedy bosses on obscene bonuses and staff who abused their roles by speculating and short-selling on the markets. Not the function of banks at all. I briefly worked in a bank – HFC back in the 90s and the guidelines were to rip off the customer and sell them insurance policies they didn’t need.

Sir David … where did the Sir come from? You used to have to slay dragons or something to get such an honour. Now it seems all you need to be is a sycophantic toady, sucking up to successive governments. Honours and fat-cat bonuses? Most bankers should be in jail.

Sir David ponders why nobody likes him and his banking colleagues.

And talking of whingers …

Our unelected peers in the House of Lords have been moaning. Apparently, they don’t like the food in the posh taxpayer-funded restaurant.

Why not try paying for your food then? It’s what the rest of the working population do at lunchtime.

Big Brother is watching you.

I love Big Brother on TV. For weeks, I get to know these folk and once it’s over, they can bugger off and I never have to see them again. A bit like the awful in-laws when I divorced. However, my daughter likes it too and I have to record it for her. Nothing wrong with that but now, she wants to see the celebrity version, too.

Give me strength. Talk about Z-list. I know there was a big thing with the Olympics, but to have Ashley McKenzie, one of the few who did rubbish at the games is really scraping the barrel. Perhaps his defeat after about 4 minutes into the judo meant he was able to appear because he had little else to do at the time.

Calling some of these people celebrities is stretching it a bit. I only know four out the thirteen and we now have ex reality TV stars … on a reality TV show. Not only that, people from American TV that nobody in this country has ever heard of. What’s the point of that on a UK celebrity show? I mean, there is some plonker on there who goes by the name of The Situation. That’s really what he likes to call himself. I have to feel for him though. After being confronted by Julian Clary and Julie Goodyear, I bet he wished he was back in the US reality world.

Bad taste?

A crazy golf course in a Blackpool gallery has been slammed as one of the features is a likeness of Adolf Hitler.

What’s the problem? Some might get a kick of knocking a golf ball in-between his legs. Anyway, we all know Hitler only had one ball, now’s his chance to have a few more in that area of the body.

So what next?

Now the Olympics are over, what can we do to fulfil our sad lives? Oh yeah, the football season started. Still, there must be something else, something we can watch on TV. Let’s take a look at what’s on tonight, I think a new show, began.

Nooooooooooo!

Cheers.

Nick

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The Sunday Roast – Celebrity Slugs, Stupid Sports and the Art of Falling Asleep.

Filed under: Sunday Roast — 4 Comments
August 12, 2012

Still scaling the lofty heights.

You may recall last week, I told you I was tackling a 10 years in the waiting job of clearing the clutter in the loft. I’m happy to say, it’s about halfway completed after about six hours work during the week. Can’t do much in one go as it’s so hot up there.

Another stint this week ahead and it should be done. Still got clutter all over the floor up there but at least it’s sorted into perfectly ordered piles of clutter. It’s amazing what you find, though.

Okay. So I have Cybermen and Daleks hiding in my loft, but at least there is one positive. I now know why I’ve not had any rats during the past year. I wondered why that poison hadn’t been touched. The bigger monsters exterminated the rodents.

Back at Olympic Park …

It’s nearly over and GB have done fantastic. As I type, Mo Farah is in the background, going for gold. Now you will know from previous roasts, I know nothing of athletics and have to be honest, I’d not even heard of Mo Farah until this week. Still, he’s GB so let’s give him our support. Now you go and watch the kiss of death from Britt land on Mo Farah. It normally does when I big somebody up.

One of the strangest things I saw this week was when a rider made her horse do the foxtrot and win a Gold for it. Some of these events do stretch the definition of the word, sport. Whatever next – a dancing dog called Pudsey, winning a Gold?

Well, there would be if Simon Cowell ran the Olympics.

Oh … Hang on. Go – Mo!

Yeeeeeesssss! Another Gold.

Breakfast’s gone a bit cold.

Coldplay’s Chris Martin said this week that he plays his new songs to his kids at breakfast to gauge how good the music is. If children, Moses and Apple (Yeah … I know) start singing, then Chris knows he’s onto a winner.

Come on, Chris, you’re playing safe testing it out at breakfast. Kids are wide awake that time in the morning. Test it out just before bedtime, then if the kids fall asleep, you’ll know they think it’s the same load of monotonous dirge the rest of us do.

Chris Martin and Coldplay – Possibly the best cure for insomnia ever created.

And talking of falling asleep …

Fishing enthusiast, Phil Hunt was in the news as it was reported he needs someone to look after him when he partakes in his favourite sport.

Fishing – Sport? Yeah – right. Surprised it’s not an Olympic event. Anyway, Phil suffers from narcolepsy which means he could fall asleep and fall in the river.

There’s a little gift for you, Phil but narcolepsy, come on! Fishing is the most boring pastime ever invented. It’s enough to send anybody to sleep. Has there been in-depth research into the condition? A bit of digging may find most of the sufferers were found to be sitting by the river with a rod in their hands. Either that or they were just listening to Coldplay.

In an unrelated news report, chef Gurpareet Bains has developed a curry which gets people to sleep better. His Insomnia Masala, produces effects similar to sleeping pills.

All well and good, but drifting into a sound sleep after eating a curry is only solving half the problem and very risky. What about when you wake up in the middle of the night and have to rush to the loo due to the volcanic eruption at the other end of the body when said curry, recycles itself to the tune of Ring of Fire?

And then you wake up …

Kay Delany from Cambridgeshire, slipped and banged her head. She was knocked out and when she woke up, found she’d lost twenty years and still thought it was 1990.

Blimey. Can you imagine if that happened? If it was me, I’d still think I was married to my ex-wife and therefore hiding the Kit-Kat bars while dodging flying crockery. Not only that, I’d still have the recent memory of having to listen to the bloody Pet Shop Boys.

Terms of the divorce. I got the house, she got the Pet Shop Boys. Now there’s another musical brand to send you to sleep.

But still … 1990? It took me years to get over the trauma of the Chris Waddle penalty miss during the World Cup in Italy that year. I’d be facing the prospect of waking in a cold sweat again, screaming, ‘Noooooo!’

Yes, Chris. Twenty-two years later, I still close my eyes and wonder … if the ball you put over the bar has come to land, yet?

Probably the sickest stunt I’ve heard in a while.

It was in the news this week that Take That’s Gary Barlow and wife, lost a child in a still-birth. As a father, I can only imagine the hurt and nobody – ever, deserves that. Now you can guess, I’m not a fan of Take That, neither would I know a Gary Barlow song if it was blasted into my ears. However, what little I do know of the man is that he comes across as a decent enough guy. Decent, on the other hand, is not a word which could ever in a million years, be attributed to former Big Brother contestant, Kenneth Tong.

Kenneth thought it really big to jump on the bandwagon and tweet hate-filled jokes, poking fun at the Barlow’s loss. I’m not going to repeat them or even suggest you check them out. Take my word, they come from a sick mind.

Kenneth Tong, as I said, was on Big Brother a few years back and in his six days in the house, showed himself to be the useless excuse for a human being we still know him to be. He once boasted money can buy you anything. Really? Not respect and the only thing it seems to have bought Kenneth is the tag of being a useless low-life scumbag of the highest degree. A complete wanker.

Kenneth stands by his evil tweets and says he only did it for fun and to get noticed.

I wonder, when he dies and nobody attends his funeral for him being the worst kind of slug from beneath a slimy stone, will anybody notice then? Will they care that he’s gone?

Is it safe to venture up the loft now?

Okay, creatures of mass extermination have been obliterated, and there’s still no sign of rats. Therefore, this time next week, I think my work in the loft will be done and I’ll have loads of space. Great, then I can bung all the crap from every other part of the house, up there. Result.

Now then, what’s this lying in the corner? Oh my God! The worst horror of all. Is it rats, or even dead rats? No … worse.

Arrrggghhh! Bloody Pet Shop Boys. How did that get there?

I need therapy.

Cheers.

Nick

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The Sunday Roast – Going for Gold in the Loft Clearing Event.

Filed under: Sunday Roast — 6 Comments
August 5, 2012

It’s been nearly 9 years. I can wait no longer.

Aug 2003, that’s when ex-wife departed the mansion. At the time, all the crap I’d accumulated was shoved up the loft and over subsequent years, anything else I didn’t want to trip over went there too. Toys, old books, CDs I no longer listen too. You name it, they’re in the loft.

Is that a drill? Jesus! That must mean at some point I did DIY. Explains why everything falls off my walls. All the stuff up there, though; I never realised it was that bad. Lets turn around, perhaps I can shift them into the space behind me.

Okay, perhaps not. Therefore, a few days ago I set about the task of clearing the clutter, or in my case, move it all about but this time have it in neat, ordered piles.

What, you expect me to throw things away?

I jest. Three bags of junk have gone now and there is a little daylight at the end of the cavern. In my defence, it would have been sorted earlier but since the notorious rat incident of New Year 2010, I’ve only recently dared stick my head up there. Huge big bag of poison’s still on the floor, unloved and uneaten for enough time for me to deem it safe to climb the rungs of the loft-ladder again.

Four hours so far and only once did I get distracted when I found an old Ann Summers catalogue. But it’s amazing the stuff you never get rid of. There is an Amstrad 464, an original 1970s TV pong game, half a dozen sketches I did when I was a teenager and the most embarrassing jumper I think I ever wore. No, I’m not posting a picture here. It’s gone, in the clothing bank. Some other poor bugger can carry the shame of fashion criminal. I also found about thirty copies of Madnotbad Anthology and then cried, remembering how out of pocket I was when I funded the said failed project. Still, when I’m a famous writer, people will be clamouring for an early Antony N Britt – won’t they?

Hey! They might.

What’s going on at Mount Olympus, then?

I actually watched a little Olympics and surprised myself with a rare bit of national pride. It’s not the sport I take issue with. I guess what I really dislike is all the hype and commercialism. As I said weeks ago, when some woman ran past me carrying a large matchstick in honour of the event, the advertising made me sick. I’m told the opening ceremony went well though and that Danny Boyle did a great job. I don’t know, I didn’t see it. I was taking part in a séance and hunting ghosts that night. The only bit I did see was Frank Turner’s spot as I’m a huge fan. Afterwards, I watched on You Tube. Groaned.

Yes, it looked very rural, transforming the stadium into a local yokel village of old but come on! The Americans already think London is like a Sherlock Holmes novel and that we all live in places like Midsommer Murders, they’ve told me so in the past. Now everybody else in the world is going to think we all sit with grass in our hair, sipping scrumpy cider and dodging sheep in the back garden. Give me strength.

Still, we’ve had triumphs and none more so that Boris Johnson competing on the zip-wire.

What do you mean, there isn’t a zip-wire event? Oh, he got stuck. Still, I suppose we should feel sorry for Boris, left hanging there. It can’t have been nice and I bet the entire Team GB was falling over with sympathy for his predicament.

Okay, not what you expect from Gold Medal winners. Having said that, do you think we could get away with leaving him there? Then we could all carry on and enjoy the games without having to listen to him talking crap as usual.

Meanwhile, back up the loft.

Found this child’s plimsoll.

Don’t know whose it was. Must be one of the older two for it to be up the loft. Then I thought – It looks brand new, hardly ever used. Ahh – I see. It definitely belongs to one of my kids, then. Therefore, I put it to one side in the hope of finding the other one and then I can send them to charity. At least somebody will get use out of them. Not the most sporting – my kids.

A slimy brand of nobhead.

Never seen the point of Russell Brand. Unfunny, untalented and the most wooden actor since Pinocchio. Russell delayed filming on new film, What About Dick (Guess who’s the dick?), refusing to work until a wardrobe assistant agreed to flash her breasts at him. The crew member said no for two hours until finally giving in so production could recommence. Apparently, Russell is known for getting away with murder while filming. Not so. He’s getting away with sexual harassment. If I did that to an employee, I’d expect the sack.

Russell – Go and find a filthy stone to crawl under, it’s all you’re good for. Better still, as you’re appearing in What about Dick and like people flashing sexual parts, how about flashing your own dick? Oh. Forgot. You do that every time we see your face.

Am I going doolally?

I have just seen a post-it note on my desk. On it is a phone number with the name Trevor by the side. I tidy my desk regular so this must be very recent. It’s my writing so the question begs – Who the hell is Trevor and should I ring him to find out?

Pump up the action.

Still up the loft, I scream with joy. Hooray! I have found the other plimsoll. Now all I have to do is pair it with the one I had in my hands earlier.

Oh. I see. It isn’t the second shoe. It’s the same one as before, it having landed in a mound of clutter when I slung it about half hour ago.

A matter of honour?

Take a look at these two. Go on, take a good look.

This is Iftikhar and Farzana Ahmed. They used to have a daughter but as found guilty this week, they killed her as in their eyes, she brought disgrace to the family.

Bollocks. Honour plays no part. The only disgrace is in this pair. They are not parents. They are evil – murdering – scum.

Okay, so I’m still up the loft.

Two Ker-Plunks! How the bloody hell have I got two Ker-Plunks?

I must have bought one for eldest, slung it up the loft and years later when the younger two came along, forgot I had it and purchased another. It’s not as if I even like Ker-Plunk. I hate it. Takes hours to get those blooming needles in, then having done so, the game’s over in two seconds. I always reckoned Ker-Plunk was designed by a guy who hated people who had kids. Payback for the kids running around in restaurants, disturbing his meal.

Two of them. I can’t believe it. Not only that, I’ve worked through half the loft and am still to find Twister. I want that one. At least try to play it with a nice obliging female … while my limbs are still able to take it.

Cheers.

Nick

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Publication of my Short Story – View from the Bedroom Window – in The Alarmist Magazine

Filed under: News — 2 Comments
August 4, 2012

My short story – View from the Bedroom Window has been published in new magazine – The Alarmist. Now when I say magazine, I should really say, book. Over 100 pages of pure quality. But don’t be fooled into thinking you have yet another arty-farty literary publication. Unlike many about who speak from the rear orifice as opposed to word of mouth, The Alarmist does the job properly. I am a great believer in the thought that if you have nothing to say, don’t say it. The Alarmist has plenty to say. Long may it continue. It’s a great mag, it has me in it and also, any magazine with balloon poetry, can’t be bad.

The Alarmist can be bought by clicking this link.

Cheers.

Nick

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